Documenting New Voices: How Ake is Shaping the future of African Storytelling

Colonialism took more than just land—it took stories, history, and identity. It replaced indigenous  voices with foreign versions. If our stories aren’t told, do they truly exist? Like the question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound if no one hears it, the answer is clear for culture: if it’s not documented, it almost  never happened. If culture isn’t documented, it disappears. Aké ensures that it doesn’t. It’s a declaration: we will tell our own stories, on our own terms.  

The Aké Arts and Book Festival, founded by Lola Shoneyin in 2013, is more than just a literary event. It’s a space for young African storytellers to be seen, heard, and supported—a space where new voices are documented and preserved. Every year, Aké brings together young writers, poets, and artists who have stories to tell. They come knowing that independence, whether cultural or literary, was earned through struggle 

The festival draws young people with stories burning inside them, looking for guidance and a sense of belonging. They come to share, to learn, to build. It’s this sense of community that Ainehi Edoro tapped into when she started Brittle Paper. What began as a personal blog to escape the stress of school became a digital home for African literature. Edoro is clear-eyed about the transient nature of online content, but she knows its power. “If you don’t have information about your culture, you’re gone,” she says. Aké is part of that preservation—a living archive of stories unfolding in real time.  

Wale Lawal, founder of The Republic, saw another gap. Western media often paints Africa in extremes: Covers of The Economist across years were either “The Hopeless Continent” or “Africa Rising.” Neither felt true to the complex reality of life on the continent, especially in Nigeria. So, he created a platform that could deliver journalism with the same credibility as global media but rooted in African perspectives. For Lawal, print still matters. It offers something digital can’t—a tangible reminder that these stories exist. “Print sells identity,” he says, and The Republic embodies that, giving African voices the platform they deserve while maintaining fierce editorial independence.  

Then there’s Taofeek Ayeyemi, founder of Olumo Review, who champions print media as a form of preservation. In a world that moves at the speed of the internet, he reminds us that print slows things down, anchors them in permanence. But Aké and its counterparts are not just preserving culture—they’re ensuring that storytellers can thrive. Lawal acknowledges the struggles many writers face. “Big names like Adichie and Achebe had regular jobs while they wrote, and so it is an industry issue. There is a need to pay creatives fairly and involve them in decision-making, ensuring that valuable voices aren’t lost to the grind of survival.  

In a world dominated by the fast and the fleeting, Aké is a reminder that some things need time and care. It’s a place where young writers are told, “You are not alone. You belong here.” As Rodrigues Isamalkei put it, “We’re the ones we’ve been waiting for, in the rooms we’ve been waiting for.”  

The festival doesn’t just spotlight Nigerian literature—it opens a door to the entire continent. Veteran festival attendee , Emmanuel Faith says that for him Ake is like a window asking and showing him how much African literature he really  engages with. “How much do we need to consume to truly understand the breadth of African storytelling?” Aké pushes us to ask these questions, to expand our literary horizons beyond borders.

In the end, documenting new voices is about more than just writing stories—it’s about survival of a people, place, time and culture. Credibility, independence, and diversity are the pillars that hold this movement together, ensuring that African stories are not only told but celebrated. And if we don’t tell our stories, who will?