When Adipo Sidang released Parliament of Owls, he wasn’t merely writing a play — he was writing a prophecy. Beneath its feathery allegory lies the anatomy of Kenya’s political decay: a ruling class blinded by greed, a citizenry lulled into silence, and a nation fluttering between despair and defiance. Yet, amid the noise of the owls, a different sound begins to rise — the rustle of wings from a new generation, what Sidang calls The Flock of Birds.
In this satirical masterwork, Sidang builds his world with familiar irony. The Parliament, populated by owls, is not a sanctuary of wisdom but a theatre of deceit. Royal Owl, the self-crowned patriarch, speaks in slogans that echo our own politicians’ tired promises. Money Bags, ever whispering behind the throne, embodies that unholy marriage between politics and business that has hollowed out public service. The laws passed under the “Moonlight Bill” are not just sinister; they mirror our own legal manipulations where justice is often auctioned to the highest bidder.
But Sidang, like all true artists, refuses to end with despair. He gifts us The Flock of Birds — a symbol of awakening, of conscience breaking free from conformity. While the owls represent the old order — heavy with power and blind to truth — the birds of light represent a new moral species: ordinary citizens who still believe that leadership can mean service, that hope is not naïveté, and that freedom begins in the mind.
In the Kenya of today, this metaphor feels uncomfortably close. Our youth are restless. They scroll, post, and protest, seeking meaning in a system that has fed on their patience. Many have lost faith in the old Parliament of owls — that endless circle of promises without progress. They crave flight. And that is precisely what The Flock of Birds offers: the vision of a people learning again to lift their own wings.
Yet, Sidang’s genius lies not in mere symbolism, but in timing. His play enters the national conversation when trust in institutions has waned, when corruption is normalized, and when civic apathy has become a quiet epidemic. But through characters like Oyundi and Osogo, Sidang rekindles the idea that even a spark of moral courage can pierce the darkness. Osogo’s declaration — “I suffer from a chronic condition called hope” — should be printed on every Kenyan wall. It is the kind of optimism born not from ignorance but defiance — a refusal to surrender one’s faith in a better tomorrow.
For teachers and students of literature, The Parliament of Owls is not just a set text — it is a mirror text. It teaches us how allegory can sting, how laughter can wound, and how art can serve as both protest and prayer. Sidang joins the ranks of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Alinafe Mukhwana, and Francis Imbuga — dramatists who have used the stage as a courtroom for the nation’s soul.
But beyond classrooms, this play belongs in every Kenyan conversation about leadership. Because The Flock of Birds is not just a poetic vision — it is a political blueprint. It tells us that change will not descend from the clouds of Parliament; it will rise from the soil, from ordinary Kenyans who dare to think differently, act boldly, and love this country enough to demand more of it.
The question Sidang quietly asks us is this: What kind of bird will you be? Will you join the flock of conscience, or remain perched among the owls, watching history repeat itself?
Kenya’s future — our collective moral future — depends on how we answer. For as Sidang reminds us, revolutions are not always loud. Sometimes they begin with the silent beat of wings in the dark.
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This article is part of SembaNotes’ ongoing literary commentary series, exploring Kenyan set texts through social, moral, and political lenses. For Act-by-Act analysis of Adipo Sidang’s Parliament of Owls, visit: SembaNotes.blogspot.com.
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