If you say you are a writer in Rwanda, the first question is rarely, “What do you write?” It is more likely, “Is that what you do full-time, or do you have another job?”
The question is usually asked casually, even kindly. People are trying to place you. Writing, on its own, does not yet count as an answer.
In a country where work is expected to be visible and income to be clear, writing is still assumed to sit around life, not at its centre. Something you do after hours, on weekends, or between responsibilities. A talent, a skill, and sometimes a phase, but rarely a profession people know how to imagine.
This assumption shapes how writing is treated and how writers, especially emerging ones, treat themselves. Many learn early not to take their work too seriously. They write at night, between obligations, often as a hobby. They hesitate to call themselves writers unless a book has already been printed, even then with discomfort. To them, writing becomes something you must defend before you can practice it.
And yet, writing in Rwanda today is not impossible. It is simply misunderstood by institutions, readers, and often writers themselves.
Writing without an ecosystem
In countries with established literary ecosystems, writers are guided, even when the work is difficult. There are workshops, editors, literary agents, publishers, reviewers, and critics. There is a shared understanding that a first draft is not a book but rather the beginning of one.
In Rwanda, that shared understanding is fragile. I’ve seen many writers, especially those who self-publish, move directly from draft to publishing or even printing, skipping the crucial middle stages. This is not a failure of discipline; it is a failure of infrastructure.
For many emerging writers:
- Editing is poorly defined or reduced to grammar checks
- Publishing is confused with printing and distribution
- Feedback comes from friends, teachers, or mentors who mean well but are not trained to shape manuscripts
The result is predictable. Books appear full of urgency and sincerity but uneven in structure and clarity. When they struggle to find readers or meaningful engagement, the writer is left confused and discouraged. Without an ecosystem, each writer must invent the path alone. Many do not know that another path even exists.
Language is not the main problem
Some public discussions about writing in Rwanda circle around language. Should writers use English to reach wider audiences? Kinyarwanda to preserve cultural depth? French for historical continuity? These questions matter, but they are often overstated.
Language is rarely what breaks a manuscript. What weakens most books is a lack of sustained revision. Stories lose power not because of vocabulary, but because of shape.
I have encountered manuscripts with striking ideas and emotional honesty that falter due to:
- Unclear narrative focus
- Repetition where development was needed
- Fear of cutting lines that feel emotionally important
- A rush to publish before the work has settled
These are craft problems. They exist in every literary tradition. They are solved through editing, patience, and the willingness to let the work change. A strong book is not defined by the language it uses, but by how intentionally it has been made.
Writing in a results-oriented culture
Rwanda is a country that values results. This focus has driven remarkable progress over the past 31 years. Timelines matter. Outcomes matter. Accountability matters. A lot.
Writing, however, operates on a different rhythm. A book manuscript cannot be accelerated the way a proposal, report, or news article can. It requires detours. False starts. Rest. Distance. Returning to the same pages again and again, seeing new flaws and new possibilities.
This slowness creates tension. Many emerging writers feel guilty for spending months on something that produces no immediate, measurable return. The work feels invisible and unrewarded.
As a result, many projects are abandoned midway, not because the writer lacks ideas or commitment, but because writing demands a kind of patience that modern life rarely validates.
The cost of skipping the middle
When the middle stages (revision, editing, and development) are skipped, the cost is not only borne by the book.
Writers begin to doubt their ability. Readers begin to distrust local literature. The idea takes root that Rwandan writing is “promising but unfinished,” rather than under-supported. This perception is unfair, but it persists because the systems that correct it are still forming.
Good books are not accidents. They are the result of time, conversation, and rigorous shaping.
The opportunity most writers miss
Here is the part that rarely gets said plainly: there is room. There are still too few:
- Editors who work deeply and consistently with writers
- Clear, practical guidance on publishing pathways in Rwanda
- Honest conversations about cost, timelines, and expectations
This absence creates an opportunity. Writers who choose to learn the full process, who understand that writing is only one part of authorship, stand out quickly. They revise with intention, seek feedback that challenges them, and delay publication not out of fear, but out of respect for the work. They publish less often but more deliberately.
What it means to choose writing now
Being a writer in Rwanda today is not about waiting for permission or applause. It is about choosing persistence when recognition is slow, learning when shortcuts are tempting, and valuing craft in a culture that rewards speed. It means understanding that the work matters even before it is visible.
This path is not glamorous. It demands patience, humility, and long stretches of uncertainty. But it is possible. And for those willing to commit to the full journey, it is increasingly powerful.