It’s almost strange to admit that I only started reading African literature around 4 years ago. Of course, there were books that I had occasionally (and usually, accidentally) come across, but I had definitely never dedicated myself to widening my reading horizons until last year. When the pandemic struck, I found myself reading more books than ever before and I used the time as an opportunity to delve into the world of African literature
As a black, African woman, it sounds counterintuitive to refer to reading more African literature as ‘diversifying’ my reading, but that was the unfortunate truth of it. I hadn’t grown up with these stories, they hadn’t been recommended to me and they were by no means part of mainstream education here in the UK. The first time I saw mention of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s name was on the ‘wider reading’ list for my English Lit A-Level course, and to be honest, the only reason I decided to pick up Americanah was because one of my favourite Youtubers had been raving about it (Americanah might be my favourite book of all time, so it deserve its own separate post). But once I read my first Adichie novel, I was hooked. In the years that followed, I read everything else she had written, which soon led me to Adebayo’s Stay with Me (highly recommend), and the likes of Chigozie Obioma before going back to classic writers such as Ngugi Wa Thiongo and of course, Chinua Achebe.
With each new tale, I felt something becoming increasingly clear to me: there are two sides to every story. Of course, this phrase is nothing revolutionary, and it’s usually used in relation to truth-telling, but I found it to be so relevant in my engagement with literature texts. What I mean by this is that we read for two main reasons, 1) to learn and or experience something new, 2) to relate to stories that we understand. Until 4 years ago, I had been exclusively and unintentionally reading-to-learn — which might not sound bad — but what was I learning as a by-product? I was learning that the stories that didn’t sit inside the basket of the English language, the English curriculum or the ‘most popular’ book lists were ‘other’. Not necessarily that they were less important, but that I would need a justifiable reason to find these rare, password-protected books. The issue is that I was not the one who drew these margins for myself, and so stories that should have affirmed my feelings and encouraged greater exploration, were presented to me as distant and inaccessible ‘wider’ reading.
Although there are many conversations to be had about the socio-political and racial dynamics of the publishing industry (and the education system), this post is not a criticism of Western literature. As I said before, there are two sides to every story, and I believe that reading-to-learn is indispensable; but it only functions effectively when alongside reading-to-relate. Americanah was my first experience of reading to relate.
I mentioned above that Americanah deserves a dedicated post, so I won’t dwell on it too much here, but I remember exactly how it made me feel as I read it for the first time. The number of instances that I paused to say, “YES!” or marvelled at how Adichie was able to translate emotions that I had never even materialised myself, let alone thought that others had experienced too. What I realised is that whilst reading-to-learn gives perspective, reading-to-relate often brings assurance that your thoughts aren’t alien or that your life doesn’t exist in isolation to art. Reading-to-learn will bring you knowledge on subjects unrelated to you, but reading-to-relate will give you the confidence and tools to decode and express your own emotional information.
For me, this is the true power of reading ‘diversly’. Even though I feel like we are exhausting the use of that word, I still don’t think that it’s being achieved in an organic and sustainable way yet. Diversity isn’t about marketing the ‘otherness’ of narratives that we don’t relate to (although it can be great to celebrate difference), because the truth is that these narratives have always been around, and they might only exist in our own, personal margins. I think that the real goal is to champion accessibility, to create an environment where stories can be valued based on what they teach their audience and not just by cultural proximity.
Reading African literature has taught me how to appreciate non-African literature; it has given me the tools to think critically about my own culture by finding nuance and comparing it to others. In a strange way, it’s given me something to be proud of. I can only imagine how future generations will be more confident and empathetic once their environment becomes a more balanced mix of all they do and don’t know.
