If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be writing about why I
am quitting Nigerian books, personal reasons spilling out like a confession, I
would have laughed. Probably with a worn-out copy of an Adichie novel in one
hand and a fresh Okri paperback in the other. I was that person — the one who
would rather eat noodles for a week than skip a new release from a Nigerian
author. The one who swore that “supporting local” wasn’t just a slogan but a
spine-level conviction.
And yet here I am. Heartbroken. Furious. A little embarrassed.
And very, very clear on the decision I never wanted to make.
This is not a boycott. It’s not a protest. It’s the quiet
surrender of someone who has spent too much money on books that fell apart,
wasted too many afternoons hunting titles that never existed in physical form,
and lied to themselves long enough that it was going to get better. I’m
quitting Nigerian books — not the stories, never the stories — but the act of
buying, anticipating, and championing them the way I used to. And yes, it
breaks my heart.
Let me walk you through the reasons, one painful layer at a
time.
Is It Just Me, or Are Nigerian Books Now a Luxury Item?
I walked into a Lagos bookstore last month — one of the good
ones, the kind that still smells like paper and ambition. There was a slim
novel by a mid-list Nigerian writer I’d been eyeing online. It cost eighteen
thousand naira. For context, that’s roughly what a student on a tight budget
might spend on food for two weeks, transport for a month, or a decent chunk of
rent in some mainland areas.
I stood there doing mental arithmetic. How many hours of work,
after tax and deductions, was this single book worth to me? The answer was
humiliating. And I’m one of the lucky ones with a job.
This isn’t a one-off either. If you’ve been paying attention,
you already know that Nigerian book prices have drifted into absurd territory. Why books are so expensive in Nigeria isn’t a mystery to anyone who
has watched the naira crumble. According to a Businessday report, the book sector started
bleeding badly as paper prices jumped by over 300% because so much printing
material is imported and dances to the dangerous tune of the dollar exchange
rate. Suddenly the numbers on those price tags made tragic sense. It’s not that
publishers are greedy — many are barely surviving — but the brutal economics
now place new Nigerian books in the same spending category as a pair of
sneakers or a night out.
When a book becomes a luxury purchase, something breaks in the
relationship between reader and author. Reading stops being a daily habit and
starts being an occasional treat. And when you have to choose between a book
and transport fare, the book will lose every time.
I promised myself I wouldn’t become someone who says “Nigerian
books are too expensive” as if it’s a personality trait. But look at the facts.
Inflation in Nigeria hit a 28-year high not long ago, north of 34%, according
to Reuters, and books, being
non-essential in the brutal arithmetic of survival, got the sharp end of the
stick. If you’re a student, a corps member, a fresh graduate on a starter
salary, you’re not paying N15,000 for a story. You’re finding a PDF somewhere,
or you’re not reading at all.
And the worst part? There’s a guilt that tags along. Every time
you pass a Nigerian book you can’t afford, you feel like a traitor to the culture.
I felt it. I still feel it. But guilt doesn’t pay the bills, and it certainly
doesn’t reduce the price at the till.
Where Do You Even Find Nigerian Books in Nigeria?
Price is only half the heartbreak. The other half is
accessibility — or the complete, infuriating lack of it. The real reasons Nigerians read less become devastatingly clear the
moment you try to buy a specific title outside of Lagos’s privileged bubbles.
Let me tell you about the last time I tried to buy a specific
Nigerian title. Not a global bestseller like Half of a Yellow Sun,
something you can find in an airport. A quieter book, by a poet turned
novelist, published by a small press in Ibadan. I checked three bookshops in
Lagos. Nothing. I asked vendors in Yaba and Ikeja. Blank stares. I went online
to a popular Nigerian bookseller’s website — listed as “out of stock.” I
contacted the publisher directly on Instagram. They replied, very kindly, that
the print run had sold out months ago and there were “no immediate plans” for a
reprint.
So the book existed, people wanted it, but nobody could sell it
to me. That’s not a market. That’s a cemetery of missed opportunities.
Our distribution system is a quiet tragedy. Outside of a handful
of cities — Lagos, Abuja, Port Harcourt, maybe Enugu — a Nigerian book is as
rare as a public library. The Guardian (Nigeria) ran a sobering feature on the
slow death of Nigerian bookshops, noting how even iconic stores have either
closed down or morphed into stationery shops that happen to stock a few dusty
titles. Go to a state in the North-Central or the deep South-South and ask for
a contemporary Nigerian novel that isn’t a secondary school literature text.
