I Lost The Nigeria Prize For Literature, But My Family & Friends Helped Me Heal
The Lonely Burden of Writing
WRITING is often described as a solitary pursuit, but I have come to understand that its loneliness extends far beyond the hours a writer spends alone with a manuscript. It reaches into the months of uncertainty, the years of sacrifice, the anxiety of seeking publication and, ultimately, the fear of discovering how readers will receive the finished work.
A writer begins with an idea. Gradually, that idea develops into a story, a collection of poems or a novel. Then comes the demanding work of drafting, revising, editing and searching for a publisher willing to believe in the manuscript. Sometimes, the process takes months; in other cases, it consumes years.
Even after publication, however, the anxiety does not disappear. Instead, new questions emerge. Will readers appreciate the work? Will critics take it seriously? Will people consider me a worthy writer? And what happens if the book receives little attention despite the sacrifices that went into producing it?
These questions can weigh heavily on a writer’s mind. Nevertheless, many of us continue because writing is not merely a profession. It is also a deeply personal commitment to ideas, language, memory and the stories we believe deserve to be told.
Unfortunately, recognition can introduce another kind of pressure. Once a book attracts attention, especially through a literary award, the writer becomes a subject of public scrutiny. People examine not only the work but also the person behind it.
In this age of social media, the experience can become particularly exhausting. Everyone appears entitled to an opinion, including people who rarely read books. Some offer thoughtful criticism, while others dismiss a writer’s efforts without considering the intellectual and emotional labour involved.
For a writer already struggling with self-doubt, such attention can be difficult to navigate. Yet nothing quite prepares one for the emotional experience of making a major literary shortlist and then watching another writer receive the prize.
When the Nigeria Prize for Literature Raises the Stakes
The Nigeria Prize for Literature, organised by Nigeria LNG Limited, occupies a prominent place in the country’s literary landscape. Its substantial prize money can transform a writer’s circumstances, opening doors to greater recognition, financial security and new professional opportunities.
The prize carries an award of $100,000. At the exchange-rate estimate cited in the original account, that sum was approximately ₦135 million. For many Nigerian writers, such money represents much more than a prestigious award. It could pay outstanding bills, support dependants, finance future projects and provide the financial breathing space that creative work often demands.
Beyond the money, winning can bring a book to the attention of readers who might otherwise never have encountered it. The recognition can strengthen a writer’s reputation and create opportunities for speaking engagements, publishing contracts and further literary work.
Consequently, the stakes become enormous when shortlisted writers gather for the award ceremony. On 9 October 2026, the finalists assembled for a grand dinner attended by prominent guests, including former presidents.
Imagine spending months anticipating that evening, knowing that the outcome could alter the course of your life. You have written the book, endured the uncertainty and reached the final stage of a highly competitive process. Naturally, you allow yourself to imagine what winning might mean.
Perhaps you plan to clear your debts, help your parents, support your children or devote more time to writing. Maybe you have already imagined the relief of no longer having to worry about certain financial obligations.
Then the winner’s name is announced, and it belongs to somebody else.
In that instant, the future you had quietly constructed in your mind disappears. You must congratulate the winner, maintain your composure and participate in the public celebration, even when disappointment has begun to settle inside you.
I do not believe losing makes a writer less accomplished. Nevertheless, I know that the difference between winning and losing a prize of this magnitude can be financially and emotionally significant. That is why I believe we must pay greater attention to the writers who leave such ceremonies without the award.
The Night After the Applause
For the unsuccessful finalist, the most difficult part of the evening may begin after the ceremony has ended.
You return to your hotel room, perhaps one of the most luxurious rooms you have occupied in a long time. Only hours earlier, you were surrounded by dignitaries, fellow writers, organisers and guests. Now, the excitement has subsided, and you are alone with your thoughts.
The room may be beautifully furnished, the bed comfortable and the hotel service exceptional. Yet none of those luxuries necessarily addresses the disappointment you carry back from the ceremony.
As you lie awake, your mind returns to the possibilities you had imagined. You wonder what you would have done with the prize money. You think about the people you hoped to help and the plans you expected to pursue. Meanwhile, you may struggle with the question of whether the judges fully appreciated the work you produced.
The experience becomes harder when you have travelled without your family or close friends. Without familiar faces to distract you, the silence can intensify the disappointment.
I imagine that many unsuccessful finalists have experienced some version of this moment. They may not discuss it publicly, but the absence of an award does not automatically make the emotional consequences disappear.
Indeed, writers are often expected to behave graciously when they lose. They must celebrate their colleagues, accept the judges’ decision and assure everyone that simply being shortlisted is an honour. Those responses may be sincere, but they do not mean disappointment is absent.
We should allow writers to feel what they feel without interpreting their sadness as jealousy, bitterness or an inability to accept defeat. After all, they invested time, imagination and emotional energy in work they believed deserved recognition.
A Generous Welcome, but What Comes Afterwards?
There is another aspect of the experience that deserves attention: the difference between the hospitality provided during an award event and the support available to those who leave without winning.
