A parent shopping for text books ahead of schools openning day at Savanis Book Center along Latema Road, Nairobi on January 6, 2025. [Kanyiri Wahito Standard]
Imagine sending a 48,000-word script for a novel, short story collection, or another literary work to a publisher. Now assume it is accepted, and after signing the contract, a staggered print run of about 3,000 copies is ordered with a local printer. You collect your six obligatory author’s copies, then head home and cross your fingers.
Quick math tells you that, given the perceived apathy towards your genre in East Africa, you would be lucky to sell 1,000 copies in the first year. If your novel retails at Sh600, about Sh180 goes to the bookshop. That leaves the publisher Sh420, from which your 10 per cent royalty yields Sh42 per copy. A thousand copies sold earn you Sh42,000 in a year.
And if all 3,000 copies are eventually sold, you pocket Sh126,000. Clearly, one cannot live on Sh42,000 a year, which explains why East African authors need several strong titles to thrive – nay, survive – off their creativity.
Follow The Standard
channel
on WhatsApp
This is not a lesson in publishing economics but a glimpse into how author earnings are calculated.
Much depends on marketing. And that brings me to my point: How digital platforms are reshaping the marketing of literature in the digital age.
Not long ago, book sales in East Africa relied almost entirely on bookshops, school lists and the occasional street hawker. But a quiet revolution is underway, powered not by dusty shelves but by glowing phone screens. Platforms such as TikTok — home to the phenomenon known as BookTok — as well as Instagram, YouTube and even WhatsApp book clubs, have become unlikely marketplaces for literature.
On BookTok, for example, young readers post short, emotional videos about the books they love. A 30-second clip of someone in tears, or a raucous laugh caught on camera, can propel an obscure novel into global bestseller lists. This is no theory – it is already transforming book trade elsewhere, and East African writers and publishers can ride the same wave. A novel that once gathered dust on a shelf can, with the right viral moment, sell more copies in months than it did in its first decade.
Consider a book published in 2016 suddenly selling hundreds of thousands – even a million – copies after a viral post. This has happened in other markets. Legacy publishers in East Africa will hopefully unlock this potential, having largely retreated from open-market operations to an almost exclusive focus on curriculum materials. The curriculum-only route, some of us fear, may however prove to be a risky comfort zone in days to come.
For, while schoolbooks pay the bills, fiction and other creative genres may be the real OG going forward, especially with global trends showing that digital energy is breathing new life into novels and other literary works.
The beauty of these platforms is their power to break down walls between writers and readers. A novelist in Nairobi can upload a brief reading, a behind-the-scenes writing clip, or even a candid reflection on the inspiration for a story. Instead of waiting for reviews buried in newspapers, readers get authentic voices in real time.
Communities quickly form around hashtags, challenges, and trends — and those communities are hungry for new stories. Publishers here could significantly cut marketing costs by embracing the fact that a few well-timed videos or reader-driven campaigns can reach more people than a traditional book launch ever could.
But don’t fold the tent on book launches just yet. A lively evening at the United Kenya Club, the Nairobi Club, the Safaricom House amphitheatre in Westlands, and many other venues remain treasured moments. Those evenings of cocktails, readings and reunions with fellow book lovers are irreplaceable. They remind us that literature is also about community and celebration, not just commerce. What digital platforms do is amplify that moment – turning an evening in Westlands into a conversation in Kisumu, Arusha, or Kigali within hours.
The shift to digital marketing also allows literature to move beyond city centres and formal shops. A teenager in Kondele, a farmer’s child in Embu, or a boda rider in Dar es Salaam can discover a new Kenyan or Tanzanian novel on their phone, discuss it with peers and buy it directly through integrated links. While this sounds simple, it is revolutionary in a region where rural libraries are rare, bookshops are concentrated in capital cities and distribution is expensive.
While BookTok mania is yet to grip East Africa as it has elsewhere, its strength lies in collapsing geography and democratising access. For a region where book distribution has long been hampered by cost and distance – with marketers burning expensive fossil fuel just to reach only a dozen schools in a week – social media (if done right) offers a timely bridge. It is not only about discovery; it is also about participation. Readers who once felt invisible in the publishing chain can now shape the fate of a book through a post, a share, or a simple like.
If East African writers, publishers and readers embrace this opportunity, they may not only sell more books but also foster living, breathing reading cultures that are vibrant, inclusive and visible to the world. It is about expanding the space for imagination, creating room for local voices in global conversations, and restoring the prestige of the novel as something more than an academic luxury. The challenge is no longer whether readers exist, but whether we as publishers and writers are bold enough to meet them where they already are — on their screens.
So, are we ready to confront inertia and step into this new, more profitable era? Or will we cling to old models until we are left behind, wondering how novels by our neighbours went viral while ours gathered dust?
The answer lies not in waiting for another “golden age” of reading, but in seizing the digital one already unfolding before us.
Follow The Standard
channel
on WhatsApp
By Henry Munene