You’ll be met with a gentle, pitying smile.
Online platforms have stepped in, of course, but they come with
their own frustrations. Erratic delivery times, courier costs that sometimes
exceed the price of the book itself, and the constant fear that the book will
arrive with a crumpled cover because someone in logistics used your package as
a seat cushion. I’ve had a book delivered with what looked like a tyre mark on
it. I still read it, but every time I opened it, I felt disrespected.
Nigerians aged 18 to 35, the very demographic that should be
driving a reading renaissance, are being systemically cut off from the books
written for them. And let’s not romanticise the digital native argument. Yes,
young people have phones. But data costs are not free, e-books are poorly
marketed, and many Nigerian readers still prefer physical books, not because
they’re traditional but because they’ve been burned by bad formatting and
pirated copies.
So when I ask myself why I am quitting Nigerian books personal
reasons start to pile up: I’m tired of hunting. I’m tired of being treated like
I should be grateful just to find a book in my own country. I want a reading
culture, not a scavenger hunt.
The Quality Gamble: When the Book Betrays the Story
Here’s the part that will upset some people, but I promised
honesty. Not all Nigerian books are worth the trouble we go through to get
them. And I’m not talking about the stories themselves — I’m talking about the
object you hold in your hands.
I have bought Nigerian novels where pages began to detach from
the spine before I reached chapter three. I’ve encountered typesetting so tight
that reading felt like decoding a ransom note. I’ve seen cover designs that
looked like a rushed Canva template — which would be fine for a blog post, but
not for something that costs thousands of naira. I’ve found grammatical errors
and typos so glaring in some locally published books that it was clear no
professional editor had touched the manuscript.
Before you come for me: I know self-publishing has exploded
everywhere, not just in Nigeria, and that many authors are doing their best
with limited resources. I respect the hustle. But as a reader, I’m not a
charity. When I buy a book, I’m exchanging my hard-earned money for an experience.
If the product falls apart — physically or editorially — I feel cheated.
Multiply that over five or six disappointments, and a psychological wall goes
up. You start associating Nigerian books with a lack of pride in craft, even
when that’s not universally true.
The irony is bitter because Nigeria produces world-class
literary talent. Our authors win international prizes, headline global
festivals, and are taught in universities abroad. Yet the local publishing
ecosystem often fails to package that brilliance in a way that honours it. A
manuscript that would get meticulous editing, a gorgeous cover, and a robust
print run in the UK or the US is sometimes handed to a Nigerian printer who
uses paper so thin you can read page 12 through page 11. Premium Times captured this frustration
perfectly when they reported Nigerian publishers lamenting the soaring cost of
paper and printing materials, which often forces them to cut corners just to
break even.
Is this the author’s fault? Rarely. Is it the publisher’s?
Sometimes, but often they’re fighting the same cost demons. So I’m left with a conclusion
that stings: buying a Nigerian book today feels like a gamble, and I’m not a
betting person. I want certainty that the product will last, that the prose has
been polished, that the cover won’t curl within a week. When I can’t get that,
why I am quitting Nigerian books personal reasons starts sounding less like a
dramatic breakup and more like common sense.
The Personal Reasons I Can’t Keep Ignoring
So far, I’ve talked about the industry’s failures. But the truth
is, my reasons are also deeply personal, and that’s perhaps the hardest part to
admit.
First, my reading life has become a casualty of time. I’m a
young professional in Nigeria, which means I spend hours in traffic, hours
navigating power cuts, hours doing side hustles to keep my income above water.
The mental space I once had to savour a dense literary novel has shrunk. When I
finally have a quiet evening, I’m so drained that I reach for my phone instead
of a book. I scroll. I watch. I numb out. It’s not something I’m proud of, but
it’s the reality.
Second, the financial squeeze is real. With petrol prices, food
inflation, and the general cost of staying alive in Nigeria in 2026, every
expense gets scrutinized. A book that costs N15,000 or N20,000 is no longer an
innocent purchase — it’s a line item that competes with data subscriptions,
health emergencies, and family obligations. I started tracking my spending and
realized I was parting with north of N80,000 a year on Nigerian books alone.
That’s not a flex; that’s an awakening. I could redirect that money towards
online courses, savings, or even just breathing room. So, for why I am quitting
Nigerian books personal reasons, I’m putting my book budget on ice.
