The Glamorous Illusion vs. The Reality

If you imagine an author’s life as glamorous—sitting in an air-conditioned room, typing away on a shiny laptop, money pouring into your account while you sip on iced bissap (Hibiscus tea)—my dear, you’re dreaming.

Here’s the reality: broke authors exist on vibes, prayers, and Poor Man’s Dried Rice. And no, not the “Rich Man’s Dried Rice” we claim as our portion in Jesus’ name. I mean the broke kind: plain rice with salt and maybe a little palm oil if God smiles on you that day.

Writing as a broke Liberian author is equal parts hilarious and heart-wrenching. Some days, your hope is as fresh as the first spoon of rice straight off the fire. Other days, you’re staring at your screen like your interior (village) people are working overtime against you.

Grandma’s Faith Keeps Me Writing

Every time Grandma calls me, she says, “Sianah, keep writing. You hear me? One day, your books will be all over the world. People will honor you for your gifts. I’ll wear my finest lappa (Ankara) and walk proudly at your book launch.”

This is the same woman who raised me. So even when I’m stuck eating Poor Man’s Dried Rice that looks like my boiled-out hopes, Grandma keeps believing. And because of her, I keep writing.

The Dance with Literary Agents

Now, let’s talk about these literary agents from the West. Ohhh, my people, let me tell you!

When you submit your manuscript, they always respond with the same polite email:

“Dear Author, thank you for sharing your story with us. Your writing is good, and the story is compelling, but unfortunately, it’s not the right fit for us.”

What they really mean is:

“Listen, your African story about Liberian love and family isn’t marketable to our white readers. They prefer books set in New York about people eating avocado toast and sipping overpriced lattes.”

If they were African, they wouldn’t sugarcoat it. They’d just say:

“Your book won’t sell here. Go and hustle somewhere else. Better luck next time.”

And don’t get me started on the “diversity quota.” Once they’ve signed one or two African authors, they’re done. Among the 1.5 billion people in Africa, they’ll lift two of us and say:

“We have Chimamanda. We have one Ghanaian writer. What more do you want? Don’t be selfish.”

Meanwhile, the rest of us are left hustling like we’re selling kola nuts in Red Light Market.

The Spectrum of Dried Rice

Let me break down the levels of Dried Rice, the food that fuels both my writing and my dreams:

Poor Man’s Dried Rice: Plain cooked rice with salt and maybe a touch of palm oil if your stars align. This is when you whisper, “God, why me?” No One is happy to show off Poor Man's Dry Rice so See the Rich Man's Dried Rice and Think about the opposite.

Rich Man’s Dried Rice: The kind we all pray for. Perfectly seasoned fried fish, luncheon meat, sardines, sausage, boiled peppers, and toasted sesame seeds. If you’re greedy, you combine everything. If you’re broke, or a sensible eater, you manage just one protein and act like it’s Christmas dinner.

When my stories refuse to flow, I fuel myself with whatever level of Dried Rice my budget allows. But in my heart, I claim Rich Man’s Dried Rice every day because, as Africans like to say, “God will provide.”

The Marketing Hustle

When your book finally hits the market, you think the hard part is over. My dear, you’re wrong. Now comes the hustle:

Facebook Struggles: Posting endlessly on Facebook, hoping people will care enough to buy your book. But since Facebook mainly shows your post to your broke friends, the struggle continues.

Diaspora Desperation: Begging your friends abroad to buy the book and leave reviews.

Free Apps, Big Watermarks: Creating social media graphics using free apps that boldly announce your broke status with their watermarks.

TikTok Dilemma: Should I dance while holding my book? Or post videos of my flickering laptop after LEC takes the light mid-edit?

Meanwhile, people think you’re rich just because you “wrote a book.”

Why We Keep Writing

So, why do we keep doing it? Why do I pour my heart into these stories while eating Poor Man’s Dried Rice and dodging rejection emails?

Because, deep down, I believe.

I believe my grandmother’s words.

I believe in my stories.

I believe that one day, people all over the world will know my name.

Until then, I’ll keep writing, hustling, and eating Dried Rice—sometimes poor, sometimes rich, but always with faith.

Hope in Every Spoon

So, if you see me frying one piece of sausage and smiling like I won the lottery, know that it’s not just food. It’s hope, faith, and a dream that refuses to die. One day, we will all eat Rich Man’s Dried Rice without guilt.

Now excuse me while I go heat my leftover Rich Man’s Dried Rice.

 

Share Your Dream-Chasing Struggles

Can you relate to the struggles of chasing a dream with limited resources? Share your journey in the comments, and don’t forget to explore my books—they capture the same heart, humor, and hustle of a life powered by dreams.