By Makau Kitata
This week, I observed two student presentations on novels by Chinua Achebe that left me both amused and deeply worried. One student confidently introduced Chris, Obi Okonkwo’s grandfather, in No Longer at Ease. Another spoke extensively about Okondo as a central figure in Arrow of God. Neither character appears in Achebe’s literary universe.
My students had relied on artificial intelligence for literary “knowledge”, and it responded with confident fabrications. As the spirited presentation went on, those who had read the novels began to doubt themselves, wondering whether they’d missed key details or were hearing about another book. Watching, I could no longer tolerate the lie—or the pleading looks asking me, “Are we in the same class?” So, I stopped the talk.
The contrast between their assured delivery and their crestfallen expressions when I asked, “On what page is that character mentioned?” was profoundly sad. They had not read the texts. When the truth became clear, those who had read the novel looked up in relief and giggled. There is nothing quite as terrifying as being exposed as a fraud when everyone believed you were the authority.
It was a sight of spiritual dissipation — the kind one might expect at the great parade in heaven, when the Christian God is said to pronounce doomsday judgments.
The episode forced me to confront an uncomfortable literary question: what happens to literary awareness when students outsource reading to machines?
During break, I went for coffee and vented to my colleagues.
“Tom, I am at a loss,” I said. “AI gives students the confidence to misrepresent understanding.”
“AI summaries are still the best,” he replied, to my shock. “At least until they start inventing characters and fictional sources.”
The coffee — and this sobering response — calmed me. It would be naïve to imagine that AI can simply be wished away. I found myself thinking. Who would have thought we would move from print to radio to television to the internet, and from paper to screen, all within a single lifetime?
“AI now sits at the centre of our intellectual environment,” opined Wambua, scrolling on his phone. “The real question, therefore, is not whether AI should exist in the literature classroom, but how it should be engaged.”
Professor Emeritus Henry would not take that. “We need a total ban on AI-generated literary content.” Understandably, he belongs to the paper-based generation, but such resistance seems impractical. Students already live in an AI-saturated world.
“There’s a girl in my class,” I told my colleagues, “who brings her phone, hides it between her thighs, and dares you look, let alone take it.” Dr Kim choked on his tea as he laughed and eyed me suspiciously.
“A total ban would only drive AI use under the skirt or under the shirt sleeve, it seems,” I observed.
Sensing my frustration, Tom offered a more practical solution. “If a student presents an AI-generated claim,” he said, “the next question should be simple: Where is it in the text?”
And so, in the second half of the class, presentations were no longer just clever but verifiable. Page numbers, passages, and quotations mattered again. In challenging AI to justify itself, we rediscovered a fundamental truth: reading and understanding literature cannot be automated. The dignity of stories must be reclaimed from machines.
“You are free to come with your phones and log in to anything,” I told the class, claiming the machine as an ally and forcing them to grapple with responsibility. “This unit will be taught again at the same time next year, during the week of your graduation,” I added, to their stunned faces. “You may choose whether it is you or AI—that will be on the graduation list.”
As soon as I dismissed the class, the WhatsApp group lit up: “Dear Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart,” one student wrote. Another replied, “Dear Chinua Achebe, I’m No Longer at Ease because A Man of the People has unleashed an Arrow of God.” I silently prophesied what their WhatsApp statuses might look like next year. Privately, I felt like the abandoned Anthills of the Savannah.