Third, the digital alternatives have gotten quietly
irresistible. I’m not just talking about pirated PDFs; I’m talking about legal,
affordable e-books from international platforms, discounted audiobooks, and the
vast universe of public domain classics that cost nothing. A Kindle loaded with
free or cheaply purchased global literature became my escape hatch. I could
read a Booker Prize winner for less than the price of a Nigerian paperback, and
the delivery was instant. No traffic, no out-of-stock notices, no tyre marks.
It hurt my patriotism, but it soothed my reader’s soul.
I’m aware this sounds like I’m abandoning my own people. But
culture shouldn’t demand financial martyrdom. If I can’t afford to feed my mind
without emptying my pocket, something is systemically wrong.
What About the Brilliance of Nigerian Stories?
Let me pause to say this: Nigerian authors have given me some of
the most profound reading experiences of my life. I’m not quitting the stories.
I’m quitting a dysfunctional market. I will still read Nigerian literature — in
digital formats, borrowed copies, or discounted second-hand finds. I will still
celebrate our voices. But the model of dutifully pre-ordering every buzzy new
release, the ritual of walking into a bookstore and paying full price, the
blind loyalty to “buy local” — that I cannot sustain.
It breaks my heart because I know the personal cost to writers.
Many of them are my friends, my former classmates, people I deeply respect.
They didn’t create this mess. They’re victims of the same broken ecosystem. Yet
my quitting is not an attack on them; it’s a survival mechanism. I refuse to
feel guilty for making financially and emotionally sound decisions about my
reading life.
I’m also not naive enough to think my individual withdrawal will
spark an industry revolution. It won’t. But I hope my honesty gives permission
to other readers who’ve been silently struggling. You’re not a bad Nigerian
because you can’t afford Nigerian books. You’re not a cultural traitor because
you’ve chosen to read more international fiction while the local industry sorts
itself out. You’re a person making choices in a tough economy, and that’s okay.
The Final Page I Won’t Turn
Quitting anything you love feels like a small death. I am not
dramatic enough to compare it to losing a person, but it’s a loss nonetheless.
I will miss the crisp crack of a new Nigerian novel’s spine, the smell of ink
from a press in Ibadan, the feeling of holding a story that was birthed in a
context I understand without translation. I will miss being the kind of
supporter who didn’t have to calculate before buying.
But I won’t miss the resentment that followed me after every
overpriced purchase. I won’t miss the disappointment of pages falling out of a
book I saved to afford. I won’t miss the hours spent searching for a title that
should have been available in every major city. And I definitely won’t miss
pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.
This is not a eulogy for Nigerian literature. Our stories are
too resilient for that. But it is a eulogy for a certain kind of reader — the
one who believed passion could conquer economics, loyalty could fix
distribution, and desire could close quality gaps. That reader is exhausted.
That reader is me.
If the industry ever changes — if we find a way to make books
affordable, accessible, and built to last — I’ll be first in line, cash in hand
and heart wide open. Until then, I’ll be reading. Just not the way I used to.
And for deeply personal reasons, that will have to be enough.
I keep coming back to one uncomfortable thought: how reading less is keeping Nigerians poor in ways that have nothing to
do with a bank balance. A nation that cannot afford its own stories loses
something far more expensive than money — it loses the ability to imagine a
different future. I’m quitting, but I’m not ignorant of what we’re all losing
together.
FAQ
Why are you quitting Nigerian
books specifically?
I’m quitting the habit of buying new Nigerian physical books due
to a combination of high cost, poor distribution, quality issues, and personal
financial priorities. My decision is about the product and the market, not the
writers or their stories.
Are Nigerian books really too
expensive, or is that an excuse?
They are objectively expensive relative to average income. With
inflation above 34% and paper costs soaring, a new paperback can cost between
N10,000 and N20,000, which is unaffordable for many students and young
professionals.
Will you stop reading Nigerian
authors completely?
No. I will continue to read Nigerian literature through more
affordable means — e-books, used copies, libraries where available, and legal
digital platforms.
Does this mean you don’t
support local publishers?
I support the idea of them, but I can no longer support the
current pricing and distribution model with my wallet. I hope the industry
adapts to become more reader-friendly.
What would make you buy
Nigerian books again?
Lower prices, wider availability outside major cities, better
production quality, and a more reliable supply chain. Basically, a system that
respects the reader’s money and time.
Is this a common feeling among
Nigerian readers?
Yes, though many are afraid to say it out loud. I’ve spoken to
dozens of readers privately who share similar frustrations but feel guilty
admitting they’ve reduced or stopped buying local books.