The Rise of Translated Literature: What It Means for African Writers

American readers have long been labeled as unwilling to read anything “not originally written in English.” For years, publishers used that assumption as a shield — a neat excuse to avoid risk and ignore the vast literary worlds outside their borders. But suddenly, the tide has turned. Korean fiction is booming. Japanese literature keeps breaking charts. Latin American translations are finding new life. European micro-presses are thriving. The U.S. market is finally admitting a truth the rest of the world never doubted: great literature doesn’t only come in English.

Which brings us to the real question: as translation gains momentum, where do African writers fit into this renaissance?

The shift in American reading habits presents a real opportunity. As readers become more open to translated works, there’s finally space for African writers publishing in French, Arabic, Portuguese, and—most importantly—African indigenous languages like Yoruba, Igbo, Wolof, Swahili, Amharic, Shona, Fulfulde, and more. A growing appetite for global perspectives means African stories have a chance to break out of niche corners and step into the broader literary conversation. And Africa is bursting with innovation — experimental forms, new aesthetics, brave voices ready to disrupt the status quo.

But here’s the uncomfortable part: even with translation on the rise, African writers and languages still sit at the edges of the global industry. The door is opening, yes — but Africa isn’t being ushered through at the same speed as others.

One issue is the lack of trained translators who specialize in African languages. Another is the financial reality: African publishers often don’t have the resources to fund translations, and global grants tend to flow toward European languages. And then there’s the bigger, deeper problem — Western publishers often have a narrow idea of what “African literature” should look like. They want trauma. They want poverty. They want the familiar, marketable narratives. But experimental writing, genre-bending work, or culturally specific stories told on their own terms? Those rarely make it into acquisition rooms.

And this is exactly why representation in translation matters. Translation isn’t just a technical process — it’s a political act. When African languages are excluded from global literary exchange, it reinforces the idea that some stories are universal while others are “too local.” It also robs international readers of the richness carried in African languages: the rhythm of Swahili, the layered humor of Pidgin, the philosophical density of Igbo proverbs, the poetic cadence of Amharic. Translation doesn’t flatten these worlds — it reveals them.

If the publishing industry wants true diversity instead of decorative inclusion, it has to shift structurally. We need more investment in African-language translators. Stronger partnerships between African publishers and global presses. Grants that prioritize African languages. And a complete departure from the outdated “Africa as a monolith” curation philosophy. Africa is not a theme — it’s a universe.

So, are African writers getting their fair share of attention in the rise of translated literature? Not yet. The momentum is real, but the imbalance is real too. Africa is still applauded yet under-acquired. Celebrated yet sidelined. Quoted yet untranslated. But change is possible — and it’s already brewing. Because African literature has never lacked brilliance. It has only lacked access.

And at Iskanchi, we see this clearly. We’ve worked with incredible translators across our catalog — translators who understand nuance, rhythm, cultural meaning, and the integrity of voice. That’s why we’re always ready to receive manuscripts in indigenous African languages. We believe in the power of African tongues to carry literature that is bold, experimental, and deeply rooted. Translation isn’t an obstacle to us — it’s an opportunity.

Explore our catalog to discover our translated books and the powerful stories they carry.