By Morris Wambua

I have been reading Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart for the one-millionth time. The cover is frayed, its colors faded from sunlight and touch, but the words remain, unwavering and resilient.

Achebe’s prose unfurls like a storyteller’s chant, precise and unhurried, each word grounding me deeper into the soil of Umuofia.

Through these pages, I step into a world alive with drumbeats, ancestral spirits, and the ceaseless rhythm of seasons.

I see Okonkwo’s fierce pride, feel the weight of his silence, and glimpse the slow but inevitable unraveling of his world. And as I close the book, I am filled again with a truth as steady as the earth beneath my feet: African literature is not just important—it is essential.

It is the voice of a continent, the pulse of a people, and the fierce proclamation of a culture that will not be silenced.

African literature is more than ink on paper; it is a reclamation, a revolution, a remembering.

For centuries, Africa’s story was told from the outside.

It was catalogued and classified, diminished and distorted by those who had only glimpsed her from the bow of a ship or the barrel of a gun.

They saw only what they wanted to see, and for them, Africa was a dark, unknowable void, a land without history, a people without voice.

In their words, Africa was simplified, its complexity reduced to primitive stereotypes, its richness veiled beneath the heavy fog of ignorance and prejudice. But African literature is the great unmasking.

It is Africa speaking for herself, casting off the narratives imposed upon her and telling her own story—on her own terms, in her own voice.

Achebe, in writing Things Fall Apart, was not just crafting a novel; he was challenging a narrative as old as colonialism itself.

In his words, Africa is no longer an object, no longer a mere setting for foreign adventure. She is a world with her own heroes and villains, her own joys and sorrows, her own beliefs, languages, and philosophies.

In Umuofia, we see a society governed by customs that are ancient, intricate, and deeply human.

Achebe does not romanticize this world, nor does he judge it.

He presents it as it is, with all its strengths and flaws, inviting us to witness its complexity and, in turn, to confront our own biases. By bringing us into the heart of Okonkwo’s village, Achebe invites us to listen—to understand that Africa is not a monolith, not a blank space to be filled by others’ imaginings.

Africa is a chorus of voices, and each book, each poem, each story is an invitation to listen.

To read African literature is to step into a world that defies simplification.

In Things Fall Apart, we see the arrival of European missionaries and colonial administrators, and with them, the slow unraveling of a culture that had endured for generations.

We see the erosion of tradition, the rupture of families, and the profound sense of loss that comes when one’s very way of being is threatened.

This is not just a story of one man or one village; it is a story of humanity, of what happens when two worlds collide, neither willing to fully understand the other.

Achebe’s novel is a meditation on the fragility of cultural identity, on the cost of change, on the inevitability of conflict when power and prejudice go unchecked.

But African literature does not linger only in the past.

It is as much about today’s Africa as it is about yesterday’s.

Writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Mariama Bâ, Tsitsi Dangarembga, and NoViolet Bulawayo carry Achebe’s torch, illuminating not only the history that shaped Africa but also the forces that shape her now.

They write of migration and exile, of the African diaspora and the hybrid identities that form in the
spaces between cultures.

They explore what it means to be African in a world that often seeks to define them from the outside, to reduce them to caricatures or symbols.

They write about the complexities of love, the pain of displacement, the search for belonging in a world that constantly tries to displace them.

Reading African literature is to step into a kaleidoscope of experiences, each story shifting our perspective, each voice adding depth to our understanding.

In Americanah, Adichie takes us from Lagos to Princeton, from London to Nsukka, as we follow Ifemelu, a young Nigerian woman navigating the cultural maze of America, with all its assumptions about race, nationality, and class.

Through Ifemelu’s sharp observations, we see the absurdities and contradictions of Western perceptions of Africa, and we are forced to confront our own assumptions.

Adichie’s prose is both searing and tender, her insights both brutal and compassionate.

She holds up a mirror to Western culture, inviting readers to question not only what they think they
know about Africa but also what they think they know about themselves.

African literature is a priority because it does not allow us to remain comfortable in our ignorance.

