New generation of African writers should submit to didacticism

When someone calls and announces that they have a few publishing-related questions to ask, you grant them your attention. That’s what publishers do. In any case, such a call could easily turn into the biggest publishing deal ever signed under the sun.

You listen patiently as they shoot all manner of questions at you. On a particularly good day, such a caller will, for instance, ask you why authors and publishers are always quarreling over royalties. Or why publishers are openly disinterested in self-help books. Sometimes they’ll ask how much you would charge them to publish their book.

Occasionally, however, a caller may beat your expectation. Instead of bombarding you with such questions as the ones cited above, the caller may tell you that they are in a dilemma.

Upon hearing this, you toss and move to the edge of your seat. You assume an upright sitting posture and cock your ears. Before you know it, you find yourself attentively listening to a troubled father.

The caller tells you of his daughter who is in Standard Eight or Form three and who is too good with words for her age. He expresses his consciousness of the possibility that his beloved daughter could be contemplating taking up authorship as a career.

 He then lets you in on his secret – his fears. He tells you that the last time he checked, no one in this country entirely lived off authorship. In addition, he reminds you that even the most celebrated of Kenyan authors only engages in authorship as a subordinate trade.

And just when you think he is done, he unleashes the final blow. Without mincing his words, he informs you of his awareness that his daughter stands a very slim chance of ever getting published because local publishers prefer ‘big names’ to ‘neophytes’.

This glaring misconstruction achieves the intended effect. It pricks and hurts your conscience. Inwardly, you ask yourself a few questions. Why would anyone imagine that the business of a young publisher is to bask in the glorious past bequeathed unto them by their predecessors? Won’t anyone appreciate that the desire of the young publisher is to discover the next award-winning author? How come no one acknowledges that it is from this desire that the young publisher draws the motivation to invest time in reviewing manuscripts that aspiring young writers post to them. You struggle to carefully tuck these thoughts in your mind – beyond the reach of your caller. This is what wisdom of the moment requires of you, isn’t it?

In your response to his questions, you feign laughter and offer him your honest opinion. You clarify to your caller that contrary to what many think, publishers are a lot more interested in talent than names. You inform him that his daughter stands a chance of getting her work published – provided her work meets the requisite threshold.

Besides, you assure him that even though few in Kenya have taken authorship as their mainstay, all is not lost. To augment your argument, you mention a few authors who have earned fame, popularity, among other returns from authorship.

But the caller interrupts you.

He points out that the names you have featured in your list are those whose works are studied in schools as compulsory set texts.

At this point, you amplify your laughter and remind him that “to each their own” is an idiom which is not any less applicable in publishing than it is anywhere else.

Definitely, there is one thing you don’t won’t fail to point out – the disturbing observation you have made in the course of your interactions with the works of young writers.

You explain to your caller that the greatest undoing of aspiring writers is their disregard of a critical aspect of African literary culture –didacticism. You plainly tell him that in their pursuit of liberation and uniqueness, aspiring writers fail to realise that the relevance of African literature lies in its ability to inform, educate and correct its consumers.

You tell your caller a few things about the generations of authors Africa has had over the years. While the first generation of African writers captured the goings on in Africa in the pre-colonial age, the second generation was obsessed with post-independence betrayal of the African masses by the African elites and ruling class.

You move onto the third generation of writers. You point out to your caller that it is to this generation that his daughter belongs. You clarify to him that his daughter and her ilk are interested in literature for its own sake. Whether their works educate, inform or correct anyone is a question they lack the luxury of time to answer.

What fascinates them are literary works in which characters hop into high-end cars and go road racing. They are in love with non-conformist characters who own and fire guns at the slightest provocation. In their works, these writers star juvenile characters that go for sleepovers for days – daring characters who abuse drugs with a high sense of impunity. And wonder of wonders, these maladjusted characters live under the watch of their indifferent modern parents.

You wind up the telephone conversation by telling your caller that to enhance her chances of getting published, his daughter should consider endearing herself to didacticism – the cornerstone of African literature. And you do everything with utmost love because there is no other word you can spread but the truth!