The question that forms the title of this piece floated across the Zoom room and landed in my office like the feather of an unfamiliar bird – light, beautiful, yet unsettling. Initially, I wasn’t sure what one of the actors, who had been reading my work-in-progress translation, meant. I had been working on Dennis Shonko’s play Wimbi la Mabadiliko (A Wave of Change) as part of my Visible Communities residency. The play, originally written in Swahili, was being read aloud in English for the first time. The question felt like a paradox: theatre does not have to be naturalistic, yet this play undeniably is.

My aim as a translator was to bring to life the language as it is spoken in Kenya, where the play is set. The actor’s question touched on something I had wrestled with throughout my residency—the rich imagery, metaphor, and use of proverbs in Kenyan speech. The ways in which people use language to both clarify and obfuscate what they mean. The tendency to start a sentence in one language and end it in another. The intellectual duelling. The playful wordplay.

To complicate things further, Shonko’s decision to write the play in Swahili was itself a political act, and the play’s themes are inherently political. Zoom minutes often feel longer than offline minutes, and I could see faces on the screen trying to decide whether my silence meant my screen had frozen. Finally, I broke my silence. Yes, I replied, they really do talk like this.

One sentence in particular had haunted me during the translation process:

Kitumbua cha Tambo kimeingia mchanga zaidi.

This proverb means that something has been irreparably spoiled or ruined—usually as a result of the bad decisions or mistakes of the person involved. The literal translation is, ‘Tambo’s kitumbua (a type of rice cake) has completely entered the dirt’.

Kitumbua is a delicious rice cake eaten along the Swahili coast in Kenya and Tanzania. Light, fluffy, and slightly sweet, with a hint of coconut and spices, its airy yet moist texture pairs perfectly with tea or coffee. Shonko’s choice of this proverb is powerful because it refers to Tambo’s misconduct with a young female student. By choosing this phrase, he not only highlights Tambo’s appalling actions and their irreversible consequences but also holds him accountable—aligning with the play’s broader themes of responsibility and change.

The play is set in a rural school named Mbele Nyuma—a Swahili phrase meaning ‘going backwards in coming forwards’. The students are revolting against their teachers and other adults whose corruption, theft, and atrocious behaviour have led the school into a state of physical and moral disrepair. With the help of a principled security guard (the one who utters the kitumbua proverb) and a brave headmistress, the play ends with the possibility of a better future. It’s a complex narrative, unflinching in its critique of Kenya’s societal challenges.

I decided to translate A Wave of Change in 2023 after immersing myself in Shonko’s work. The opportunity arose in 2024 during my Visible Communities residency, and his writing felt prescient, given that this was the same year Kenya saw youth-led protests challenging political exclusion, poverty, and inequality. These so-called ‘Gen Z protests’ used translation and interpretation as key strategies—translating the hotly contested Finance Bill into Kenya’s numerous languages.

This act of translation was profound. English, Kenya’s official language, is a colonial legacy, while Swahili, the national language, provides a shared tongue for Kenya’s 42 recognized communities but is the mother tongue of only one. Most Kenyans speak two or three languages, navigating constant interpretation. By embracing mother tongues, Gen Z protesters demonstrated radical inclusion, challenging both the government and societal norms.

The Gen Z protests felt like a moment of reckoning—an urgent call for justice that echoed the frustrations woven into A Wave of Change. Their use of language as a tool of resistance was shrewd. By translating the Finance Bill into Kenya’s numerous mother tongues, they dismantled barriers to understanding and reclaimed agency, reminding the government that inclusion is non-negotiable. It was a radical act of defiance and solidarity.

As a diasporic writer, I was eager for Shonko’s work to provide a lens through which to understand Kenya’s present moment. While working alongside Elhum Shakerifar and Phu’o’ng Anh Nguyẽn on completely different texts and themes, we were united by our focus on languages that had borne witness to radical change. Our stimulating conversations sustained me as I strove to do justice to Shonko’s work. Shakerifar and Nguyẽn’s encouragement to lean into the poetry of Swahili proved invaluable. Shakerifar herself was working on poetry, while Nguyẽn explored hauntings and echoes of language. Their willingness to sit with tentativeness and hesitancy gave me permission to do the same. In moments when I felt the pull to grasp too quickly for certainty, their approach reminded me that translation, like language itself, thrives in those liminal spaces of uncertainty.

Translating this work became an act of language reclamation for me as a diasporic writer, while also reinforcing my understanding of translation as a deeply communal activity. Kate Griffin created and held our conversational spaces with such care—like an African auntie whose warmth makes everyone feel welcome. Her support allowed us to delve into our explorations with confidence. Even though we were working from three different languages, sharing our practices created a deep connection. For me, based in the UK, it echoed the Kenyan way of engaging with language and culture—always as something collective, something done together.

I recall a Zoom meeting with Shonko after I had sent him my first draft of the translation. I asked him, ‘How did you know?’—referring to the thread of protest running through his play, even though it was published in 2021, three years before the Gen Z protests began. His humble smile suggested he was simply reflecting what he saw: the inevitability of change, the necessity of it, and the righteous demand for it.

Like many proverbs in A Wave of Change, the kitumbua line underwent several iterations in translation. Sometimes I found analogous English expressions; other times, I had to accept that translation itself is a process of change. What works today may lose its resonance tomorrow. In that way, the text became a living document, mirroring how language is used in Kenya.

Translating A Wave of Change was more than just a linguistic exercise; it was an act of bridging worlds. It reminded me that language is never static—it evolves, adapts, and resists, just like the people who use it. Shonko’s work captures the complexities of Kenyan life, where language holds not just meaning but history, politics, and identity. As I navigated the intricacies of proverbs and metaphors, I realized that translation isn’t about perfection—it’s about honouring the lived realities that words hold. And so, yes, people really do talk like this. And when they do, they reveal the worlds they are building, dismantling, and reimagining—one word at a time.

A Wave of Change has its first outing on the stage as part of a showcase by Foreign Affairs at Jermyn Street Theatre on Friday 24 January 2024. Find out more →

JC Niala is an award-winning, multilingual theatremaker based in Oxford, England. She mainly works in English and Swahili, incorporating other African languages such as Kikuyu and Luo in her plays. Her ‘Shakespeare in Swahili’ project, funded by Arts Council England, includes a translation of Macbeth. JC won the 2023 New Translator’s Bursary with Stinging Fly. For her, translation work is an act of language reclamation. She is a founder member of the African Women Playwrights Network and is currently active in the UK diaspora branch. JC is interested in translating African literature into forms of English that reflect the linguistic nuances of their cultures of origin.