Every time I order a book and finally hold it in my hands, my excitement rivals that of a child unwrapping a long-awaited present. I love the smell of new books. Whenever I buy a new book, my first instinct is to bring it close to my nose. The aroma evokes joyful memories from my childhood.
During my early teenage years, one of my favourite pastimes was visiting Abiola Bookshop in Yaba on my way home from school. I knew I had to be exceptionally well-behaved when I was in there because it was the only bookstore I knew with air conditioning, not to mention that it was the sole I frequented that stocked imported books. The sight of the diverse range of foreign books they had made me dizzy with thrill, even though I couldn’t afford any of them. I took great pleasure in admiring Enid Blyton’s book series, often cradling them in my hands and savouring their unique fragrance, distinct from my locally printed textbooks. I used to believe it was the smell of America, as I thought the author was American, because my friend, who had introduced me to Enid Blyton, had received her copies from her aunt in America. I remember visiting the bookshop numerous times, each visit fuelling my dreams of one day being wealthy enough to purchase those books.
Today, many years later, I frequently find myself deeply concerned about children in Nigeria and other developing countries who share a similar background to mine in my early years. These are children who harbour a profound love for stories, but lack access to books. Children whose parents cannot afford these literary treasures, and whose local libraries are ill-equipped to quench their thirst for reading. In this age of the internet, many public libraries in Nigeria are in a state of decline. However, this isn’t solely due to the advent of e-books altering the way we use libraries, or a decline in reading because people sometimes prefer to spend their time on social media. The death of libraries in Nigeria is largely attributable to their shelves housing outdated books, a consequence of inadequate funding.
I recall an interview at ‘La Nuit des Idees’ in Paris in 2018, where a French journalist, Caroline Broué, asked Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie if Nigeria had bookshops. Madame Broué faced criticism for her question, which many perceived as condescending. In my opinion, she asked the wrong question. What she should have inquired about was whether Nigerian public libraries are operational and sufficiently funded, whether they stock the latest releases and the type of fiction that young people enjoy reading, and whether every local government and school has a library that provides children easy access to books.
Since my childhood, I have held an enduring love for stories, whether it’s reading them, listening to them, or telling them. I could immerse myself in a book even with noise in the background. I could read silently, hearing the words in my mind, or I could mouth the words without making a sound, or sometimes I would read aloud.
Growing up, I had limited access to fiction books, like many of my peers, as my parents prioritised educational textbooks over storybooks. Right from my early school days, English was my favourite subject and English comprehension, my favourite class. I used to enjoy listening to our teacher read aloud when I couldn’t yet read on my own. As soon as I became a proficient reader, I relished the moments when I was asked to read in class. Stories became my gateway to uncharted territories, allowing me to glimpse into the lives of people in far-off lands. I found so much joy in discovering how other people lived their lives on the other side of the world. For the love of stories, I didn’t experience back-to-school jitters as I was always excited when the holiday was coming to an end. In the run-up to a new school term, while my mother purchased my required textbooks, I kept myself entertained by reading all the stories in the Macmillan Primary English Course before school resumed. I would read the stories multiple times, answering comprehension questions as if I were preparing for an exam. Due to the scarcity of storybooks, I didn’t read as much as I would have liked to read. Nigerian children’s literature was sparse, and foreign books were often beyond our means.
My primary school didn’t have a library, and book swaps were rare since most of my classmates possessed similar books acquired as Christmas or birthday presents. With only twelve students in my class and year group, variety was a luxury we couldn’t afford.
Bedtime stories at our house weren’t conventional; however my mother regaled us with tales centred around animals, with “the cunning Mr. Tortoise” taking centre stage. I grew up believing that tortoises were the cleverest creatures on Earth. My mother, perpetually busy, juggled her day job at the bank with the evening duties of managing our family of six. When she finally found a moment to sit down after dinner, her tired feet would often bear the brunt of her day’s demands. So, I would give her a foot massage. It was during these brief bonding moments, we would exchange stories. I would tell her about my day and she would tell me about hers. We both loved stories.