In my account of the process, the shortlisted writers receive substantial hospitality. They are flown to Lagos in business class, transported in chauffeured vehicles to Eko Hotel, accommodated in comfortable surroundings and provided with meals. They attend the grand dinner, participate in the ceremony and return home by business-class flight the following morning.
The organisers deserve recognition for the hospitality extended to the finalists. However, once the event concludes, the unsuccessful writers do not receive a share of the prize money from the organisers. They return home without the financial award that has gone to the winner.
That is the reality I want people to consider. The finalists have all produced books that passed through a competitive selection process. Although only one can receive the main prize, the others have also demonstrated literary accomplishment by reaching the shortlist.
For me, the emotional contrast is striking. A writer can enjoy excellent hospitality for two days and still return home facing the same financial pressures that existed before the invitation arrived.
Sometimes, the disappointment becomes more painful when one imagines the small things the prize money could have made possible. Even a modest amount could help a struggling writer pay a bill, purchase necessities or spend a little time recovering from the intense experience.
I once joked about the unsuccessful writer returning home without even a small amount to buy something for the children who might greet him with excited cries of, “Daddy oyoyo! Daddy oyoyo!” Behind that humour, however, lies a serious point: the writer remains a person with responsibilities, relationships and financial needs after the cameras have moved elsewhere.
I am not suggesting that every literary award must divide its principal prize among all finalists. Nor am I arguing that organisers should abandon the principle of selecting one winner. Rather, I believe the literary community should think more seriously about how it can support writers whose work receives recognition but does not secure the final award.
My Experience in 2021: The People Who Carried Me Through
I speak from personal experience. In 2021, I was shortlisted for The Nigeria Prize for Literature. On the night I did not win, my mother and father accompanied me to the event.
Their presence made a difference. Rather than allowing me to sink entirely into disappointment, they joked with me and tried to redirect my attention. Their humour reminded me that life existed beyond the award ceremony and that one unsuccessful night could not erase the value of my work.
After I returned, they hosted me to dinner. My in-laws also invited me for a meal, while friends organised a welcome-back party. Then my friend, Barrister Onu John Onwe, arranged a luncheon and invited my friends, family members and literary associates.
Those gestures may have appeared ordinary to anyone looking from the outside. To me, however, they meant a great deal. Each invitation reminded me that my literary journey mattered to people who knew me beyond the shortlist.
Their kindness helped me recover emotionally. For a while, it almost felt as though I had won, not because they could replace the prize money, but because they refused to let the disappointment define my experience.
That distinction matters. Emotional support cannot substitute for financial assistance, and a dinner invitation will not settle every outstanding bill. Nevertheless, kindness can help a person regain perspective and find the strength to continue.
My experience also made me reflect on the responsibilities of friends, relatives and fellow writers. We cannot control every award outcome, but we can decide how we treat the people who have just experienced disappointment.
When Friendship Does Not Translate into Generosity
There is, however, another part of my 2021 experience that still troubles me.
The writer who won that year’s prize was, and remains, a dear friend. Yet, for more than three years after the award, I did not hear from her in the way I had hoped. She did not reach out to offer the sort of support that might have acknowledged what the experience meant to the other shortlisted writers.
What made this particularly memorable was that her husband had repeatedly told people at events leading up to the award that whoever won should not forget the others.
I remember that statement because it captured an expectation I believe our literary community should take seriously. Winning a major prize is an extraordinary achievement, but it also presents an opportunity to demonstrate generosity towards colleagues who have travelled a similar road.
Of course, nobody is automatically entitled to another writer’s money. Winning does not create a compulsory obligation to distribute one’s award, and every recipient has personal circumstances that deserve respect.
Still, I believe there is a difference between demanding money and encouraging kindness. The first treats generosity as a debt; the second invites a person who has received an extraordinary opportunity to consider how that success might also encourage others.
That is the spirit in which I raise this issue. I want us to build a literary culture in which the success of one writer can become a source of encouragement for several others.
Romeo Oriogun & the Generosity We Should Celebrate
Two years after my own experience, Romeo Oriogun received The Nigeria Prize for Literature for Nomad. He gave $10,000 each to the two other shortlisted writers.
That gesture remains a talking point in our literary circle, and I believe it deserves to be remembered. It demonstrated that a winner could acknowledge the other finalists in a tangible way without diminishing the significance of the award.
The amount was substantial, but the principle matters even more. Generosity does not have to follow a fixed formula. One winner might give $10,000 to each colleague, while another might offer $1,000, $500 or whatever amount their circumstances comfortably permit.
What matters is the willingness to recognise that the literary journey can be difficult for everyone involved, including writers who come close to winning a major award.
Such a gesture would not mean that the unsuccessful finalists were entitled to the prize. Rather, it would affirm that the winner understands the shared effort behind the competition and values the people whose work helped make the shortlist meaningful.
I would like to see more winners embrace that spirit. A thoughtful gift, a personal message or an invitation to share in the celebration could remind an unsuccessful finalist that the literary community values them beyond the outcome of one competition.
