Book review: The Savage Avenger by Kakwenza Rukirabashaija

Since when do usurpers let the captives know they are in a cage? Since when do oppressors let the oppressed learn of the need to be free—to walk about without chains around their necks? To speak without censorship; and to hold the malevolent accountable?

Freedom is the cancer that eats up the perpetrators’ consciences, and to be alive, they make it impossible for the populace to realise the pertinence of liberty. These insolent people set stringent standards for one to be human—for one to live a life free of fear; for one to elevate oneself from the scathing poverty redline; and for one to realise one’s servitude.

And for those who intend to cut loose the chains of thraldom—the courageous individuals who by any means available remind the oppressed of their repression, pay the price by blood and fire—just like the people they intend to free, they are trivialised to a pulp.

But for how long does a tyrant munch society—the same society he claims to have liberated? Eventually, people learn to glide above the labyrinth of lawlessness—they learn to rebel; to write and speak without any fear, because often, injustice metamorphoses people into beasts—beasts that are determined to consume whoever smothers them—and they won’t just stop until they are free.

Looking at Kakwenza Rukirabashaija’s memoir, The Savage Avenger, his detest for Museveni’s dictatorship is palpable—he writes the book with blood boiling in his veins, and every word he puts on paper is a fragment of his wrath—the army that should protect him and his properties has failed him; the judiciary has betrayed him; and the president who promised to uphold the country’s constitution has turned it upside down to prolong his reign—and he does so by punishing dissenting voices through the security organs.

And so, why should anyone groan when Kakwenza, a victim of Museveni and his son, retaliates by disrobing his oppressors in books? Why should we prescribe means by which Kakwenza should avenge his dehumanisation? Why do you, without seeing the scars on his back and thighs, say his language is subversive—so crude for your eyes and ears to digest? Since when do the oppressors decide on what weapons should the subjugated fight back with?

For those who don’t know Museveni, he is the past, present and future president of Uganda, who has been in power for about 40 years since 1986 and still has no plans of passing down the presidency to any other Ugandan except his son. And as of now, what he cares about is the next general election, not the roads which are like swamps; not the hospitals, which have no medicines; not even the schools—for the education system is long dead, and the most important thing he has done is to deprive the country of its resources by promoting corruption, crunching the judiciary, and personalising the military and police organs.

To kill the truth, he has regulated the freedom of expression; and so, it is treasonous for anyone to condemn his shortcomings, which is why Kakwenza is in exile. He poked the anus of the hungry crocodile by analogising Museveni’s political mayhem in his literature; however, it was a necessary risk.

As T.S. Eliot argues that the great poet/writer, in writing himself, writes his time, Kakwenza’s use of allegory in his narratives is a clear depiction of his Uganda—a country that slouches towards total liberation of every common Ugandan, and we can say, he is a voice of the voiceless. Kakwenza comes to Uganda’s literary scene at a time when we need a voice—when someone as brave as him needs to dare the authority and remind our rulers that power has a limit.

The Savage Avenger, is a sad narrative that delves into the writer’s torture, illegal detention, and unjust trial by the Uganda government on the orders of General Muhoozi Kainerugaba, President Museveni’s son, and upon reading the book, you realise that the title The Savage Avenger is rather appropriate—why shouldn’t we call our tormentors savages if they are determined enough to pluck our fleshes with pliers with no iota of humanness?

We took our nonviolent opinions to social media
They branded us extremists
Yet we are only extremely angry
Then they called it hate speech
Hating the oppressor is not hate speech
It is blowing off steam…

The book opens with a poem, in which the writer questions the country’s freedom of expression under the Museveni regime. Kakwenza wonders whether it is criminal for one to openly express oneself—is it not the citizens’ responsibility to question a government’s deficiency? Then why does the authority find fault in these supplementary questions unless it is detached from the reality of the country’s constitution and rule of law—unless such an authority lacks respect for the people under its governance?

The poem is also an allusion to Kakwenza’s previous works, which are the fountain of his tribulations—it was for his literary expression in his debut novel The Greedy Barbarian that the regime found him a threat—a terrorist armed with pen and paper, and when they first abducted and subjugated him in the dungeons as a means of silencing him, he instead shot back with Banana Republic: Where Writing is Treasonous—he wanted to expose the dysfunctional political systems under Museveni.

