MONROVIA– In every great nation, the heartbeat of its soul is found not only in its monuments or institutions, but in the pages of its literature. It is there—in the quiet power of words—that a people are remembered, understood, and honored across generations. Yet in Liberia, a country rich in history, struggle, and resilience, the writers—the keepers of memory and imagination—are too often left to survive in silence.
Liberia, for all her glory and potential, has long neglected the development of her creative sons and daughters. In a society where education itself faces crippling challenges, the literary arts are treated as luxuries instead of necessities. The classroom barely has textbooks, let alone poetry collections or novels by Liberian authors. Libraries are underfunded, if not nonexistent. Publishing opportunities are almost mythical. And the writer, instead of being nurtured, is often left to fend for themselves—misunderstood, unseen, and unsupported.
Still, nature has been kind to Liberia. The land continues to birth brilliant minds who choose the creative path against all odds. N. Nyamalon echoes truth with lyrical power on international stages. Shelton Gberie Gongerwon holds a pen like a sword, cutting through the noise with clarity and purpose. They follow the footsteps of giants—Bai T. Moore, who gave us Murder in the Cassava Patch, and Wilton Sankawulo, whose spiritual and cultural writings still pulse with relevance. Today, Saah Millimono, whose voice speaks for the voiceless, writes stories that are raw, real, and deeply Liberian. But where is the nation’s arm stretched out to support them?
It is a tragedy that in a country so rooted in oral traditions, storytelling is not more fiercely protected and promoted. We speak of patriotism, of rebuilding, of national identity—but how do you build a nation without its stories? How can a people rise without understanding where they come from and who they are?
The truth is that literature is not just art. It is legacy. It is education. It is nation-building.
The Bible, a book held sacred by most Liberians, is at its core a collection of literary works—poetry, narrative, parable, and prophecy—documenting the history of the Jewish people and God’s dealings with mankind. The Quran, too, is literature—revealed, yes, but recorded and preserved in verse, a historical account of faith and community. These books shape the lives of millions, not just spiritually, but culturally and morally. They teach. They remember. They preserve.
Now ask this: what book tells the story of Liberia after its founding? What literature do our children read that reflects their Liberian reality—its joys, its trials, its complexity? Where are the novels, the memoirs, the essays that detail our civil wars, our triumphs, our healing, our songs? What voice tells the story of a market woman in Red Light, or a fisherman in West Point, or a teacher in Voinjama?
If Liberia does not wake up to invest in her writers, what will remain of us? Who will write our pain and our pride? Who will remember Doe and Tolbert—not as footnotes in foreign archives, but as real men whose decisions shaped our lives? Who will write the dreams of young people in New Kru Town or Ganta or Zorzor? If we do not write ourselves into history, we will be erased from it.
Great nations celebrate their authors, their poets, their playwrights. Nigeria lifts up Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Ghana honors Ama Ata Aidoo. Kenya proudly names Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o among its treasures. These countries understand that the writer is not an entertainer—they are the nation’s mirror, its conscience, its memory.
Liberia must do the same.
We need literary programs in schools. We need writing workshops, creative residencies, local publishers, and national literary prizes. We need state and private sector investment in books, in libraries, in storytelling festivals. We need a Ministry of Culture that does more than host ceremonies—it must build a foundation where writers are trained, celebrated, and preserved.
The world may not always listen to Liberia’s politicians. But it will read her stories. And her children, long after today’s leaders are gone, will read them too.
Let us build a future where Liberian writers not only survive—but thrive. Let us write ourselves into history. Because if we don’t, who will?
The End
Note: Omari Jackson is a Liberian writer and journalist committed to the preservation of culture, the power of storytelling, and the future of African literature.
