Opening the pages of a book is often likened to stepping through a hidden doorway. Books have an uncanny ability to immerse us into new worlds waiting to be explored, full of voices yearning to be heard. Reading is more than a mere pastime: it’s a gateway to empathy, an entry point to discovery of both inner and outer worlds. We forge connections across geographical and temporal barriers through the magic of storytelling, which serve to remind us that no matter how different our experiences and our cultures may be, we’re all fundamentally the same.

But what happens when the world’s stories are skewed? When only one part of the world is given a voice and a global platform to share its stories, while others rarely get a glimpse?

For far too long, the global literary landscape has been dominated by the voices of people who come from affluent regions of the world, specifically European and American countries. Places like Africa, with their rich histories, cultures and tales, rarely got the literary attention they deserved, giving way for foreign observers to fill the presumed “vacuum” with their own narratives; a single, stereotypical, incomplete story.

These single stories are dangerous not only because they color the rest of the world’s perception of Africa, but because they color the perceptions of Africans themselves. They hammer in a mistaken assumption that African stories are simply not worth telling, that they lack complexity, or do not carry universal truths that are capable of resonating with other parts of the world.

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In 2012, British author, Ann Morgan, gave a TED talk about her quest to read a book from every country in the world, a mission prompted by a sudden realization. Upon looking at her bookshelves, she noticed that there was a major blind spot: almost all the titles in her possession were by British and North American writers. “There was no hiding it,” she confessed, “I was a clueless literary xenophobe.”

Morgan’s story struck a chord with me, because I had a similar, yet simultaneously, opposite problem. Just like Morgan, I too was exposed to only a fraction (however dominant) of the world’s literature. And just like her, my bookshelves, both physical and digital, were predominantly filled with European and American writers. But while it’s natural and understandable for Ann Morgan, a British woman, to have such a bookshelf, I had no excuse.

Unlike her, I’m an African. Living in Africa. And yet, if one were to just look at my bookshelves, they wouldn’t be able to tell.

As I sat contemplating this, I realized just how serious my condition was: I can tell you major streets and areas in New York City, who the Ancient Greek God of the Sun is – and his genealogy for good measure. I can (to some extent) discuss thinkers of the Western intellectual tradition, and I can probably hold my own in a conversation about Italian, French and British history. But ask me about the capital city of Namibia, Mali, or Burundi – never mind their neighborhoods and streets – and I’d be left without words. Ask me about West African mythology and the history of African countries other than my own and my knowledge would falter after a fact or two.

And then I realized: if Ann Morgan had had a case of myopia, then I was suffering from a severe and more peculiar case of hyperopia. My eyes were conditioned to see that which is furthest from me.

When I was in my preteen years, I was inspired to write a book about the adventures of a strong, smart young girl. I sat down, and began writing the opening scene to my story, and within a couple of lines, wrote the name of my protagonist: Maxine.

Not Mihret. Not Mebrat or Milen. No. I used a name that one would never encounter in Eritrea.

As a young girl, I didn’t understand the implications of using a foreign name for my character. My reasoning at the time was simply that I was partial to names with the letter X in them. There was nothing more to it.

But as an adult, I know that’s not entirely true. The fact of the matter is that I grew up mainly reading foreign children’s books, and watching foreign children’s films, where the characters are all American, British or Italian. Yes, I read the occasional Eritrean book like Alemseged Tesfai’s heart-warming Gitano, and the coming-of-age Timitim ab Gejeret, as well as Tekie Tesfai’s Tigrinya translation of Aesop’s Fables. I also inhaled Tej N. Dhar’s locally published, curated volumes of short stories from around the world. But there is no escaping the inundation of Western stories.

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There are very good reasons why African Literature historically hasn’t been able to keep up with the literary developments of the West.

Firstly, the rich cultural heritage of the African continent, with around 3000 indigenous languages, historically transmitted stories and tales mainly through a long tradition of orature as opposed to the written word. This poses an issue. As Simon Gikandi wrote in The Encyclopedia of African Literature, “because it is based on the spoken language, it comes to life only in a living community. Where community life fades away, orality loses its function and dies. It needs people in a living social setting, it needs life itself.” Oral literature, with all its fascinating aspects, is not immutable.

Secondly, and here I must reiterate for emphasis, there are around 3000 indigenous languages in the African continent alone. With that many tongues spoken, it can be tricky to create a literary bridge that connects them all if they are to write in their indigenous languages. The issue about the role of languages in African literature, though important to discuss, is a subject for another day.

Finally, and the most damaging aspect, is the oppressive colonial domination by European countries that not only limited African people’s access to education, censoring and suppressing any voices that remotely challenged them, but also actively disrupted traditional African cultures and imposed their own languages (namely English, French and Portuguese), thus hindering any possibility for traditional African languages developing naturally. Moreover, colonialism’s immense impact on the socioeconomic standing of indigenous Africans meant that writers could not afford to pursue writing, and even if they did, they had little opportunities to access printing presses and other technologies of the sort. It was only in the second half of the 20th century that African writers began to rise in a significant way.

