The Dance of Content and Form in African Literature

Reading a good book is like going home, the beautiful rainbow after drenching rain. The writer sees the grey areas and the hidden things lurking in the margins of our existence, opening a door to a new world. This is like a furtive glimpse into a parallel universe with different, better, and maybe even happier versions of ourselves.

The Rich Tapestry of African Literature

In African literature, we have many good books. One can enjoy the royal elegance of Chinua Achebe, the controlled violence of Meja Mwangi, the poetics and symmetries of Wole Soyinka, and the mathematical and musical prose of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. But there is also the content and oral cadence of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o. His pen is like a jaw set in the familiar bulldog expression that came to define Kenya’s defiance. It carries a vehemence that shocks us, growing more defiant with each new book (in Gĩkũyũ no less!). Yet, there is an underlying sorrowful tone across the pages, as if written in tears.

Interestingly, it was former Deputy President Rigathi Gachagua who revisited the form versus content debate on Friday, November 7, 2025, at the launch of Hon. J.B. Muturi’s memoirs, entitled The Fight for Order. The book has been described as “a political memoir and exposé that blends personal narrative with a raw insider account of Kenya’s governance, power struggles, and statecraft.”

At the event, Gachagua said, “At the University of Nairobi in the 1980s, there were two schools of thought on what defines a great work of art. One group, led by the late Professor Chris Wanjala, believed that a good work of art is content—what you say. Another group, led by Professor Henry Indagasi, believed that a good work of art is form—how you say it. Reading this great book, I want to confirm that it excels in both content and form. You have told a good story, and you have told it well.”

The Duality of Literature: Content vs. Form

Gachagua, with jarring familiarity, commandeered the stage for two purposes: one literary and the other political. In both, he was like an army general replaying an old war with new troops. As Gachagua waxed lyrical about content and form in literature, the dynamics in the room seemed to shift when he switched into his trademark gladiator attack mode—angry, urgent, primal. He hurled the choicest of epithets and the most unflattering of adjectives at the president during the book launch.

However, what stayed with me was the debate Gachagua revived on that day regarding content versus form and their role in literature. This debate is an old one. The clash is whether truth is best found in bare words (content) or in beautiful words (form). A good allegory is the rain that tells a story but also has its own rhythm as the raindrops fall. Rain itself is the substance (content), the “what.” Rhythm is the pattern (form), the “how.”

Wole Soyinka once wrote that “A tiger does not proclaim its tigritude; it pounces.” Form is the pounce, the thunder, the strike that lands, the rhythm that seduces. Content without form is a body without bones: shapeless and forgettable.

Historical Perspectives on Form and Content

In ancient Greek literature, Aristotle stands as the father of form, emphasizing structure and cohesion in a work of art. He argued that a good work of art must have a beginning, middle, and end, and that plot is the soul of drama. However, Aristotle also insisted that there had to be balance and proportion to show that how a story is told is as important as what is told.

Homer, on the other hand, is seen as the father of content. In the Iliad and the Odyssey, Homer zeroes in on the themes of heroism, fate, and human struggle. “Sing, Muse,” Homer begins in the Iliad, “of the wrath of Achilles.” His stories remain relevant today because of their depth of meaning, regardless of the oral form in which they were first transmitted.

William Shakespeare balances both content and form. His plays are heavy in content with strong themes of love, betrayal, and others. A good example of Shakespeare’s content is Hamlet’s serious meditation on life when he says in the famous line, “To be, or not to be, that is the question.” Shakespeare’s form is also commendable here, as the line has poetic rhythm with syllables and metered beats like music.

In American literature, writers like Ernest Hemingway leaned toward content. He has form, of course, but it is ascetic, minimalistic, and stripped of all ornamentation. In his book The Old Man and the Sea, he writes, “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream...” There is no adornment, but the tale moves like a river, heedless of any banks—unstoppable and enduring.

Closer to home, it can be argued that Okot p’Bitek’s Song of Lawino is not “artful” in the traditional English sense or poetry in the manner of the old colonial masters whose culture it despises. However, it’s a great work of art because of the truth it wrestles from our history and our pain.

The Path Forward for Kenyan Writers

What Kenyan writers can learn from all this is that though the debate on form versus content still rages on, as recently highlighted by Gachagua, we need both form and content in our works. The balance between these two elements can create a powerful narrative that resonates deeply with readers.

As we navigate our own stories, we must remember that our voices matter. Each word we pen is a brushstroke on the canvas of our legacy. Let us strive to tell our tales with both heart and artistry, ensuring they echo through time.

In the end, the dance between content and form is not just an academic debate; it is the very essence of storytelling. It is the rhythm of our lives, the melody of our experiences, and the harmony of our identities.

The writer is a memoirist and book publisher based in Nairobi.

johnmwazemba@gmail.com