Africa’s changing literary scene
TODAY we are witnessing the emergence of an African literary market. Independent publishers have sprouted all over the continent: Cassava Republic and Farafina in Nigeria, Modjaji Books, Chimurenga, and Jungle Jim in South Africa, Kwani? in Kenya. But there’s a catch.
This industry is emerging at one of the most difficult times in global publishing. Aside from grappling with the issues everyone else is facing, African publishers have problems of their own. First, Africa lacks a strong tradition or infrastructure for publishing. Second, the $14 it costs to buy a Penguin Classic is what many Africans earn in a week.
Finally, within the continent, African literature has to compete in a media space monopolised by Nollywood and the thriving pop music industry.
According to a recent UNESCO study, there is one library to every million Nigerians. Unlike western publishers who depend on library sales and the bookstore circuit, the African publisher depends solely on an extremely volatile and unregulated market run by daredevil pirates and colluding customers looking for a cheap buy.
Still Bibi Bakare, the founder of Cassava Republic, is convinced that the future of African literary publishing is bright. “Our golden age is in front of us,” she tells me. The solution, she believes, lies in taking seriously the ongoing changes in the contemporary African literary scene.
Perhaps we should begin by debunking the claim that Africans don’t read — a long-held view that is widely touted in conversations about African publishing. Claims like this often conflate reading and buying.
A reading culture does not necessarily depend on a standardised book market. Africa has always had a vibrant reading culture sustained by an informal economy of books consisting in piracy and an informal culture of book-lending.
Data from digital reading platforms also suggests the opposite. The expansion of mobile technology in Africa is creating a reading culture that embraces a staggeringly wide variety of texts — romance, inspirational books, religious writing, and so on.
The more interesting question becomes: How can African publishers leverage this unorthodox reading culture to establish a functional literary market?
The contemporary “audience for African literature,” Bakare explains, “is more discerning. They make more demands on their writers. They expect more. They don’t expect to be patronised.
They feel like I can choose, I don’t have to be bogged down reading African literature if I don’t want to. They don’t feel a sense of anxiety about their taste as they may have done in the past.”
When Bakare speaks of the past, she has in mind the literary culture of the older generations. It was a time when the taste and interests of the reader did not drive the content of fiction. Achebe’s 1965 essay “The Novelist as Teacher,” was not only metaphorical, it was also quite literal.
For Achebe’s generation, African fiction existed primarily within the context of education. Heinemann, the prominent publisher of African fiction at the time, published fiction to serve the needs of an educational system that was also its primary buyer. In this context, the African reader was, first and foremost, imagined as a student.
With the establishment of a literary market on the continent, African readers are seen as consumers. Their taste and their power as buyers are beginning to exert a tangible influence on content creation.
For example, a recent survey shows that Africans love reading romance, primarily consumed digitally on mobile platforms. Cassava Republic, it would seem, was already aware of this. A few years ago, they began work on a new imprint called Ankara Press, marketed as “a new kind of romance” providing “thrills of fantasy…in a healthier and more grounded way.” All six books debuted last year as e-books at affordable prices. Bakare says it has been so successful that they are working on releasing new titles in addition to expanding the brand. — Ventures Africa.
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