“Stories Emerge in Tension”: An Interview with Dennis Mugaa
Dennis Mugaa’s debut collection, ‘Half Portraits Underwater,’ has quickly marked him as one of the most compelling new voices in Kenyan literature. Written over four years, the book gathers ten short stories that oscillate between the intimate and the historical, spanning Nairobi neighborhoods, Cairo, Lagos, London, and beyond. Mugaa situates his characters in liminal spaces — between continents, between history and memory, between personal grief and national politics.
In conversation, Mugaa is reflective yet disarmingly straightforward. We spoke about his approach to character, his grounding in observation, the Kenyan literary ecosystem, and what it means to write across geographies and generations.
Your collection opens with a character inspired by Wangari Maathai and the student airlifts of the 1960s. Why did you want to begin there?
It wasn’t exactly Wangari Maathai’s story, though of course her name is so familiar in Kenya. I was inspired by the group of young Kenyans who went through the student airlift program organized by Tom Mboya. At the time, Kenya had very few university graduates compared to West Africa, and independence was looming. The question was: who would staff the civil service and private sector?
So students were sent abroad, often to the US, with the support of figures like John F. Kennedy. Imagine being 19 or 20, carrying the weight of your country’s future. And then you arrive in America in the middle of the civil rights movement. You are suddenly both African and Black in a new sense. That tension fascinated me. I wanted to imagine how a character would navigate love, politics, and responsibility in that moment.
You also take up other historical figures, like Tom Mboya, but you fictionalize their worlds. What drew you to that?
The second story, ‘The Fallen World of Appearances’, circles Tom Mboya’s assassination. Of course, the “official” story is well known. But everyone in Kenya knows there are questions. By filtering events through multiple perspectives — a shopkeeper, a journalist, an assistant, a friend — I could explore what happens when truth itself becomes unstable.
For me, the first five stories form what I call “Echoes of History.” They take recognizable historical moments and reimagine them. After that, the second part of the collection becomes more personal, exploring grief, family, sexuality, and the self. In arranging them this way, I wanted to trace a kind of literary history: from the nation-building fiction of the 1960s toward today’s more interior writing.
I found your writing very liminal — neither fixed in history nor entirely private. Are you drawn to those in-between spaces?
Yes, because that’s where stories emerge. I usually begin with a character, but I look for the tension around them. For example, I once thought of writing about Yusuf, a young Somali activist in Nairobi. But the predictable thing would be to follow his protests. Instead, I told the story through his mother, who had already lost so much — her partner, her country, her stability. What would she do when her son risked being taken from her, too? That tension, between loss and the possibility of further loss, gave the story life.
Characters for me always start with desires and flaws. Chinua Achebe is a master of this — Okonkwo in ‘Things Fall Apart’ is strong but fatally single-minded. Once you know a character’s flaw and desire, their story unfolds naturally.
Many of your stories assume a reader already knows certain Nairobi or African contexts. Was this deliberate?
I don’t explain much because I trust the reader. When I read Sally Rooney, I don’t know every detail of Dublin life, yet I relate. Or Elena Ferrante’s Naples, which I knew nothing about at first. What matters is the universality of human experience.
So I write from Nairobi, but I expect readers anywhere to connect with the desires and conflicts of my characters. If I stopped to annotate every context, the book would lose energy.
Do you imagine a reader when you write?
Not really. Toni Morrison said she wrote the book she wanted to read. I do the same. I write for myself. If others connect, wonderful. If not, that’s fine too. Literature doesn’t have to be for everyone.
Let’s talk about your path. You first studied financial economics before moving into writing. How did that shift happen?
During an internship at an audit and consulting firm, I realized this wasn’t my life. Around my third year, I began searching for something else and turned towards writing. Coming from the global South, pursuing the arts feels risky — parents understandably prefer stable professions. But I thought: better to try and fail than to never try and regret it at seventy.
Writing requires faith. You meet many people who doubt you. You also meet others who support you along the way. My stories have opened paths I couldn’t have predicted — residencies in Nigeria, a master’s at the University of East Anglia. You follow the work, and the path unfolds.
What does your writing discipline look like?
I don’t force myself to write daily, but I carve out time when I can. Sometimes nothing comes, and that’s fine. Writers have different rhythms: some finish a book in months, others in ten years. The important thing is to trust your own pace.
How do you see yourself within the Kenyan literary ecosystem?
It’s a complex history. Kenya’s literary culture was heavily suppressed under Daniel arap Moi’s dictatorship. Intellectuals were exiled, publishing houses shifted to textbooks or pulp fiction. That gap was devastating.
Later, Kwani? [a Kenyan literary magazine] and writers like Binyavanga Wainaina reopened space. I hope that my work can make someone else think, “If Dennis can do it, I can too.” Communities grow that way, one writer inspiring the next.
Today, the ecosystem may seem small compared to Nigeria or India, but it’s vibrant. Book launches and festivals are filled with readers. Many self-publish because traditional publishers prefer textbooks. But there is demand. People buy books here. We just need more publishers willing to take risks on new voices.
You’ve lived and studied abroad. How do you think about the label “Kenyan writer” in a global literary market?
When I write, I don’t think about labels. I write from my experiences, which are rooted in Kenya but also shaped by living elsewhere. Afterwards, publishers or academics categorize the work: African, diasporic, feminist, or postcolonial. Those categories matter for marketing and scholarship, but not for the act of writing.
Take one of my London stories — is it British literature because of the setting, or African literature because of the author? I leave those questions to others. My job is to write honestly.
Which writers have most influenced you?
There isn’t a single one I always return to. But certain books have stayed with me: Arundhati Roy’s ‘The God of Small Things, Gabriel García Márquez’s ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’, Borges’s stories.
And then writers like Kobo Abe taught me the power of simplicity. His language is clear, almost deceptively simple, but the ideas are profound. That’s something I strive for — clarity over unnecessary complexity.
You’re now working on a novel. How different is it from writing short stories?
A short story is like a sprint — you have to capture the reader’s attention immediately, and there’s no room for waste. A novel is more like a marathon. You can wander, build worlds, and explore side paths. Each form is challenging in its own way.
Right now, I’m experimenting, staying with characters for longer, seeing where they take me. The discipline of short stories has helped; it’s like training. But with the novel, I’m learning endurance.
Do you think a writer needs a creative writing degree?
No. The most important thing is to read widely. Arundhati Roy didn’t have a creative writing degree, but she read voraciously and dismantled language in extraordinary ways.
That said, my degree wasn’t a waste. It exposed me to other writers and gave me the tools to edit my work rigorously. In workshops, classmates pushed me to deepen characters or increase conflict. It wasn’t about teaching me how to write, but how to refine.
Finally, what do you hope your writing contributes to Kenyan literature?
I hope it contributes possibility. If one young writer reads ‘Half Portraits Underwater’ and thinks, “I can also write,” that’s enough. That’s how a literary community grows — one book at a time, one person daring to try because they saw someone else do it.