Spare a thought for that writer with a dream and not much else

Most Kenyans I've met seem to harbour fond memories of their high school days - especially the set books they studied for their final-year exams. Whether at the local pub, in Parliament, in courtrooms or other public spaces, we often light up when an opportunity arises to relive the events or quote the fictional characters we encountered during our initiation into literary appreciation. I am no exception. Many years later, I still find myself and my agemates likening people in our lives to those memorable characters from back in the day. It was in high school that I first encountered George Orwell's work. It so happened that the Swahili translation of Animal Farm - Shamba la Wanyama, translated by Fortunatus Kawagere - was on our set book list. The translation stirred such interest in me that I sought out the English version. That thirst for more led me to another Orwellian gem, 1984. However, it is the much less-spoken-about Keep the Aspidistra Flying that remains, in my view, Orwell's finest work. Keep the Aspidistra Flying tells the story of Gordon Comstock, a struggling writer and author of Mice, a collection of poetry he himself dismisses as "a sneaky little foolscap octavo". Comstock quits his well-paying advertising job to volunteer at a small bookshop that also stocks his book. Full of hope, he eagerly takes up the role, imagining he'll witness his little book flying off the shelves. So he waits. Every day. But buyers walk in, grab books about dog food or some other middle-class consumerist subject, and leave. Poor Comstock! He shows up at literary events only to find they were cancelled, and no one bothered to inform him. He attributes this disregard to his perpetual state of poverty. At 29, he describes himself as "already moth-eaten". The book icily but subtly satirises England's middle-class routines and image-conscious mannerisms - especially the near-ritualistic placement of the aspidistra flower on window sills as a totem of social progress. But more profoundly, the novel is a semi-autobiographical portrayal of the absurdities faced by talented writers who are aware of their potential but remain largely unrecognised. Here, we must spare a thought for that young Kenyan - or East African - who is immensely talented but has no idea where to begin their writing journey. Like Comstock before them, they may be brimming with ideas but blocked by a lack of access, mentorship or even encouragement. Yes, there are major publishing houses that evaluate synopses, queries, publishing proposals and manuscripts from upcoming writers. But to be fair, with the rollout of new curricula across the region, it is unrealistic to expect publishers - already stretched thin - to comb through hundreds of unsolicited manuscripts in search of the next literary icon while still converting curriculum designs into useful coursebooks. True, they can outsource this task, but even then, a discerning in-house eye is needed to guide the process. To their credit, we have seen some impressive local works in recent years, alongside self-published books - especially where authors have engaged professional editors rather than relying entirely on basic tools like ChatGPT, which can produce eerily mechanical prose. Still, one of the major setbacks to literary development is the scarcity of literary agents. These agents, often working on commission, help link writers to publishers and negotiate fair publishing deals and royalty rates. While many agents abroad would be open to reviewing Kenyan scripts, connecting our writers with them requires intentional interventions. And this responsibility cannot rest solely on the government. Private companies, through sustainability programmes, NGOs and philanthropic foundations working with industry players could do a lot: especially to ensure that writing residencies, literary prizes, grants and other incentives that stimulate creativity are well within reach. They need not fund these; they could just organise workshops to link carefully picked budding writers with the tools they need to excel in a competitive global literary village. Universities could also collaborate in setting up writing residences for budding authors. A shining example is the Kenya Publishers Association, which partners with Sarit Centre and Text Book Centre not only to host the annual Nairobi International Book Fair but also to sponsor the Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature and the Wahome Mutahi Prize for Literature. These efforts have been instrumental in nurturing Kenyan talent for close to a quarter of a century. Other literary festivals and awards have sprung up in recent years, a trend that should be encouraged further. And these don't need to remain at the national level. Imagine a climate action agency collaborating with publishers or county governments to organise essay competitions that raise conservation awareness while nurturing young writers. We need to spare a thought for that young Kenyan who risks walking the same path as Gordon Comstock.

Spare a thought for that writer with a dream and not much else

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