We do not leave our motherlands behind, even when we are miles and continents away from them. We carry their voices and memories with us everywhere we go; they seep into our dreams, emerge in our novels, speak through our silences. One of the many reasons why Abdulrazak Gurnah’s literature resonates is his complex relationship with the landscape of his childhood, his literary returns to his roots, and his innate compassion, even when he deals with difficult subjects such as trauma, betrayal, loss, displacement and colonialism.
Gurnah was born in the Sultanate of Zanzibar, now part of Tanzania, and has lived for a very long time in the UK, having moved here during the 1960s as a refugee during the Zanzibar Revolution. Over his 40-year career he has published 11 novels, most of which take place in Tanzania, and in 2021 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. Theft begins with the story of Raya, a beautiful, young and strong-willed woman who, in a patriarchal culture where blame and shame are imposed on women, is married off “in panic” to someone she does not love. Her husband, a man of business much older than her, has a penchant for deception and manipulation. While honey-tongued and charming to strangers, “he reserved his cruelty for her and took pleasure in it”. He behaves with the cold certainty of a man who believes that marriage gives him ownership over his wife and her body. Eventually, Raya manages to move back in with her parents, taking her three-year-old son Karim with her and braving the stigma that awaits her. She is resilient, though, and years later marries again, following her new husband to Dar es Salaam.
The trajectory of young Karim is central to the novel hereafter, as is his relationship with his mother, which is neither straightforward nor always smooth. In his second year at university, Karim moves in with his mother and her husband, Haji. Theirs is a house where the front door is never locked. The plot expands with the arrival of Badar, a poor villager, who, although a relative, is treated as hired help. He is “drawn to sadness” and senses the sorrows of others. Obediently and with gratitude, he serves the family, mopping the floors, cleaning the toilets. The story takes a sudden turn when he is falsely accused of stealing groceries.
Then there is the gentle, thoughtful Fauzia. Diagnosed with “the falling sickness” as a child, she has grown into a strong woman with unconventional thoughts, teased for being “a sarcastic little intellectual”. When Karim asks for her hand, she accepts, but refuses to have a dowry set for her, “she is not being purchased, she said, but agreeing freely to a marriage”.
The novel skilfully weaves the coming-of-age stories of these three young people. It is clear that the society treats each very differently, affecting, though not determining, their decisions and destinies. But Gurnah’s characters are never one-dimensional. For all his humility and patience, Badar is not a meek person, even as his life alters “without any effort on his part”. Nor is Karim, despite his charisma, idealised. There are clever hints scattered through the story as to the inner complexity of each character – traits that might not be visible at first glance. Take the scene in which Karim greets his mother, Raya. Taking the hand she holds out for him to kiss, Karim exaggerates the gesture of reverence, but he does not make contact, leaving a gap between his lips and her hand. There is always that gap between him and others. These details, never over-stated, are a delight to discover. Meanwhile, the political and social background shifts, presenting new challenges for the youngsters. People are being beaten up in the streets, “election after election, this same chaos”.
This is a tightly woven and beautifully crafted book with such quiet wisdom. Some novelists are plot driven, some character driven, and yet others language driven. In Theft, the three leading characters all learn something precious: Badar to endure, Karim not to fear and Fauzia to forgive. For there is an unexpected betrayal, which Gurnah effortlessly explores. The emotional rift between those who stay and those who leave. The outbursts of anger between friends who have known each other for so long. Viciousness that feeds on guilt. But also the remarkable capacity for renewal. Nothing about human behaviour surprises Gurnah, and in reading his wise new novel with its gentle and beautiful ending, we the readers become a bit less judgemental, and more ready to understand what it means to struggle, to dare, to love – what it means to be human.
Theft
Abdulrazak Gurnah
Bloomsbury, 256pp, £18.99
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[See also: Abdulrazak Gurnah Q&A: “What bugs me? The smug self-regard of the powerful”]
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This article appears in the 26 Mar 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Putin’s Endgame