If an African Literary Magazine Were Handed to Me
I would be utterly unserious with it.
I would publish it only twice a year. There is a lot to read in the world and publishing short stories, essays, and poetry every month – even just five pieces – is too much. By the time a potential reader is getting around to those five, another five and then another have already come out. Shorter production cycles belong to different media, to work that is quick to create, quick to distribute, quick to consume. Otherwise, it’s just overwhelming. Honestly, even quarterly publication is too short in my opinion. Too short to do more with each issue, to insert it into the cultural moment, to get it in front of people and generate conversation around it – to make it matter. To publish more frequently is to toss art into the void, finger crossed, and I think we would all be better off doing less.Â
I would shift to print. Yes, paper and printing are expensive. Yes, we already cut down all the trees. These are unfortunate circumstances that I will self-indulgently put aside for now. Because writing and publishing are also expensive, and the focus on accessibility, on making everything free to find and consume on the internet, has run everybody into the ground. Somebody must bear the cost of publishing literature; somebody always is. Again, there is a lot to read in the world: even if nothing was ever published ever again, a person with internet access and a digital device today would have material to read for free to their dying day. So I would offload some of the cost of publishing – currently borne by writers and editors – onto readers. I would have digital versions of each issue for those not committed to the sensory experience paper offers and a print version as well, and both would be for sale. People still love hard copies. We love to own things, to have tangible proof that we have experienced a thing, to display hobbies and interests in our cabinets of curiosities, to use them as a way to belong to ourselves and to others. Also, I am certain more and more people are – like me – getting sicker every day of consuming information on screens. When everything is available online, curated literature, especially in print, is a luxury, not a need, and at some point we need to become okay with pricing it as such.
I would theme every issue. The more people can create, the more valuable curation becomes. Stories are everywhere, so we organise them by taste and topic. I do not want a literary magazine to offer me 20 pieces that all seem to have little to do with one another. I want it to bring these pieces together to say something specific – otherwise why bring them together at all? I want it to become a resource for those interested in that specific subject. Importantly, I want it to be findable. It would be easier, I think, for a magazine issue focused on, say, literature around Palestine to find and be found by readers than for an issue that’s a general collection of literature by people of colour from around the globe. For the former, I could focus on looking for spaces where Palestine is discussed (like university courses on international relations) and organise talks, panels, reading clubs, and workshops and centre the magazine issue. My readers will be people already interested in and engaging with the subject and my task will be to go where they are. With the latter, I would not know where to start. Focused curation makes marketing surmountable.Â
I would insist that the passion and community must begin in-house. This is my loose idea of how the thing would run. There would be one editor each for poetry, short story, essay, and photography. Any literature enthusiast interested in curating the next issue as a guest editor would be able to reach out and talk to us about the theme and creative direction they would like to take. Otherwise, a member of the team would fill this role. The theme requirements would help limit how many submissions we would receive, and submissions will close early enough to ensure no one will be reading through a slush pile of 500. We would do less. The guest editor would go through the submissions, make their selections, and then present them to the other editors in a sort of in-house reading club. We would discuss them, bond over our shared love of literary production, undertake some moderation, and generally ensure everyone feels a sense of ownership over the issue. We would talk about why the issue is important, who else would be interested in it, how we can connect with those people. It would be interesting. Enjoyment would be essential – of each other, of the literature, and of the publishing process. I imagine that if we all love this thing it would be easier to invite other people to come and love it with us.Â
I would find a way to love marketing. I have long thought that the publishing industry in Kenya does not have a production problem but rather a marketing one. Pointing at the general public and declaring that literature and the arts are important, that reading is essential, and therefore they must support literary production if they are to display any integrity and intelligence at all is not working. The arts are meant to be enjoyable, not just important, so I would try my darndest to find the people who would or might enjoy the magazine and then make space for them to have a good time. I would embrace content creation as not necessarily antithetical to the arts but as its conversation starter. Rather than try to mould reclusive writers and editors into a thing they are not, I would find people who enjoy talking to people and creating content around literature and convince them that they would be happy with our little team and our little magazine so would they please go in front of the camera on our behalf. I would hold a little launch event for every issue, during which we would invite people interested in the issue’s theme to have snacks and drinks and conversation and connection. We would keep the conversation going on media platforms and in small in-person events. I would prioritise creating content, community, and experiences around the issue to allow it to contribute meaningfully to discourse on the theme. Instead of convincing people to read because reading is good, I would find the stories that matter to them and then chime in.
I would localise. I understand that everybody wants to scale up, reach more people, have more impact. But – again – I am committed to doing less. I do not have the resources or the interest to begin tackling mammoth challenges like distribution across Africa. I would rather brighten the corner where I am. Literature from all over the continent would be welcome, but I would focus my marketing and distribution where I am, which is Nairobi, Kenya. I would leave what needs to be done across borders to larger entities with more to invest. Cutting my coat according to my cloth, and all that. I would study the market here, serve the audience here, plug in to the community here. There is so much to do right here! And the playground is so vast. When opportunities to collaborate outside of my home ground are within reach, I would take them because I genuinely believe that the greatest resource we have is each other. I would take my time building genuine relationships with people and their work and trust that they would come in handy at some point.Â
I would view it as a community rather than a business. Literature is serious business, true. It is also just a good time. I would be happy to allow it to be a hobby, not a side hustle. People run and garden and do parkour and sing and cycle and paint and bake and crotchet – just because. They do it alone or with others. They spend copious amounts of money on better equipment, more stimulating experiences, deeper knowledge, improved skills. They do it because it feels good to create and to move and to grow. Sometimes they create content out of it and share it with others, pulling them into the thing because enthusiasm is infectious. Publishing a literary magazine does not need to be different. I would do it for the sake of doing it rather than in pursuit of a lofty goal. Rather than stress out about needing to pay everyone involved because that is the only way to show that I value their work, I would get comfortable with this project being valuable to them in ways other than money. I would hope to God that the people who join me on this project derive enough enjoyment and satisfaction from writing and publishing in community for it to be worthwhile to them even in the absence of remuneration. Paying markets and wide readership are important for many. But in the spirit of doing less, attaining this would not be my top priority. I would, instead, prioritise creating the space for people to come together and love literature together. If you have the time, the skill, the interest, the coins, the wherewithal, come with that, contribute, belong. Let us make this thing together.Â
I would play with different income generation strategies. In many ways, these ideas do not align with the realities many publishers have experienced. And many have dreamed as I am now. Making the money make sense is always the primary problem when arts production is discussed. And maybe that’s because the arts were never meant to be handled like businesses. Maybe not – I am only running an imaginary literary magazine. That notwithstanding, I would try – as much as was within my ability – to explore different ways to provide value that will be paid for while promoting African literature. Magazine sales, event tickets, merchandise, donations, grants, partnerships. I would play around with all of them as much as I could without taking on debt because I am not convinced that it is ever that serious. Whatever money we would make I would be thrilled about, and we would use it to print and to keep the community engaged. Maybe some wealthy patrons of the arts decide it would be nice if we did more. Maybe not. Maybe eventually we pay everyone. Maybe we don’t. It would hardly matter because we would be so busy having a great time.
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