It challenges us to confront the world as it is, not as we would like it to be. It is a literature that demands engagement, that insists on critical thinking, that refuses to be passively consumed.

Each story, each novel, each poem is a reminder that Africa is not a single story, not a simplistic tale of poverty or struggle.

Africa is a vast, complex, and diverse continent, home to over a billion people, each with their own dreams, fears, histories, and futures.

To reduce Africa to a single narrative is to commit an act of erasure.

To read African literature is to resist this erasure.

It is to affirm the dignity and worth of every voice, every life, every culture.

In Mariama Bâ’s So Long a Letter, we are given a glimpse into the interior world of Ramatoulaye, a Senegalese woman navigating the turbulent waters of love, loss, and tradition. Through her letters, we experience the weight of societal expectations, the complexities of polygamy, and the quiet
strength of a woman who must reconcile her desires with her duties.

Bâ’s prose is delicate yet powerful, her words flowing like a river, carrying us along with Ramatoulaye’s reflections.

She writes not only of personal struggle but also of the larger societal forces that shape women’s lives in Senegal and beyond.

In reading her story, we are reminded that African literature is not only about resistance; it is also about resilience.

It is about the strength that comes from knowing who you are, even when the world tries to define you otherwise.

But African literature is not only about African readers.

It is a gift tothe world, a testament to the universality of human experience, even when that experience is deeply rooted in a specific culture.

In reading these stories, we come face-to-face with the joys and sorrows that define us all, regardless of geography or background.

We are reminded that humanity is a tapestry woven from countless threads, each unique but interconnected. To read African literature is to see the world through a different lens, to recognize that beauty, wisdom, and truth are not the exclusive property of any one culture.

And yet, African literature does something more—it challenges the structures that have long defined what "counts" as literature.

It redefines the very idea of the canon, asking why certain voices are elevated while others are silenced.

Why do we know Shakespeare but not Soyinka?

Why do we study Faulkner but not Ngũgĩ?

African literature forces us to question who gets to tell the story of humanity and who is left out. It is a reminder that the Western literary canon is not the only canon, that there are worlds upon worlds of stories waiting to be told, waiting to be heard.

In We Need New Names, NoViolet Bulawayo gives us the voice of Darling, a young girl growing up in Zimbabwe and later navigating life in America.

Bulawayo’s narration is vibrant, raw, and unflinching, capturing both the innocence of childhood and the disillusionment of migration. Through Darling’s eyes, we see the gap between the America of her dreams and the reality of her life, the painful realization that the promised land is not always as it seems.

Bulawayo’s novel is a powerful meditation on the immigrant experience, on the longing for home and the search for identity.

In her story, we are reminded that African literature is not confined to the African continent. It stretches across oceans, bridging worlds, weaving together the voices of those who have been scattered yet remain connected to their roots.

To read African literature is to witness the beauty of cultural diversity, the richness of stories that emerge from different ways of seeing the world.

It is to honor the traditions of oral storytelling, the rhythms of language that pulse like a heartbeat through each page.

It is to feel the presence of ancestors, to hear the echo of drums, to see the world through eyes that do not belong to us.

It is to be reminded that every culture has something valuable to offer, something essential to teach.

In reading African literature, we are called not just to admiration but to action.

We are called to support African voices, to uplift African authors, to make room in our own literary landscapes for stories that challenge, inspire, and transform.

We are called to recognize that African literature is not a genre, not a niche, but a vital part of the global literary tapestry.

It is a literature that speaks to the resilience of the human spirit, the strength of communities, the importance of heritage.

It is a literature that insists on being seen, being heard, being valued.

As I put down Things Fall Apart for the one-millionth time, I am filled with a profound gratitude.

Achebe’s story is not just his own; it belongs to all of us who are willing to listen. And I am reminded that African literature is not simply a priority—it is a necessity.

It is a voice that will not be silenced, a song that will not fade, a truth that will not be forgotten.

In reading, we keep that song alive, and we become part of something greater than ourselves.

African literature is the heartbeat of a continent, and in listening, we allow it to echo within us, reminding us of the vast, interconnected world we share.