Yet, even now, over half-a-century since the independence of most African countries, the struggle for African stories to take their place in the global stage is far from over. In fact, in her 2015 book, The World between Two Covers: Reading the Globe, Ann Morgan wrote:

Much of Africa rarely gets a look in when it comes to translation. Leaving aside works written in the continent’s numerous indigenous tongues – which, despite making up around one-third of the planet’s languages, are hardly ever translated – you’d be hard pushed to get hold of English versions of anything written in the European languages that are official in many states there

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African literature is made up of a wide array of oral and written traditions, infused with more wisdom and complexity than the world is aware of. Take, from my own country in Eritrea, the oral tradition Masse (ማሰ, as it’s written in Tigrinya), where village elders traditionally communicated with one another with speeches. Upon first observation, one would assume the message is straightforward. The beauty and complexity of the Masse is that it rarely is as it appears to be: what the people say is usually one thing, but what is really conveyed is another. A song of praise might just be an insult in disguise. It’s an art in and of itself. It’s playful and intricate in a way that was neither understood nor appreciated by foreign observers, particularly during the periods of colonization.

I am confident the same depth can be found in all the other African cultures. We just have to fix our eyesight to really look at the remarkable worlds that have been under our noses all along.

***

It’s a natural human desire to see oneself reflected in the pages of a novel or on the big screens. There’s something powerful about seeing yourself mirrored that way. Some say it’s how we understand our place in the world.

I don’t look like the characters in my favorite childhood books. I look nothing like Hermione Granger, or Katniss Everdeen or any of those young heroines I looked up to at the time. And I didn’t have – or rather I didn’t know about – any young, female African characters of the sort. I didn’t experience that spark until I saw a speech a couple of years ago – another TED Talk – by the venerable Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Seeing Adichie give a speech on “The Dangers of a Single Story” not only alerted me of the issues with single narratives, it also showed me, quite literally, an African woman who looks a lot like myself, someone who took immense pride in her African heritage and her African features, and put forth in the world authentic African stories. It made me see the place that African literature, and African people, can hold in the world.

And to my delight, the world listened. Adichie’s “The Dangers of a Single Story” talk is now one of the most viewed TED talks of all time, with over 27 million views online.

Adichie is labeled as “the most prominent of a procession of critically acclaimed young Anglophone authors” credited with attracting a new generation of readers to African literature, following in the footsteps of literary giants like Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and Wole Soyinka. And her Africanness, in all its glory, is celebrated and respected.

And indeed, there are long processions of critically acclaimed contemporary African writers that serve as wonderful examples for young, impressionable African youth: from Nigerian novelists like Ben Okri, Sefi Atta and Helon Habila to the Sudanese writer Leila Aboulela, from Zimbabwean author Tsitsi Dangaremba to the Somali-born poet Warsan Shire, the list is abundant. And this is only mentioning the people who have written or been translated in the English language. There are droves of writers who use their indigenous languages, but have not yet had the opportunity to reach international attention.

The Nigerian-American novelist Tomi Adeyemi is another favorite example of contemporary writers who have attracted global attention to African literature. Known for her trilogy of young adult novels, Legacy of Orïsha (comprising Children of Blood and Bone, Children of Virtue and Vengeance and Children of Anguish and Anarchy), Adeyemi based her works on West African mythology, drawing inspiration from her Nigerian homeland and her Yoruba heritage. In 2020, Children of Blood and Bone and Children of Virtue and Vengeance sat at No. 2 and No. 1 respectively in the New York Times Best Seller list, with millions of readers around the world.

Adeyemi and Adichie’s successes, among many others, are a testament to what can be achieved when African writers uncover the treasure troves that are their cultures. They both infused their stories with their people’s authentic voices, complete with their own unique perspectives and spins, and as a result, successfully challenged the world’s understanding of African cultures.

Equally important and influential, are the literary journals, magazines and literary prizes – both old and new – that have provided African writers with the platforms, the encouragement and the network to explore their own worlds, and from there, draw out locally and universally significant works. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention online magazines like Transition, Lolwe, Callaloo, The Kalahari Review, and Doek!, or African literary prizes such as The Caine Prize for African Writing, and publishers like Cassava Republic Press and Kwela, all working hard to shed light to encourage the reading and writing of homegrown African stories.

African literature offers a powerful counterpoint to the narratives that have traditionally placed Africa in a position of dependence or exoticism. Beyond accounts of the scars of colonialism, African literature delves into the beauty and depth of the continent’s diverse cultures. By encountering diverse characters and by navigating unfamiliar landscapes, we are forced to confront our biases and expand our understanding of human experience. This journey allows us to foster empathy and fight stereotypes, and it encourages us to see the world in a multitude of lenses. Thus, it’s vital to understand that African literature serves as a powerful bridge, inviting us to celebrate the richness of our homeland’s diversity and paves the way for meaningful dialogue to take place across all cultures.

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It’s often said that when we’re young, we try desperately to be like everyone else, to fit in and not stick out from our peers in any way. I think that same pressure applies to cultural minorities as well, especially in today’s globalized world. When we’re younger, we feel an urge to look like those we are constantly exposed to. And if we can’t achieve it physically, we try to assimilate culturally.

But luckily, little by little, with the passing of time, the tides start shifting, and we begin to see our diversity with a new perspective: we strive for uniqueness, rather than commonness, and our singular cultures that we failed to appreciate before, begin to hold a new sense of importance.

So, let’s do our cultures justice. Let us read and let us write our own stories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Suad Kamardeen on Unsplash