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It’s been a while—maybe even decades—since I walked into a bookshop to buy a book purely for the joy of reading. It’s not that I don’t love books. I read plenty. But today, most of what I consume comes in the form of journals, digital resources, or publications that offer real solutions—tools I can apply in business, technology, or innovation. Even the books I’ve helped publish, I read as part of my responsibility—to ensure accuracy, clarity, and value. That’s when I go cover to cover. Not for leisure, but for accountability.
And I know I’m not alone.
A lot of today’s published material—especially autobiographies—feels like curated fiction. Books written or heavily controlled by the subject, designed not to tell the truth, but to polish their legacy. I’ve seen too many filled with half-truths, exaggerations, and deliberate omissions. In this era of image management and social media optics, no one wants to be portrayed as flawed. But ironically, it’s the imperfect stories—the raw, unfiltered accounts—that offer the most insight and value. Unfortunately, most of what’s out there reads more like fiction than fact.
I once had a rare, intimate conversation with a very prominent person. It started from a casual mention of my hometown—leading us into a rich, spontaneous reflection on their youth, their mistakes, their rise. The stories were layered, honest, and deeply human. I tried, years ago, to convince them to include those powerful snippets in their autobiography. But when the book was finally published, I wasn’t even invited to contribute—and what made it to print was a sanitised version that read like a bad Nigerian movie script. A series of overplayed tropes, fiction patched together to feed the hero narrative. The kind of tale where no single human could have possibly lived through all those neatly-wrapped struggles and triumphs. Entertaining, maybe. Honest? Not even close.
That’s why I’ve pulled out of several book projects over the years—and declined invitations to launches for books I knew didn’t tell the truth. I prefer to associate with publications grounded in integrity, humility, and real substance. And thankfully, those do exist. I’ve seen—and supported—a few that honour truth and tell stories that challenge and inspire.
One such example is Kickoff: The Story of Kenya’s Football History by Roy Gachuhi. It’s not a self-congratulatory memoir but a collection of witness accounts—deeply researched, faithfully documented, and presented with humility. What makes it powerful is that Roy wasn’t writing about himself. He was writing from the bench, as a journalist who saw it all unfold. As I read through it, I found myself connecting with moments I had heard on the radio or seen in newspapers. It was a refreshing reminder that some writers still honour the truth—and trust their readers to find meaning in the facts, not the fiction.
But back to why I started writing this.
It had been a long time since I last stepped into a bookshop. Recently, I found myself in one of those large, modern outlets—not to buy a novel or a newspaper, but simply to pick up stationery for my small office studio. It had been years. The place was almost empty. A few attendants shuffled quietly between the shelves, pretending to browse. The silence was eerie—not the thoughtful hush of readers, but the stillness of a space that had lost its purpose. Then it struck me: this wasn’t even back-to-school season. The usual crowds—students and their parents armed with long textbook lists handed out by teachers—only appear when schools reopen in January. That great flood of customers happens just once or twice a year now. The rest of the time, these bookshops feel like relics of a different era.
And let’s be honest—many of those textbook lists are part of someone’s side hustle.
Especially in private schools, textbook recommendations are often tied to commercial interests. Some teachers benefit directly from pushing certain publications. Meanwhile, we, who went through government schools, carried all our books and exercise books in one bag. We made it. In fact, many of us can still track what our kids are studying at university, even though we stopped at secondary school. We did more with less.
Then I started thinking—what about the casual readers? The curious minds who once browsed through bookshops looking for inspiration, insight, or a good story? What happened to them?
Times have changed. That kind of content now lives online—packaged as blogs, podcasts, YouTube documentaries, LinkedIn articles, or short-form educational clips. Bookshops are shrinking under the weight of digital disruption. Libraries too. I remember when public libraries were like academic sanctuaries—places where we spent holidays reading, discovering, socialising. Books were expensive, so the library was our gateway to the world. Now, those spaces echo with a different kind of silence—the quiet fade of relevance.
This is a wake-up call to our publishers and authors.
Remember: no story has been written once and for all. Many versions exist—some deeper, some more honest. We can only hope that future generations will have the curiosity to seek out meaningful content, not just branded fluff. And while I understand that many write to make money, it’s important to realise that the money has moved. It now lives online—in influence, trust, and audience engagement. Not shelf sales.
More importantly, this generation doesn’t want tales of how you defied all odds to become who you think you are. They want solutions, not lamentations. They want actionable lessons, not self-aggrandising monologues. They’ve already watched more dramatic life stories in Nollywood films and binge-worthy series. They’ve seen deeper truths revealed in a 20-minute documentary than in a 200-page memoir.
Take National Geographic, for example. Once, it was the thick, glossy journal that pulled us into libraries and bookstores. Today, it thrives online—through immersive videos, digital archives, and curated content on global platforms. Its transformation wasn’t just about adapting formats—it was about staying relevant while holding onto truth.
If you are writing today, write to inform, to challenge, to preserve. Write because you have something honest to offer—not just something you want to be seen saying. If your story is just PR in print, know this: the next generation has already scrolled past that genre. They want real. They want raw. They want relevance.
So to all aspiring authors and publishers: the world has changed. Storytelling still matters. Truth still matters. But fiction wrapped in ego won’t survive the scrutiny of a generation raised on search engines, social proof, and streaming documentaries.
Don’t write to protect your image. Write to reflect your impact.
Edward Mwasi is a Media Industry Strategy and Innovation Consultant at CBiT, Email: edwardmwasi@cbit.co.ke
