When the Nigerian writer Dami Ajayi co-founded Saraba Magazine in 2009 alongside fellow writer Emmanuel Iduma, they were at the doorway of a renaissance in the African literary ecosystem. The internet was just exploding in Nigeria, and ambitious writers were taking advantage of its global connectivity to build mostly online publications and literary townhalls.

Writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Binyavanga Wainaina, Tope Folarin, NoViolet Bulawayo, and Teju Cole were gaining recognition on the international literary scene. Soon, other publications like Expound, Praxis, Omenana Magazine, Bakwa, Munyori Journal, and Jalada Africa began to emerge. It was the era of Afro-politans, a term coined by Taiye Selasi to explain the globally mobile and culturally aware African, which saw a blending of worlds between African writers in the West and those on the continent. Attention from the West on African literature was blooming, and so was a local thirst for change. Essentially, it was an unbelievably great time to be an African writer.

"People were interested in books, people who read, people who wrote were able to come together, meet writers that they would never have met previously," Ajayi tells OkayAfrica.

At the time, there was a sufficient level of incentive to be an African writer, whether material or reputational. "There were numerous blogs for genre fiction, literary fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction," says Enajite Efemuaye, a writer and editor who previously worked at Farafina Books, one of the foremost publishers of African literary fiction with a roster filled with writers like Chimamanda, Caine-Prize winner E.C. Osondu, Etisalat Literature Prize winner Jowhor Ile, Akwaeke Emezi, Yewande Omotoso, and others.

"You had writing communities on websites and social media, which served as spaces for writers to get honest critique on their work, feedback, and encouragement," Efemuaye adds. "These communities fueled and challenged the writers, and as a reader, you could see the quality of writing from the writers improve over time because they weren't working in silos. They were also reading and having conversations about writing, which is important for any literary ecosystem."

All of this began to change as the late 2010s rolled around. Lack of funding and economic hardships intensified across the continent, particularly in countries like Nigeria, which was regarded as a forerunner in the African literary space. Highly regarded publications like Saraba, which published writers like TJ Benson and Ironsen Okojie, began to fold up (Saraba halted operations in 2019, but an archive of its published works remains live). Online literary communities began to vanish, shuttering spaces for communal critique and avenues to discover exciting new voices.

More than a decade since that glorious era, the African literary ecosystem is now experiencing a drawn-out lull, what Kenyan writer and editor Troy Onyango describes as "the silent era."

Onyango himself emerged during that golden era of African literature. First, as a writer before co-founding one of the most prestigious publications of that time, Enkare Review. Enkare Review, during its time, published esteemed authors like Namwali Serpell, as well as an interview with David Remnick, the editor-in-chief of The New Yorker. It was an audacious publication that bravely brought the international literary community to Africa, offering up a lineup of brilliant voices with each issue. The publication folded up in 2019, its third year in operation.

And while Onyango has gone on to experience immense literary success and has now founded Lolwe, one of the very few African literary magazines still in operation, there is, according to him, a clear distinction between the quality of the work being submitted now and ten years ago.

"The quality of the work has gone down," Onyango says. "Even the output. We used to have African writers publish 10-15 short stories in a year. And that's one single writer. I published about eight stories in one year. And now we no longer see that. We see one or two people publish like maybe three stories max, or four stories max."

A break in transmission

A key aspect of what defined the African literary ecosystem in the 2010s was the establishment of a cycle for many African writers. Writers would begin in relative anonymity, honing their craft before summoning the courage to submit their work to the numerous African publications that flourished at the time. Once published, these writers gradually built networks within a growing community of fellow writers and engaged readers. Then they would get nominated for one of the many writing prizes; there was Writivism (which rewarded excellent short stories, nonfiction and poetry), The Brittle Paper Awards (which rewarded the best published works in a given year), The Gerald Kraak Prize (which awarded excellence in writing related to gender, sexuality and social justice) the Etisalat Prize for Literature (a prestigious prize that awarded debut authors) and many others. The cycle ensured that African writers found their voices and had the means to share and be rewarded for it.

"Everything seemed possible. World literary domination was coming," Efemuaye recalls. "As an editor and reader, I had high expectations of all the new writing that was going to come out of the continent in the following decades. I was excited about the future and being part of creating that future."

Another important aspect of that cycle was collective responsibility. African writers who achieved success were known to give back, often by supporting existing publications, mentoring emerging writers, or even founding their own publications and prizes to nurture other literary talents. There is now a break in that cycle.

