‘African writers prioritising prizes over socio-political issues’
‘Our literature should always serve the people‘
By Editor
AFRICA’S literary landscape is undergoing a significant shift, as many contemporary African writers are no longer primarily focused on addressing the pressing societal issues that once defined their predecessors’ works pre- and post-independent eras. Acting President of International Writers Association (IWA International), Mr. Wole Adedoyin, has raised concerns about this growing trend, criticizing what he refers to as “trophy literature” — the increasing emphasis on winning prestigious literary awards rather than using literature as a tool for societal transformation. According to Adedoyin, while not all African writers have abandoned their role as the conscience of society, a growing number are choosing to pursue accolades and recognition over the critical task of highlighting and correcting the ills of the continent.
This shift represents a departure from the tradition established by notable African literary giants, who used their pens to shine a light on societal injustices and advocate for change. Today, however, the allure of literary prizes and international recognition seems to have taken precedence over addressing political oppression, corruption, and human rights violations. He noted that African literature has a proud history of social activism, and many of the continent’s most celebrated authors have used their works to challenge colonialism, gender inequality, and political oppression. Writers like Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, and Tsitsi Dangarembga are known for their fearless engagement with the harsh realities of African life. Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and Soyinka’s Death and the King’s Horseman, for instance, dissect the impact of colonialism and the tension between tradition and modernity, shaping conversations about identity, governance, and justice.
Similarly, contemporary writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, NoViolet Bulawayo, and Jennifer Nansubuga Makumbi have continued this legacy by addressing issues like gender inequality, migration, and political corruption. Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun delves into the complexities of the Nigerian Civil War, while Bulawayo’s We Need New Names highlights the struggles of Zimbabwean immigrants in the diaspora. These writers exemplify how African literature has long been a mirror reflecting the challenges faced by societies across the continent.
However, Adedoyin argues that a new breed of African writers is more concerned with positioning themselves on the global literary stage than with the societal issues that once preoccupied their predecessors. He refers to this as “trophy literature,” in which writers focus on crafting narratives that appeal to Western audiences and prestigious literary prize committees, rather than the realities of African life. “There’s nothing wrong with seeking recognition for one’s work,” Adedoyin explains, “but when the drive for awards becomes the primary motivation, we risk losing the very essence of African literature — its commitment to addressing societal wrongs.”
While Adedoyin acknowledges that there are still writers who remain true to the tradition of using literature for advocacy, noting, “Many are walking away from the paths laid down by legends such as Nadine Gordimer, Bessie Head, and Mariama Bâ. These writers not only received international acclaim but also made significant contributions to discussions on race, gender, and post-colonial identity. Their works sparked critical debates that challenged oppressive systems and pushed for progressive change, from apartheid in South Africa to patriarchal systems in West Africa.”
The proliferation of literary prizes, both on the African continent and globally, has added a new dimension to the world of African writing. Prizes such as the Booker Prize, Caine Prize, and Nobel Prize in Literature have elevated the visibility of African writers, but Adedoyin argues that this increased visibility often comes at a cost. The criteria for winning these prizes, he suggests, sometimes prioritize stylistic innovation or universal appeal over the urgency of social commentary. As a result, many African writers tailor their works to fit these molds, thus sacrificing the raw, confrontational edge that characterized the works of earlier generations.
Adedoyin’s critique is not without merit, as many African writers have indeed gained global recognition, often with works that focus on universal themes rather than Africa’s unique struggles. For instance, Teju Cole’s Open City is a critically acclaimed novel, but its exploration of urban alienation and psychological introspection resonates more with Western literary traditions than with the overt political engagement found in the works of older African writers.
On the other hand, some contemporary African authors argue that their works do not need to fit into the rigid framework of “political literature” to be valuable. Writers like Chigozie Obioma and Helon Habila have asserted that African literature can and should be diverse in its themes and styles, reflecting the multiplicity of African experiences. Obioma’s The Fishermen is a deeply philosophical work that examines fate and familial bonds, while Habila’s Oil on Water tackles environmental devastation and militancy in the Niger Delta.
Adedoyin, however, remains adamant that this shift toward prize-driven writing threatens to dilute the activist potential of African literature, adding, “African writers must remember that our history is steeped in struggles. To ignore this history in favour of writing that simply to entertain or cater to foreign tastes is to abandon our responsibility to society.” He notes that writers like Koleka Putuma and Sefi Atta continue to balance literary acclaim with social critique, proving that it is possible to do both.
The trend of “trophy literature” also raises broader questions about the role of African writers in the global literary marketplace. As more African writers gain access to international publishing deals and prestigious literary festivals, there is a growing tension between staying true to their roots and meeting the expectations of a global readership. For Adedoyin, this tension must be resolved in favour of societal engagement, stating, “The West can celebrate us, but we must never forget that we write first for Africa, for our people, and for the change we want to see.”
Despite these concerns, Adedoyin believes that there is still hope for African literature to remain a force for social change. He calls for African writers to reclaim their position as the vanguards of societal transformation, urging them to draw inspiration from the likes of Nuruddin Farah, Ben Okri, and Ama Ata Aidoo, whose works not only received global recognition but also remain deeply rooted in African social and political realities.
While African literature continues to thrive, Adedoyin’s warning serves as a reminder that writers must not lose sight of their responsibility to address the challenges facing their societies unlike writers in the West (Europe and America) where purposeful leadership has resolved most of their existential problems that Africa still grapples with in the 21st Century. As African writers continue to garner international acclaim, he asserts, they must ensure that their works remain grounded in the struggles and aspirations of the continent, stressing, “We must return to writing that seeks to correct the ills of society. The prizes will come, but they should never be the goal. Our literature should always serve the people!”
