How is the North African novel in English? Is it doing well for itself? Internationally, yes. Commercially, perhaps. Continentally, not quite well. Obviously, as an Algerian novelist who writes in English, the emergence of the anglophone North African novel gladdens me, its global recognition inspires me. It has, as explained previously, not only enriched the region’s literatures, but also the African continent’s. It is, however, important to remember that the rise of this novel has been slow, irregular, sporadic and unacknowledged. Yes—unacknowledged, especially in Africa. Despite the various successes of its writers internationally, this literary tide remains slightly ignored in our continent, where its future continues to be unknown, where it still keeps a low profile. True, it has scored representation in the global canon, but not yet in the African canon, where it still advocates for a place.  

The circulation and recognition of the North African novel in English has been fairly modest in the African market, due to several impactful factors. Some are authorial. Some are institutional. Others are political. In fact, this latter factor was the one that obscured Matar’s works in his own country, preventing them from being read, from being taught and from being mentioned. The author has been a vocal critic of Libyan politics for years, and his books were banned as a result. Matar reflects on this in The Return (2017), ‘My books and journalism had been banned in Libya. I vividly remember the day when I discovered that the authorities had censored my work and had even forbidden editors from printing my name’ (p. 81). He wrote about a society which may not have known of his existence. I myself have never encountered a work by this North African author in any Algerian library or bookstore, not even in translation, not even in university libraries 

Let’s move on to the authorial factor, which concerns the continental identity of the novelists. Do they view themselves as African writers? Do they consider their works part of African literature? It’s hard to tell. These questions are yet to be answered satisfactorily, for those authors tend to shy away from their continental identity, and it cripples the circulation and recognition of their works in Africa. For instance, the majority of Soueif’s cultural and political activism is directed towards the Middle East, not Africa. To my knowledge, she has not expressed interest in her African identity. As for Matar, he still abstains from any continental affiliation, although his readers still attempt to place him in an African context. His Barnard University page says he was ‘born in New York City to Libyan parents…spent his childhood in Tripoli and Cairo and has lived most of his adult life in London.’ When his debut novel earned him recognition and attention, many labels were used to describe his identity, among which were ‘British Libyan’ and ‘Anglo-Arab’. What does he think about this identity? He, in his words, ‘observes it’ and it ‘amuses’ him. But he does not mention anywhere that his African identity interests him, or that his works should be canonized into African literature. 

The only outlier here, the only exception, is Lalami. She’s the only one who’s identified as an African writer, and only after she’d been denied it. This takes me to my point about the occasional institutional exclusion of North African writers from African literature. Many institutions, both African and non-African, generally do not recognize the African identity of the authors. This brings to mind an excellent example that involves Lalami. The 2015 Man Booker Prize longlist included 13 names, among whom were Lalami and Chigozie Obioma. Although both authors are African-born, only the Nigerian Obioma was announced by the Prize committee as African, while Laila Lalami’s African-ness was clearly obscured. This exclusion was subsequently echoed in a now-edited article by The Guardian’s Mark Brown (2015), who identified Obioma as ‘the sole African writer on The Man Booker Prize longlist.’ A swift, questioning response came from Lalami, who, citing The Guardian and the article’s link, protested in a now-deleted tweet, ‘Guardian: “The sole African writer [on the @ManBookerPrize longlist] is Chigozie Obioma.” Ummm……..http://t.co/dBo3E5yWW7.’ Then, asserting, she added forthrightly, ‘I am African. It’s an identity I’m often denied but that I will always insist upon.’  

This exclusion is even echoed in international films and documentaries. I was surprised by the existence of this proclivity in a 2021 BBC documentary, titled Africa Turns the Page: The Novels that Shaped a Continent. In it, David Olusoga, the presenter, talks about the African novels that ‘helped transform the image of Africa itself.’ Olusoga explains that ‘the African novel has become a superpower in the world of the novel.’ Yes, this is true and accurate and commendable. Although the inclusive word ‘African’ is repeatedly employed, we only see pictures and scenes of particular African writers, the usual suspects—Ben Okri, Aminatta Forna, Achebe, Buchi Emecheta and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o. Even when the documentary attempts to include a contemporary African writer, it selects a young Nigerian writer: Oyinkan Braithwaite, writer of My Sister, The Serial Killer (2018). It does not refer to North African writers at all.  

Interesting, isn’t it?  

It is, but unsurprising. Emerging literatures at times receive attention and recognition after their emergence has reached fruition. And has North African literature in English achieved that? Has the North African novel in English fully bloomed? Again, it’s hard to tell. Although this literature began emerging in the 1980s, it is still a recently developed literary space, which is a reason for ignoring it, which is a reason it still fights for a place in the African literary sphere. A few academic studies have been invested in this literature, but including it mainly in either Middle Eastern Studies, or North African Studies journals, but rarely in African Studies journals. It is still overmatched and overshadowed by Arabophone and Francophone literatures. Because it is still germinating, it has not been fully charted and studied as a third, independent literature besides the other ones that have dominated the region for decades. 

The previously mentioned authors (Lalami, Matar, Soueif) are its only generation for the moment, and their literary production has not yet matched that of North African creatives who write in Arabic and/or French. It has also not matched that of sub-Saharan writers. They are overmatched if compared to the history of anglophone sub-Saharan literature and its frequent representatives. Sub-Saharan literature in English is wealthy, extremely wealthy, and is identified and defined by a large number of authors. True, the scarcity of the anglophone North African novel empowers this obscurity. Pascal Casanova, the French literary critic, explains this situation in his book The World Republic of Letters (2004, p. 83): 

The world of letters is a relatively unified space characterized by the opposition between the great national literary spaces, which are also the oldest-and, accordingly, the best endowed-and those literary spaces that have more recently appeared and that are poor by comparison.  

Contextualizing his view here, I have to say that this anglophone North African space that ‘recently appeared’ is evidently ‘poor, compared to sub-Saharan literature. Soueif wrote nine works, only five of which are fiction. Lalami has published four fictive works, plus a non-fiction book. As for Matar, he is credited with three novels and two non-fiction books. On the other hand, sub-Saharan literature, represented by its first and second-generation writers, boasts a list of more than three hundred works. And I am just referring to the African Writers Series here, the first generation of this literature. Counting other houses and other works and younger writers could quadruple the number. 

Still, this is not about numbers, but about impact. It’s about influence. And those North African writers have influenced many writers, attracting admirers and followers, aspiring writers who wish to follow in their footsteps, including myself. I was thrilled upon discovering their works as a university student. I related to their characters, to their cultural settings, and they heartened me to adopt English as my language of expression. Another writer worth mentioning here is Noor Naga, an Egyptian. Her experimental novel If an Egyptian Cannot Speak English won not only the 2019 Graywolf Press African Fiction Prize, but also the 2022 the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize. Another is Hamza Koudri, an Algerian, whose novel Sand Roses (2023) was shortlisted for the 2022 Island Prize for Debut African Fiction. It was later published by Holland House in the UK (2023) and will be published by Masobe in Nigeria in the summer of 2024. Other writers are certainly germinating.  

So, this is the North African novel in English, and it’s still trying to make a name for itself. Now the questions are: How can we assist it? What can we do for it? Let’s answer these questions with one of my favourite Nigerian proverbs: ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ Indeed, it does. And it also takes a continent to nurture a literature, to feed it, to protect it, to help it mature, to help it reach its potential. Let’s do that then. Let’s water the North African novel in English with recognition, with acknowledgement, with attention. Let’s embrace it. Let’s build a bright future for it. And it will certainly make us proud⎈