There are significantly fewer literary African publications in operation now than there were six years ago. Alongside Lolwe, publications like Akpata Magazine, The Republic Magazine, Brittle Paper, Open Country Magazine, and Isele Magazine are among the few enduring platforms still holding the fort. In Nigeria, book publishing has shifted from literary works to commercially driven titles, with publishers like Farafina, Cassava Republic, and Parréssia Publishers scaling back their operations and publishing fewer titles. In Kenya and other parts of the continent, book publishing continues to dwindle. And most dangerously, the online spaces that facilitated healthy conversations in favor of the ecosystem have all but disappeared.

Many of the people who were part of that era, like Ajayi and Efemuaye, say the decline can be traced back to 2020. In Nigeria's case, many of the brilliant writers of that era suddenly found themselves compelled to pursue better opportunities outside the country after living through a disastrous economy and experiencing the 2020 #EndSARS Protests. Between 2022 and 2023, more than 3.6 million people emigrated from Nigeria, according to the Nigerian Immigration Service.

"Culture is the first casualty of a credit crunch, and it's the first thing to go," Ajayi says. "When the economy began to collapse, and EndSARS happened, a brain drain that had already begun intensified. So everyone who had the wherewithal to move, moved." As Ajayi sees it, these writers are still dealing with the task of adjusting to new realities, which often forces them to focus solely on their work and their survival, leaving little room to contribute to the well-being of a dying industry.

Onyango believes that funding and economic upheavals have long plagued the industry; however, it's not the only thing currently stymying it. There is a dearth of dialogue that has also contributed immensely, Onyango offers. "Younger writers are coming up, and they don't see writers of the previous generation being open and talking openly. It can kind of silence them as well," Onyango says. "People are not writing essays as well. At least with the previous generation, when writers were not on social media, they would produce all these essays. They would have blogs. I don't even remember the last time I read a blog. I don't even know if people still blog anymore."

This vacuum of conversation has created a chasm of understanding between old and new writers.

As Judith Atibi, a TV anchor and producer who has hosted numerous literary shows and events, sees it, this lull is costing the literary community. "We are losing the richness that comes from rigorous editorial systems, spaces where a writer could be challenged, and with challenge comes growth," Atibi tells OkayAfrica. "We are losing the diversity of voices, regionally, linguistically, and experimentally. Literary careers are not being nurtured in a way that builds longevity."

Efemuaye agrees, "Writers learned craft through multiple rounds of editing and feedback from editors since their work had to meet certain editorial standards. These thorough editorial processes are being replaced by the instant gratification that comes with self-publishing because writers bypass the developmental stage of working with skilled editors who can help them refine their voice and writing styles."

The effects are already showing. Books are expensive, and book prizes, which once boosted book sales, are no longer available, leaving many African writers to compete with those still accessible in the West. In the past five years, no new African writer has been nominated for the Booker Prize.

Despite the dire state of things, Ajayi is optimistic. The way forward is to hold institutions accountable, he says. While individuals should build what they can, Ajayi believes that administrative support will go a long way in subsidizing the cost of running literary institutions in the interest of preserving literary traditions and keeping the arts alive, especially in times like these.

And as Onyango sees it, the way to avoid this lull is by institutionalizing African literary spaces so they are formidable enough to last beyond whoever funded them. The first step to overcoming this lull is to acknowledge the problem while also recognizing that small support for the few existing literary publications and institutions can go a long way. The best kind of support isn't always in funding.

"We need to be more conscious about how we build structures that outlast the founders," Onyango says. "I don't get why we are not more involved in the building. Even if you are not able to build your literary magazine, I think even just saying, 'Hey, I volunteer 20 hours a month at [Isele Magazine] just editing, it's very helpful.' African writers need to be more involved in the literary production process than just the creative aspect. We need people who can be editors. It's not just enough to have people who are writing."

When Nigerian writer Esther Ifesinachi Okonkwo first arrived in America to further her education, she was 23 and a fog sat at the edge of her mind. It was a kind of fog characterised by inexperience, and the acute awareness of that inexperience. "I was trying to figure out who I was. I felt that there was something that I should know that I did not know, and that frustrated me a lot," Okonkwo tells OkayAfrica. "There were so many things that were so unclear to me, and then they began to unwrap themselves slowly."

It is from this feeling of existential cluelessness that she created the emotional composition of Somkelechukwu, the main character in The Tiny Things Are Heavier, her stunning debut novel about a Nigerian immigrant woman and her convoluted journey towards self-discovery.

