Ramenga Mtaali Osotsi

 Last March I had a joyful reunion with my dear friend Osotsi. He had flown from Kenya to present at a conference at Claremont University, and I flew down for the day to spend a wonderful afternoon with him. There are rare friendships in this world, the kind where even when you haven't seen your friend in person for years, you pick up immediately where you left off with conversation, stories, and jokes.  As usual, Osotsi had defied the laws of physics and airline regulations and had managed to pack an astonishing number of gifts, this time bringing me a stunning large basket and several bags of Kenyan coffee.  We had a wonderful long lunch, walked through Claremont town and campus, and spent our last few minutes playfully skirmishing over who would pay for my ride back to the airport, laughing as we pushed twenties back and forth, promising to see each other again. 

I first met Osotsi back in 1998, when we were both new faculty members at James Madison University.  He quickly folded the library into his class assignments, and generously assisted me in building a world literature collection, including films.  More than that, he gave me a seat in his graduate African literature courses and my eyes were opened to another continent of learning.  

More than that, he was a friend.  We went to coffee and talked.  I loved showing him around the valley, introducing him to places like Green Valley Book Fair.  He liked hearing about American traditions and experiences.  He introduced me to authors like Adam Hochschild and films like Black Athena. We talked endlessly about books and movies, disagreements becoming long standing jokes that rode on our tide of banter.  

More than that, he wore his brilliance cloaked in kindness and generosity.  Among the many academics I have known, he never weaponized his knowledge, never belittled people for not knowing something.  Instead, he was present and playful, not afraid to just be himself in front of a roomful of white undergraduates and a predominantly white campus.  

I have so many warm memories of our friendship, his wife Njoki, his sons Ame and Anta.  When his youngest son wrote to me in May with news of his unexpected passing I was gutted--how was it possible?  I had just seen him! He was supposed to be coming to Santa Barbara for next year for a conference, I had yet to visit Kenya. 

I grieved hard for a few days, just let myself wallow in sadness.  I had to recalibrate and think of him saying "Hey, what is this?" if he had seen me laying around crying.  I had hoped to write this small, incomplete appreciation of him well before his birthday, which is today, March 3.  Birthdays were important to Osotsi, as were New Year greetings, and every year we raced via email to send each other good wishes on those days.  I have dragged my feet in getting to the keyboard, fearing another rash of tears, but there is too much to joyfully remember not to write this.    

Here's to you, Professor Osotsi.  I know your spirit is well, and someday our conversations will begin again. 

Photo:  Osotsi enjoying the poetry post outside the Folk Music Center in Claremont, March 2025.