My father neither read to us nor told us bedtime stories. He had a two-tier bookcase that showcased his entire collection in a corner of the living room. My siblings and I knew better than to disturb the sanctity of this collection. In his absence, I often found myself running my fingers along the spines of his books, reading aloud their titles and the names of the authors. The most prominent among them were a voluminous dictionary and a book titled ‘Where There Is No Doctor.’ My father’s library leaned toward practicality and knowledge, devoid of fiction; my mother, on the other hand, was the curator of romance novels and magazines. She devoured them with fervour, buying some, borrowing some and swapping some with coworkers. Although she insisted they were meant for adults, she occasionally allowed me to skim the front covers of her Hints and her Hearts magazines and read the intriguing blurbs on the back covers of her romance novels.
My hunger for fiction remained unquenched during my secondary school years. The school library failed to cater to my appetite for the type of books I longed to read. It was disappointingly barren, a poorly stocked repository, sheltering mostly antiquated educational texts. There was a dire lack of contemporary Nigerian fiction. Public libraries, too, offered little solace, housing worn-out books with cloth covers that exuded the scent of bygone eras. To satiate my literary cravings, I resorted to book swaps, forming alliances with fellow enthusiasts. Post-Christmas, we eagerly exchanged the books we’d received as presents. With over thirty students in each class and six classes in my year group, book-swapping became a cherished ritual and our free periods were abuzz with book exchanges.
During the year, whenever someone received a new book as a birthday present or acquired a secondhand novel, we’d form a queue to get a chance to read it. All we needed to remember was our place in the queue. Occasionally, I exchanged my spot if I was already engrossed in another book when my turn arrived or willingly relinquished it if those before me found the story less captivating. At times, I left a waiting list because exams loomed on the horizon. One particular book that I regretted parting with was ‘The Sound of Music’. Despite having watched the film numerous times, I was incredibly excited about experiencing the story through the pages, especially after hearing from previous readers that the book offered a unique perspective distinct from the movie.
During my time at university, while pursuing a degree in French Language, I delved into the world of classic French literature. However, as a no-income university student, I couldn’t splurge on the latest fiction novels and could barely afford to buy all my textbooks, but I couldn’t resist my passion for reading. My hunger for reading led me to humble mobile booksellers, peddling second-hand books on the streets, their dusty tomes sprawled on the ground. For the love of stories, I’d peruse the blurbs and sample the opening and closing pages of these books, all in a quest to grasp the essence of the narrative.
For the love of stories, I used to snatch glimpses of headlines and article titles in newspapers while seated beside their owners on a bus. On occasion, I managed to read entire pieces before the reader turned the page. For the love of stories, I used to seize any crumpled papers I chanced upon on the ground in the streets, eager to discover fragments of people’s lives and uncovering their thoughts, from love letters to shopping lists. These mundane artefacts fascinated me, particularly the shopping lists, as I’d imagine the personalities behind them.
Today, I have the means to acquire any book I desire. I tend to opt for digital copies, reserving space on my bookshelves exclusively for cherished hardcovers. While my time devoted to fiction books may have diminished, my overall reading hours remain substantial. I still spend quite an alarming amount of my time reading online content. I spend too much time on social media, scrolling through captivating photos and reading accompanying captions. I consume essays, newspaper articles, short stories, and blog posts. Yet, I acknowledge that this is not enough. I must reintroduce fiction novels into my life, for while short stories can transport you, they cannot take you as far as a full-length novel. These longer narratives not only whisk you away on journeys you have never been, but also unveil your familiar world through fresh, unexpected ways.
In order to save children from underprivileged backgrounds from the lifelong consequences of illiteracy, they must have unfettered access to books. Not just any books, but age-appropriate reads, educational materials, diverse genres of fiction and non-fiction that ignite their imaginations and reflect the diversity. Every child deserves the right to early exposure to books and the opportunity to develop reading comprehension skills, without being stranded in a literary wasteland. They deserve a world where libraries are as accessible as places of worship. A bountiful library should be a fundamental right for all students. Authorities must provide young people with access to functional libraries stocked with captivating books that beckon to them, rather than repelling them. Libraries should be well-stocked, well-maintained and have welcoming staff.