Chika Unigwe Taught Me What a Small Gift Can Mean
My appreciation for such generosity also comes from an experience I had in 2012, when Chika Unigwe won The Nigeria Prize for Literature with On Black Sisters’ Street.
At the time, I was a student, and I barely knew her. We had met during a flight to Frankfurt, but we had not developed the sort of relationship that would ordinarily lead me to expect financial assistance from her.
Nevertheless, she emailed me from Belgium, requested my bank account details and sent me $200.
I remember the feeling of receiving that money from a writer I admired. As a student in 2012, $200 was meaningful assistance. It was also an unexpected expression of kindness from someone whose literary achievements I respected.
Later, I came to understand that her generosity extended to many Nigerian writers, both established and emerging. She reportedly shared money with writers she knew, giving different amounts according to the circumstances and relationships involved.
What stayed with me was not simply the amount. It was the fact that she remembered other writers after winning a major prize. She could have celebrated her achievement privately, yet she chose to share a portion of her good fortune.
That experience has remained an example of what generosity can accomplish within a literary community. A gift does not have to transform somebody’s entire life to leave a lasting impression. Sometimes, it is the unexpected kindness of a person you admire that makes the greatest difference.
A Message to Ogaga Ifowodo
I want to congratulate Ogaga Ifowodo once again for winning the 2026 Nigeria Prize for Literature with Why Does God Need a Gun?
His achievement deserves recognition. Winning a prize of this stature requires a writer to produce work that stands out within a competitive field, and I celebrate the recognition his book has received.
At the same time, I want to encourage him not to forget the two other writers who stood alongside him in the final race: Tares Oburumu, whose book is Flora’s Love Colony, and the remaining shortlisted finalist.
Any of them could have received the award. That is the nature of literary competition, where a panel of judges must make a decision among works that have reached the final stage.
I am not asking Ogaga to surrender his achievement or to treat his victory as something he should feel guilty about. Instead, I am appealing to the generous spirit that can turn an individual success into an encouraging moment for the wider literary community.
Things are difficult for many Nigerians, and writers are not insulated from the country’s economic pressures. Even $1,000 could provide meaningful assistance to a colleague, depending on their circumstances.
Such a gift would not erase the disappointment of losing, nor would it make the two books less worthy of recognition. It would simply communicate a message that I believe our literary community needs to hear: we can compete for the same prize and still care about one another.
Tares Oburumu Must Keep Writing
I had rooted for Tares Oburumu to win with Flora’s Love Colony. I consider him a brilliant poet, and I hope the outcome of this competition does not discourage him from continuing his literary journey.
Being shortlisted for a major prize is an achievement in itself, even though it does not guarantee victory. The recognition places a writer’s work before a wider audience and creates an opportunity for readers to engage with it.
More importantly, losing one competition should never become a final judgment on a writer’s abilities or future. Literary careers unfold over years, and a single award cannot determine the full value of a person’s contribution.
I want Tares to take delight in knowing that many writers value him and his work. I hope he continues to write, publish and develop his craft, regardless of the outcome of this year’s prize.
Beyond these words of encouragement, I would also like to support him in a practical way. I am offering him a token of ₦100,000 to take himself to a good beer joint, enjoy some barbecue fish and give himself a moment to breathe.
I know that the money cannot replace the prize he did not win. Nevertheless, I hope the gesture conveys my appreciation for his work and reminds him that another writer is thinking of him with goodwill.
For me, this is what kindness should look like: not grand speeches alone, but small, sincere acts that acknowledge another person’s humanity.
Let Us Make Kindness Part of Our Literary Culture
The Nigeria Prize for Literature will continue to attract talented writers, generate public discussion and celebrate outstanding literary work. Its competitive structure means that some shortlisted writers will leave disappointed, regardless of the quality of their contributions.
That reality makes it all the more important for the people around them to respond with care.
Family members can provide companionship. Friends can organise dinners and informal gatherings. Literary associates can send messages of encouragement, recommend the books to readers and help keep the writers’ work in public conversation. Where circumstances permit, winners can also extend financial assistance to their fellow finalists.
None of these gestures should become a compulsory tax on success. Nor should we shame a winner who cannot afford to share money. Generosity has to remain sincere if it is to mean anything.
However, we should not underestimate what a thoughtful message, a shared meal or a modest financial gift can accomplish. Such gestures can remind writers that they remain valued members of a community even when they do not receive its most prestigious award.
Ultimately, I want us to understand that literary competition does not have to destroy solidarity. We can celebrate the winner while supporting the unsuccessful finalists. We can acknowledge excellence without allowing disappointment to isolate those who came close.
To Ogaga Ifowodo, I offer my congratulations. To Tares Oburumu and the other finalist, I offer encouragement and goodwill. To every writer who has experienced the pain of losing a prize, I say: keep writing, and do not allow one night to define your future.
And to all of us who belong to this literary community, my message is simple. Let us be kind. Let us remember that behind every shortlisted book is a person who has sacrificed time, energy and imagination to create something meaningful.
When the applause fades and the winners return home, kindness can help the rest of us keep going. That is a gift worth giving.