When we first meet Somkelechukwu, who is affectionately referred to as Sommy in the book, she is entering a new country and a new life. In her early twenties, Sommy is at once in awe of everything in this new world and also seriously disoriented by the life that has thrust her into it.

The book, which will resonate with fans of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Americanah and Nicole Dennis-Benn's Patsy, follows Sommy's journey as she navigates life as a graduate student, studying a course she has little interest in, but that provides an anchor away from a life she has been told she must stay away from. The story takes place between Lagos and Iowa, touching on themes of grief, listlessness, belonging, and identity.

In Tiny Things, Okonkwo writes with impeccable observation of the quirks that define human nature. Nothing escapes her sharp gaze, from the way a character perceives the smell in their space to the way monumental events disrupt their self-perception.

Okonkwo's writing is often taut and skillfully restrained, even when dissecting a seemingly minor detail for long paragraphs. Her ability to transform small complications into compelling philosophical arguments is masterful and impressive. It's what makes this book wise and thoughtful. Also present is Okonkwo's understanding of how national tragedies impact the lives of young Nigerians.

"The book started to form for me during the #EndSARS movement," Okonkwo explains. "I then began to think about the ways that these sorts of big structures can shape your life, can shape the way you love, can shape the way you interact with people, and can even shape the chemicals in your brain."

Okonkwo's work joins a list of many art pieces that have been born from the #EndSARS protests that claimed the lives of many Nigerians who were shot at by military officers. What Okonkwo does in her debut is settle on the disappointment and sense of despair that comes from living in a country without systems, a country that has its hands on your back, pushing you to run as far as you can.

A coming of age

On the face of it, "The Tiny Things Are Heavier" could be described as a story about migration. It does feature a lot of movement and the feelings of displacement that come with it. A closer look, however, will reveal that migration functions here as a feature, rather than the heart of the story. More pressing are issues of human character: how do we perceive ourselves and our capacity to be good or bad, the book asks. Who are we when cultural expectations no longer shape our identity?

Sommy's ability to have her leg between two worlds shifts her sense of privilege and her sense of self. While in the United States, she is forced to grapple more with why she chose to leave and who she has become as a result of that, and back home, she is faced with the guilt of one who has found a way out. With steady emotional agility, the book shifts between Sommy's complicated relationship with her brother, Mezie, who influences much of her emotional maturity, an even more complicated relationship with her partner, Bryan, with whom she shares a life-altering connection, and her nonexistent relationship with herself.

It's what makes this book a skillfully crafted bildungsroman. "I just didn't want this to be a migrant novel," Okonkwo explains. "I wanted it to be a person trying to move from young adulthood to maturity."

Throughout the book, Sommy faces varying emotional and situational challenges in a way that upsets traditional categorizations of good and bad behavior. In this book, Okonkwo says she aimed to dissect not the categorization of behavior but its ability to exist outside the binary. "I wanted her to go through all that is required to get to an understanding of yourself."

Okonkwo's work arrives at a delicate time in both the U.S and Nigerian politics. Like many of the characters in this book, there is a restlessness among young Nigerians that is drawing their gaze away from their own homes. And in the U.S, stricter immigration policies are bringing up questions of who gets to have a better life and at what cost?

By making the characters exhibit both unkindness and care towards each other, Okonkwo highlights that special ability of humans to live with contradictions.

"I want people to lean into the ugliness of being human. I think that we are so preoccupied with purity in a world that is so impure," Okonkwo says. "Look at the world and look at the things that are happening in the world and the decisions that people are making. They don't come from one big evil act. These are little tiny choices that people make that then lead to all of this sort of destruction that we see. And I think that there is a tendency for us to shy away from those small evils."

Before writing this book, Okonkwo had pieces published in Guernica, VQR, Catapult, and other places. Writing this book was transformative for Okonkwo. Written over the course of four years, Okonkwo, who graduated from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and was a recipient of the Elizabeth George Foundation Grant, wrote herself through a difficult time in her life. "I was terribly unhappy," she says. "I had not seen my family in a long time because I couldn't afford to travel as much as I'd like. My father was ill at one point. I couldn't go back to see him. Normal life challenges, but most of them I had to sort of figure out alone." It was from those feelings of stress and relentless unbelonging that she infused her characters with depth.

At its core, Okonkwo hopes that this book speaks to the times, but also to the complexity of the human condition. "I want us to be more comfortable with our mistakes, owning them, then working to change them."