I’ve held onto this draft for quite some time, until I came across an online discussion that rekindled my thoughts. It involved a bead maker, venting her frustration about a book she was reading—Set Forth at Dawn, if memory serves. Her complaint was that it was far too verbose, overly roundabout. She mentioned another book, All Lagos Men Are Mad, and mused how much more she would’ve appreciated it had it been written in a simpler, more subdued, almost numbed style.
This little critique, innocent as it seemed, sparked a rather heated debate. The conversation quickly devolved into a skirmish—on one side, the anti-intellectual crowd who claimed that Soyinka’s writing was needlessly complex and, as a result, not particularly good. On the other, the self-proclaimed intelligentsia who believed that those who couldn’t grasp Soyinka’s style were simply not bright enough to appreciate his genius. The back-and-forth was equal parts absurd and entertaining, an endless stream of opinions that barely scratched the surface of anything meaningful.
But amidst the cacophony, something deeper occurred to me. It reignited a belief I’ve long held: writing, like any art form, is inherently subjective. It’s no different from the world of fashion or painting. Not every creation is meant to resonate with every individual. A carefully designed Gucci bag, appreciated by some for its craftsmanship and prestige, might be dismissed by others as nothing special. Similarly, abstract art might be hailed as profound by one viewer, while another finds it confusing or uninspired.
The same holds true for writing. Not all prose is designed to be universally digestible or easily understood. Some works are complex by nature, crafted for those who enjoy the challenge of peeling back layers and deciphering meaning. Other pieces may be more direct, offering instant gratification. Both have their place, and both serve their audience in different ways.
Writers like Soyinka, however, force you to slow down. His work is not designed to be consumed quickly or passively. He demands your full attention, challenges you to sit with the text, and digest it slowly. It’s a deliberate defiance of the modern reader’s rush for instant payoff. With him, there’s no skimming through the surface—you’re drawn into a dance with the language, one that requires patience and effort. And in that slow digestion, in that careful unraveling, you find the real reward.
Soyinka’s writing doesn’t give itself away easily. It doesn’t cater to those looking for quick wins or light entertainment. It insists that you take your time, immerse yourself in every phrase, and wrestle with its meaning. And while that might frustrate those who are used to instant gratification, it’s precisely what makes his work so profound. The richness lies in the challenge, in the demand that you meet the text halfway and engage with it on a deeper level.
In the end, writing isn’t about ticking off boxes to satisfy some universal standard. It’s about creating something true to the author’s vision, whether that’s wrapped in layers of metaphor and complexity, or presented in simple, straightforward language. Art, in all its forms, is an expression, not an obligation to cater to everyone’s palate. So, the next time we encounter a piece of writing that doesn’t fit neatly into our preferences, perhaps the fault isn’t with the writer, but with our own unwillingness to engage with something that asks more of us.
Benedictam hebdomadam habe