And we draw a sublime lesson from Kakwenza, writers of social protest literature like him, die before they die—they already know of the danger of exposing authoritarians, but they do it anyway because it is their role to question that which can’t be questioned; to lay bare the rags of totalitarianism.

Whereas Ugandans get into an election every five years, Kakwenza through writing exposed the country’s pseudo-democracy—a democracy that crashes those who dare question such a setup—he did not hold a grenade or an Ak47 like Museveni did many years ago when he and his colleagues toppled the then regimes—he only wrote, and they went after him as if he were a murderer; but aren’t murderers walking scot-free in this country?

The writer’s argument is viable; a country’s democracy lies in the ability of the citizens to express themselves without fear of being construed as criminals; when the populace is in a position to hold a country’s leadership accountable; when we are free to call leaders for who they are—thieves, liars, nincompoops, and useless, and without this right, casting a vote after every five years is meaningless.

Kakwenza further ascertains this dispute on the first page of his book. He asks, but in a rhetorical manner: What is freedom to write without a right to describe things in their veridicality and sincerity? Without a right to describe someone’s unfeigned physical appearance? Without describing someone’s bona fide behaviour? Without describing the dictatorship, oppression, greed, cataclysm, pogrom, inhuman treatment, unliveable conditions imposed onto us by our leaders?

He continues: Without such freedom, savage leaders and their chamchas grow unclipped feathers and society sinks into the abyss of imbroglio. Freedom to write is the beginning of real freedom, and denying writers this freedom is the beginning of anarchy.

So, Kakwenza reminds his tormentors that voting is not enough—all a society needs is the freedom to express oneself in both speech and writing without penalty, and in case such freedom is restrained by an authority, then rebellion is inevitable—and we see it with him; he won’t just stop writing and describing Museveni and his allies, and with time, society will have thousands of Kakwenzas, who might stand up against their oppressor, and how certain are we that they won’t clip the dictator’s feathers?

Somehow, I admire Muhoozi’s courage—where does he get the guts to confront a writer? A writer whose words are as bitter as a lily? Perhaps Kakwenza is right to call him stupid in this book, but do dictators have a conscience?

On December 28, 2021, shortly after Christmas with his family in Iganga in Eastern Uganda, Kakwenza travelled back for work in Kampala, but as he rested in his apartment in Kisaasi, the same taxi driver who had dropped him returned with twelve soldiers in uniform and eight others in civilian clothes, all armed with machine guns. All these had come to arrest one man, who had only written books and described Muhoozi in a social media post.

When Kakwenza locked his house out of fear, the armed officials instead broke the windowpanes, the glasses, and the burglar proofs, as they threatened him. They jumped through the broken window, arrested him without an arrest warrant, blindfolded him, dragged him into the waiting van, and drove him to the unknown.

Ugandans should be angry—those in power claim they fought for our peace, but we are uncertain of tomorrow; we don’t know when they will come for us. Many Ugandans have lost their lives to gunmen in broad daylight, but the army is always quiet; robbers have taken people’s lives and properties, yet a barracks is determined to trace one man who is only trying to stand up—a man who is trying to be different, and this comes with a cost—millions of taxpayers.

Kakwenza’s ordeal also reminds me of Niyi Osundare’s poem Not My Business. In a politically broken society, everyone is a victim, even when some people think it is not their business to meddle in others’ tragedies.

While in the torture dungeon, Kakwenza was beaten to the extent that he couldn’t stand. Nevertheless, he had to forcefully dance to reggae music the entire night as part of the punishment, and when he stopped dancing; he slept on the cold floor tails for an hour, and resumed with the music after an hour, with a 20-litre jerry full of water on his head. 

Whereas Article 24 of the Constitution of the Republic of Uganda 1995 as amended, guarantees freedom from torture, the Museveni government continues to use torture as a means of silencing citizens—it is thus acceptable to say that the Museveni regime lacks respect for the Constitution—they always find a way around it; they make the law, so they can break it.

Kakwenza loses hope when one morning he is dragged by the ears into an interrogation room, where he kneels as pertinent people ask him why he detests Muhoozi and his father so much that he describes them in his books, and when he hesitates to answer, all he gets are slaps on his cheeks.

They tell him to stop selling his book Banana Republic: Where Writing is Treasonous and instruct him to pull it down from Amazon. But they would have done this without beating him up—bruising his knees and body and forcing him to dance to the beautiful reggae music.

