Problem of the African Reader

Every so often, a writer fires some missive on a blog, some minor journal or even a major newspaper eloquently stating the reason why they are a “writer” and NOT an “African writer”. The writer (usually with an African sounding name) then goes on to explain that Western writers somehow do not suffer this existential burden of a limiting label. “White writers” are simply “writers”, period, and if the African writer wishes to be appreciated by a wider audience, then they must cast off this label so they can become a “writer”.

This is an interesting argument that recurs periodically for people interested in literature from the African continent. I have on occasion been asked whether I considered myself an “African writer”, a question which I find absurd since I tick Black – African on the census form every time, yet somehow I should have a problem with being labelled an African writer.

We know that writers in the Americas, south of Texas, are frequently lumped together as South American Writers (I dare you to say where Bolano, or Fuentes, or Marquez actually come from off the top of your head) and yet writers of European origin are perhaps better recognised as coming from separate geographical entities or nation states. Perhaps this is what irks those who do not like the label African writer, preferring something a little colourless, preferring the label “writer” without any reference to their origins. This is an appealing and novel way of viewing artistic output. Imagine a world where we all watched Hollywood, Nollywood, Bollywood, Zollywoods and all other cinema you can think of without reference to the films’ origins. A romantic idea no doubt, but one that would have limited application in the real world.

To understand why African Literature is lumped under one homogenous label it is useful to recognise the fact that the Western Novel has a 300 year head start (if we choose Cervantes as our starting point). 300 years of experimentation and literary output before the emergence of Achebe. 300 years to produce a canon so wide ranging that it has to be further subdivided and catalogued by era or nationality for it to make sense. Achebe emerged as the sole recognisable representative of an entire continent in terms of literature in the middle of the twentieth century. This is not to say that there was no African Literature before Achebe, but that he is the first novelist of universal renown from the continent.

African literature simply has not achieved a level of output and influence within Africa for its writers to be recognised as anything but that. One would be hard pressed to find African genre fiction outside of a few hard core writers working in the shadows. Some may rail at African writers who attempt to shed the label in search of a more universal acceptance, but the hard reality is that for all the African writers out there, there are probably a handful of African readers. That for me is the crux of the problem with African Literature today, and I say this as a writer who sold more books in two months in Germany than I sold in two years in my native Zimbabwe.

It is not the writers but the readers who ultimately interpret and decide how valuable any brand of literature is. The truth is that western readers are crucial for any African writer who is looking for success today, and it is inevitable that the west will continue to determine the value and worth of literature from the African continent. As such this literature will continue to be judged and valued by western perceptions. The most prominent African writers today are those with a large readership outside of the continent, Teju Cole, Chimamanda Adichie, Irene Sabatini, Ben Okri and even the firebrand Binyavanga Wainaina all have a large following outside the continent and benefit from publicity in the Western media. As embarrassing as it is to admit, the simple fact is that whether or not the continent can produce millions of writers, it will not amount to anything until we actually have African Readers, African Readers who will ultimately determine the value of our continent’s literary output, if it is to continue as something beyond some exotic curiosity.

What good would Shakespeare be if he had no English readers, imagine Tolstoy outside of the Russian Cannon, Zola wouldn’t be French and Joyce would be some amorphous amphibian somewhere in the Atlantic. The truth is that literature from the African Continent will not amount to anything substantial if the continent does not begin to produce readers.

By Tendai Huchu

Tendai Huchu was born in 1982 in Bindura, Zimbabwe. He attended Churchill High School in Harare and from there went to the University of Zimbabwe to study a degree in Mining Engineering. He dropped out in the middle of the first semester, found work briefly in a casino and from there drifted from one job to the next. Four years later he returned to university and is now a Podiatrist living in Edinburgh, Scotland.

www.tendaihuchu.com