AS A boy Chinua Achebe so loved reading that his friends called him “Dictionary”. He lived in the library at Government College in Umuahia, in south-eastern Nigeria, devouring Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Joseph Conrad, W.B. Yeats. “They were not about us or people like us,” he would say later in his soft, measured voice. But even John Buchan’s stories, in which heroic white men battled and worsted repulsive natives, excited rather than troubled him. It was all “wonderful preparation” for the day when he would start reading between the lines and asking questions.

That day came quickly. His first novel, “Things Fall Apart”, published in 1958 when he was 28, told the story of European colonialism in Nigeria from the African point of view. Its hero, Okonkwo, was a man who came, like him, from the Ibo south-east: a warrior and wrestler, a man of wisdom. The book was rich with the proverbs and parables Mr Achebe, too, remembered, all rendered in stately English. Poor boy Okonkwo grew up to have three wives, eight children and two barns full of yams. Yet the book ended with the discovery of his body, a suicide, showing how completely Ibo culture had been destroyed by the arrival of Christian missionaries and the district commissioner.

“Things Fall Apart” sold more than 12m copies and has never been out of print. Because of it, said Mr Achebe’s best-known literary protegé, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, “I realised that people like me, girls with skin the colour of chocolate, whose kinky hair could not form ponytails, could also exist in literature.” Young authors like her sought him out, leaning in close when he talked about Africa and writing.

A small man with an impish smile under his floppy berets, he teased and spoke in riddles, in part to mask a growing rage. Then, in his mid-40s, he let rip, with an essay about Conrad in the Massachusetts Review that shocked American academics. “The real question”, he wrote, “is the dehumanisation of Africa and Africans which [an] age-long attitude has fostered and continues to foster in the world.”

Re-reading “Heart of Darkness”, he explained, it became clear that he would never be on Marlow’s boat steaming up the Congo. He was one of the Africans Conrad described jumping up and down on the river bank, pulling faces. He realised how wrong it was—“terribly, terribly wrong”— to portray his people, any people, from that superior floating-past point of view. His essay changed Conrad’s place in English literature. Henceforth they were often taught, European and African, side by side.

Mr Achebe began writing stories at university, but went to work for the Nigerian Broadcasting Service in the late 1950s. His fourth novel, “A Man of the People”, about a military coup, was prophetic: it was published just days before the Nigerian army seized control of the country in 1966, as the Ibos threatened to secede in their own republic of Biafra. In the years that followed he became increasingly politicised, joining the Biafran war effort. When the conflict ended he returned to teaching, much of it in America. From afar, he watched Nigeria succumb to military rule.

“Worshipping a dictator is such a pain in the ass,” he wrote in his 1987 novel, “Anthills of the Savannah”, a comic satire (written partly in Nigerian pidgin) about three friends living under a military strongman. To such rulers, storytellers like him were an active danger. “They threaten all champions of control, they frighten usurpers of the right-to-freedom of the human spirit—in state, in church or mosque, in party congress, in the university…” Literature, he liked to say, was his weapon.

His exile became permanent after a car accident in 1990 left him paralysed from the waist down. He settled in America and taught there. For more than a quarter-century, until he won the Man Booker International Prize in 2007, he stopped publishing. The award seemed to spur him on, and he brought out two books in quick succession: one a collection of essays, the other, in 2012, a memoir of the Biafran war. Both books reinforced his protest against dehumanising Africa.

As a novelist, though, he saw himself as part of the great Western canon. The titles of his books saluted his heroes: “Things Fall Apart”, from Yeats, and “No Longer at Ease”, in homage to T.S. Eliot. At school he had once been punished for asking a boy, in Ibo, to pass the soap. Despite that humiliation, he liked writing in English. “I feel the English language will be able to carry the weight of my Africa experience,” he declared in 1965. It would have to be a different English, though, “still in full communion with its ancestral home, but altered to suit its new African surroundings.”

The hunter and the lions

One measure of his influence is that contemporary African literature is now taught throughout America, where it was once thought marginal. Another is that modern African writers now sell their books worldwide. Mr Achebe was widely hailed as the father of African literature; but, smiling over his heavy bifocals, he rejected that. Instead, he repeated his favourite proverb: “Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” Small though he was, he turned out to be the African lions’ earliest and most important historian.