As a result, in Nigeria, most writers are self-published. The responsibility for the printing, marketing and publicity of their books rests solely on their individual pockets. Dozens of vanity presses exist to serve these authors’ needs, many accepting manuscripts from anyone who can pay. But with no solid infrastructure for marketing and distribution, and without qualifying for the majority of international book prizes that accept only traditionally published books, the success of these authors’ works is often dependent on how many friends, family members and political associates can attend their book launches and pay exorbitant prices for each copy. Or on whether they have a connection in government who can include their book as a recommended text for schools.

Literary audiences in many African countries also simply sit and wait until the Western critics crown a new writer, and then begin applauding that person. After all, these are the same connoisseurs who brought Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka and Ngugi wa Thiong’o to our adoring attention. Local writers without some Western seal of approval are automatically perceived as inferior. In international conversations about African literature, their books receive no mention.

I was fortunate. After I finished writing my novel in 2007, I asked friends living in Britain to mail the manuscript to British agents. Since I didn’t have as many friends in the United States, I emailed the book to the four American agents whose websites said they accepted email submissions. I’d also sent it to a Nigerian publisher, but by the time people there phoned to say they were interested, I already had a contract with an agent in New York, so they had to deal with him.

Even when an African writer finds acclaim in the West and sees his book reimported to his home country, local readership can be severely limited. Any Nigerian in Anchorage or Newcastle-upon-Tyne who so wishes can acquire my novel. But here in my country, where online shopping is still an esoteric venture (and where many websites reject payment cards attached to Nigerian addresses), my book is available only at a few bookstores in highbrow areas of about five cities. It is not available in Umuahia, the capital city of Abia State in southeastern Nigeria, where I grew up, where my parents live, and where my novel is set. The struggling local publishing industry is unable to make books available and affordable.

Over the years, resourceful hoodlums have stepped in to solve this problem, selling pirated copies of books by African authors at roadside stands and dingy market stalls. It was several months after it became popular in Nigeria before I set my eyes on a copy of Chinua Achebe’s last book, “There Was a Country,” that wasn’t faded and poorly printed.