While the book is sad, there are instances one pauses and laughs at the way Kakwenza describes his pain—a very tall man dancing when he last danced at 14, carrying the jerry can even when you lack the energy to speak and shaking your limbs to your favourite reggae music. 

Kakwenza’s right to privacy was flouted. As early as 4 am, he was driven back to his home by the military for a house search. All they wanted were the guns, the laptop by which he wrote the books and other dangerous items, and they turned upside down before the writer’s wife and children, without respect for family or humanity. At this moment Kakwenza was urinating blood and all he awaited was his death. His wife had lost hope upon seeing him.

Back in the torture dungeon, the officers continued to dehumanise Kakwenza; they beat him, undressed him while he was cuffed, and asked him why at his age he had built a good house on his own without donors, as if living a better life without stealing public money is a crime. Kakwenza’s captors insisted on knowing who his sponsors were.

Museveni has raped this country and kept people in poverty. It is nearly impossible for a normal Ugandan to have a decent life—people cannot afford rent, food or even transport; many Ugandans lack education, have no jobs and are uncertain of their future, and when a random citizen accesses these necessities, he is deemed a criminal—for such a life is only attainable through corruption or working for Museveni and his family, who control the economy.

Kakwenza’s failure to answer questions led to his mutilation. They picked his flesh with pliers while he lay prostrate on the cold floor. But if you are not cannibals, why pick someone’s flesh with pliers? Why do you tear someone’s flesh if you won’t eat it? Where is your humanity?

Later, we see the same people who had mutilated Kakwenza and beaten him up, treating him, and preparing him for a meeting with someone important. They have to inject him severally and give him about 56 capsules a day; and in the process, they want him to sell his soul to the same devil he detests. One officer interrogating him tells him they can recruit him into the Uganda People’s Defence Force legal department as a lawyer if he stops writing about the regime—only if he ignores the regime’s shortcomings—what impudence!

Kakwenza hangs between right and wrong, between death and life. When he meets Muhoozi, he apologises to him and his father, Museveni, and agrees to everything they say for his life's sake. But do you think one can kiss death and still embrace its agents?

It is mockery when Muhoozi, after all the torture, asks what Kakwenza wants to join their government, and he further adds that all the opposition members shout and end up having their share of the cake from the regime. Stupidity will always scream—Muhoozi doesn’t know the price a writer pays for the truth—selling one’s conscience is literary betrayal, and a writer would rather die poor than commit to that which he tries to escape from; lawlessness.

Writing will always find its way through—whereas there were millions of political prisoners in the dungeons, Kakwenza was all over the news, and different people and organisations all over the world demanded he be released.

And it is on this basis that one might argue that the pen is mightier than the sword and that tyrants should always know that writers are chieftains of the world and that however much they are silenced, they always win in the end—you can’t just stop a writer, whose curiosity lies in telling the truth—a writer is a god, whom no authority can stop.

Kakwenza’s suffering continued, he was smuggled into the court without his lawyer’s notice, remanded to Kitalya Maximum Prison and later kidnapped from prison. But one thing we notice is that while in detention, Kakwenza became the light to those in the dark—his fellow detainees requested him to write about them in his next books or tell the world of their detention—this is the role of every writer; to expose that which is hidden from the outside world.

Kakwenza is relieved after he is granted bail; after they find a need for him to access better medication, but even when he is out of jail and torture dungeons, they continue to monitor his movements. Still, somehow, with the help of PEN-Zentrum Deutschland, he manages to flee the country to Germany for his safety.

The Savage Avenger is a book that tears one’s eyes, as one has to stop between paragraphs and question Muhoozi’s barbarism. However, the book also presents good people trapped by the regime, but somehow, have a sense of humanity and decency.

Whereas Kakwenza documents his excruciating experiences, he also exposes the regime’s inadequacies under Museveni. He reminds us that truth is priceless as he chooses to flee the country and continue to write and speak the truth instead of submitting to the evil regime that cares more about retaining power at the expense of Ugandans than bettering the lives of citizens.

To all writers and artists, you have a choice to either stand with the people or with the regime; denounce the truth for money or stand with it and die a pauper; say what you should say through your art or manipulate the truth in favour of tormentors—however, once one crosses to the dark side, not even an ocean of purity and sanity can ever cleanse them.

A sad ordeal by a bruised writer! Outstanding!