Violence and Revenge Theme Analysis

In Weep Not, Child, Ngũgĩ frames violence as futile and self-perpetuating. Although characters like Boro believe in taking revenge on the people who have oppressed them, readers see that violent retribution is ineffective when it comes to bringing about positive change. Indeed, the true result of Boro’s decision to murder Jacobo—who has wronged his family and community—is that Njoroge (Boro’s little brother) is suddenly taken out of school, beaten, and interrogated by the governmental powers affiliated with Jacobo. Unfortunately, this throws Njoroge’s life completely off-course, effectively ruining his upwardly mobile trajectory by bringing his hard-earned education to an abrupt end. And yet, Boro remains unable to accept that his violence has done nothing but harm, as he goes forth and murders Mr. Howlands, too—an act that further imperils his family by forcing one of his other brothers into jail and ensuring that Njoroge will never again have the financial support necessary to continue his schoolwork. Considering that everything Boro does to advocate for his family members only further disempowers them, then, it becomes obvious that Ngũgĩ believes violence is self-defeating, a means of destruction that becomes an end in and of itself without ever managing to effect meaningful change.

Because British colonizers have stolen land from the Kikuyu people, there’s no doubt that retaliation is in order. Otherwise, people like Ngotho and his sons will never regain their homeland. Kiarie (Boro’s friend from Nairobi) outlines this in his speech to Ngotho’s village, but he stresses the importance of peaceful action, saying, “Remember, this must be a peaceful strike. We must get more pay. Because right is on our side we shall triumph. If today, you’re hit, don’t hit back…” However, Boro has trouble committing himself to peaceful resistance, since he has been to war and experienced terrible violence. One night, he listens to his father tell the story of how their family lost their land. “Boro thought of his father who had fought in the war only to be dispossessed,” Ngũgĩ writes. “[Boro] too had gone to war, against Hitler. He had gone to Egypt, Jerusalem, and Burma. He had seen things. He had often escaped death narrowly. But the thing he could not forget was the death of his stepbrother, Mwangi. For whom or for what had he died?” In this moment, Boro becomes angry about the fact that he and his family members have been forced to fight—and, in some cases, die—for a cause that has nothing to do with them. As a result, he wants to rectify this death and destruction by rising up against the white settlers and embracing a form of resistance that has nothing to do with peace. This, he hopes, will help him cope with the meaninglessness of his brother’s death.

Simply put, Boro behaves violently because of the violence he has experienced. Having fought in World War II and “seen things,”, he has been taught a lifestyle of hate and aggression that is difficult to leave behind. This is why he joins the Mau Mau and takes violent revenge on the British colonizers. As he does so, though, Boro discovers that violence only brings about more violence, creating a never-ending cycle of brutality. In a conversation with a Mau Mau lieutenant, he admits that he has lost sight of everything except the idea of exacting revenge on his enemies. “Don’t you believe in anything?” the lieutenant asks, to which Boro replies, “No. Nothing. Except revenge.” In turn, the lieutenant asks if he cares about winning back the land, and Boro says, “The lost land will come back to us maybe. But I’ve lost too many of those whom I loved for land to mean much to me. It would be a cheap victory.” At this point, then, all Boro cares about is inflicting pain onto the people who have wronged him. Taken aback, the lieutenant asks Boro if he believes in “freedom,” and Boro tells him that freedom is merely an “illusion.” “Why then do you fight?” asks the lieutenant. “To kill,” Boro answers. “Unless you kill, you’ll be killed. So you go on killing and destroying. It’s a law of nature.” In this moment, readers see that Boro has stopped fighting for a cause. Instead of devoting himself to the idea of regaining his land and freeing his people, he has become obsessed with revenge, thinking that the only way to respond to the violence he has experienced is by perpetuating it himself. In turn, Ngũgĩ suggests that violence is self-generating, something that can come to seem like an end in and of itself rather than a means by which a person might effect actual change.

Although he doesn’t alter his ways, it’s evident that Boro recognizes the futility of violence. For example, when he’s finally about to kill Mr. Howlands, he feels nothing. With the gun pointed at the white man, he explains why he also killed Jacobo: “He betrayed black people. Together, you killed many sons of the land. You raped our women. And finally, you killed my father. Have you anything to say in your defence?” Despite the fact that these words sound impassioned, it’s worth noting that Boro is simply setting forth a narrative of revenge, as if this is the only thing he can think about after living a life of violence. “Boro’s voice was flat,” Ngũgĩ notes. “No colour of hatred, anger, or triumph. No sympathy.” In this moment, readers see that Boro has gotten nowhere even though he’s finally about to exact the revenge he has been dreaming about all this time. Unsurprisingly, this unfeeling, unsympathetic state continues even after he shoots Mr. Howlands: “He felt nothing—no triumph.” By including this, Ngũgĩ demonstrates the pointlessness of pursuing violent forms of revenge, which do nothing to make a person feel better about what has happened to them. In fact, it isn’t until Boro gives himself over to the police (thereby letting go of his dedication to violence and vengeance) that he feels any kind of relief. “At last he gave up,” Ngũgĩ writes. “Now for the first time he felt exultant.” In turn, it becomes clear that Boro’s compulsive violence hasn’t helped him cope with his difficult life, failing to bring him any kind of satisfaction or relief. And yet, he has continued to murder, perpetuating a cycle of ruthless revenge that is not only ineffective when it comes to bringing about change, but also detrimental to his own well-being. In this way, Ngũgĩ intimates that the only way to cope with violence and injustice is by removing oneself from the self-perpetuating revolutions of hate.