The African Literature Ecosystem Used to Be Unstoppable. What Went Wrong?

Writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Binyavanga Wainaina, Tope Folarin, NoViolet Bulawayo, and Teju Cole were gaining recognition on the international literary scene. Soon, other publications like Expound, Praxis, Omenana Magazine, Bakwa, Munyori Journal, and Jalada Africa began to emerge. It was the era of Afro-politans, a term coined by Taiye Selasi to explain the globally mobile and culturally aware African, which saw a blending of worlds between African writers in the West and those on the continent. Attention from the West on African literature was blooming, and so was a local thirst for change. Essentially, it was an unbelievably great time to be an African writer.

"People were interested in books, people who read, people who wrote were able to come together, meet writers that they would never have met previously," Ajayi tells OkayAfrica.

"You had writing communities on websites and social media, which served as spaces for writers to get honest critique on their work, feedback, and encouragement," Efemuaye adds. "These communities fueled and challenged the writers, and as a reader, you could see the quality of writing from the writers improve over time because they weren't working in silos. They were also reading and having conversations about writing, which is important for any literary ecosystem."

All of this began to change as the late 2010s rolled around. Lack of funding and economic hardships intensified across the continent, particularly in countries like Nigeria, which was regarded as a forerunner in the African literary space. Highly regarded publications like Saraba, which published writers like TJ Benson and Ironsen Okojie, began to fold up (Saraba halted operations in 2019, but an archive of its published works remains live). Online literary communities began to vanish, shuttering spaces for communal critique and avenues to discover exciting new voices.

Onyango himself emerged during that golden era of African literature. First, as a writer before co-founding one of the most prestigious publications of that time, Enkare Review. Enkare Review, during its time, published esteemed authors like Namwali Serpell, as well as an interview with David Remnick, the editor-in-chief of The New Yorker. It was an audacious publication that bravely brought the international literary community to Africa, offering up a lineup of brilliant voices with each issue. The publication folded up in 2019, its third year in operation.

And while Onyango has gone on to experience immense literary success and has now founded Lolwe, one of the very few African literary magazines still in operation, there is, according to him, a clear distinction between the quality of the work being submitted now and ten years ago.

"The quality of the work has gone down," Onyango says. "Even the output. We used to have African writers publish 10-15 short stories in a year. And that's one single writer. I published about eight stories in one year. And now we no longer see that. We see one or two people publish like maybe three stories max, or four stories max."

A break in transmission

A key aspect of what defined the African literary ecosystem in the 2010s was the establishment of a cycle for many African writers. Writers would begin in relative anonymity, honing their craft before summoning the courage to submit their work to the numerous African publications that flourished at the time. Once published, these writers gradually built networks within a growing community of fellow writers and engaged readers. Then they would get nominated for one of the many writing prizes; there was Writivism (which rewarded excellent short stories, nonfiction and poetry), The Brittle Paper Awards (which rewarded the best published works in a given year), The Gerald Kraak Prize (which awarded excellence in writing related to gender, sexuality and social justice) the Etisalat Prize for Literature (a prestigious prize that awarded debut authors) and many others. The cycle ensured that African writers found their voices and had the means to share and be rewarded for it.

"Everything seemed possible. World literary domination was coming," Efemuaye recalls. "As an editor and reader, I had high expectations of all the new writing that was going to come out of the continent in the following decades. I was excited about the future and being part of creating that future."

Another important aspect of that cycle was collective responsibility. African writers who achieved success were known to give back, often by supporting existing publications, mentoring emerging writers, or even founding their own publications and prizes to nurture other literary talents. There is now a break in that cycle.

There are significantly fewer literary African publications in operation now than there were six years ago. Alongside Lolwe, publications like Akpata Magazine, The Republic Magazine, Brittle Paper, Open Country Magazine, and Isele Magazine are among the few enduring platforms still holding the fort. In Nigeria, book publishing has shifted from literary works to commercially driven titles, with publishers like Farafina, Cassava Republic, and Parréssia Publishers scaling back their operations and publishing fewer titles. In Kenya and other parts of the continent, book publishing continues to dwindle. And most dangerously, the online spaces that facilitated healthy conversations in favor of the ecosystem have all but disappeared.

Many of the people who were part of that era, like Ajayi and Efemuaye, say the decline can be traced back to 2020. In Nigeria's case, many of the brilliant writers of that era suddenly found themselves compelled to pursue better opportunities outside the country after living through a disastrous economy and experiencing the 2020 #EndSARS Protests. Between 2022 and 2023, more than 3.6 million people emigrated from Nigeria, according to the Nigerian Immigration Service.

"Culture is the first casualty of a credit crunch, and it's the first thing to go," Ajayi says. "When the economy began to collapse, and EndSARS happened, a brain drain that had already begun intensified. So everyone who had the wherewithal to move, moved." As Ajayi sees it, these writers are still dealing with the task of adjusting to new realities, which often forces them to focus solely on their work and their survival, leaving little room to contribute to the well-being of a dying industry.

Onyango believes that funding and economic upheavals have long plagued the industry; however, it's not the only thing currently stymying it. There is a dearth of dialogue that has also contributed immensely, Onyango offers. "Younger writers are coming up, and they don't see writers of the previous generation being open and talking openly. It can kind of silence them as well," Onyango says. "People are not writing essays as well. At least with the previous generation, when writers were not on social media, they would produce all these essays. They would have blogs. I don't even remember the last time I read a blog. I don't even know if people still blog anymore."

This vacuum of conversation has created a chasm of understanding between old and new writers.

Efemuaye agrees, "Writers learned craft through multiple rounds of editing and feedback from editors since their work had to meet certain editorial standards. These thorough editorial processes are being replaced by the instant gratification that comes with self-publishing because writers bypass the developmental stage of working with skilled editors who can help them refine their voice and writing styles."

The effects are already showing. Books are expensive, and book prizes, which once boosted book sales, are no longer available, leaving many African writers to compete with those still accessible in the West. In the past five years, no new African writer has been nominated for the Booker Prize.

Despite the dire state of things, Ajayi is optimistic. The way forward is to hold institutions accountable, he says. While individuals should build what they can, Ajayi believes that administrative support will go a long way in subsidizing the cost of running literary institutions in the interest of preserving literary traditions and keeping the arts alive, especially in times like these.

And as Onyango sees it, the way to avoid this lull is by institutionalizing African literary spaces so they are formidable enough to last beyond whoever funded them. The first step to overcoming this lull is to acknowledge the problem while also recognizing that small support for the few existing literary publications and institutions can go a long way. The best kind of support isn't always in funding.