I am an African who can only speak English
For the sake of this article, let us pretend my name is Obiageli and that I am Igbo. Obiageli is one of those deep, unadulterated Igbo names which stand out and that you cannot easily shorten in order to hide your ethnicity.
You are probably wondering why someone would want to shorten their tribal name. Could it be that they are ashamed and would much prefer to be called by their European name (if they had any)? Perhaps. But there is another less explored reason for this inclination. It does not stem from being ashamed of one’s African name, but from feeling unworthy of bearing that name because you do not speak the language from which it was formed.
African children who cannot speak their mother tongue can probably relate to the subsequent scenario. You walk into a room, introduce yourself–with your heavily tribal name–to a group of fellow clansmen. They immediately proceed to rap the language passionately, expecting you to respond with equal fervor. After all, your name is Obiageli. The only issue is, you can’t. Not because you don’t want to, but because you cannot speak a language that was not instilled in you.
Not being able to speak your mother tongue can often feel like you are untethered to your roots. Like you are not fully grounded in who you are. Language shapes our identities and is the bedrock of our cultural heritage. By not teaching children their native language, we are essentially stripping them away from their cultural legacy. Children may feel ashamed and embarrassed to socialize with other children who are fluent. This leads to a form of resentment towards their parents for not teaching them the language because they feel robbed of the ability to establish social connections.
It also does not help that people tend to snub others who do not speak their language. Although this is an intrinsic human trait, it is important to learn to be more compassionate towards those who cannot speak a native tongue. Asking people why they don’t know their native language is a moot query. A language is not learned in isolation. Most African languages are tonal in nature, so learning through text does not give the same experience as learning by immersion through day-to-day conversations. If the immersive experience is not there, how can people learn?
African children cannot be blamed for not speaking any African language. The fault lies with those who raised them.
It can be traumatic for people to judge your credibility and worth as a human being based on how well you can speak a language. Despite being a universal sociological disposition, this still affects mental health. It is a shaming experience when I see a 3-year-old child more fluent in Igbo (while also having great grasp of English) than I ever will be.
Being in the diaspora, I sometimes find that some African parents in western countries seem to do a better job of teaching languages to their children, compared to continental African parents. I spent the first 2 decades of my life in Nigeria, yet I am as monolingual as they come. This is an issue that must be addressed. It is more common than we think.
Of course, the next logical step one might suggest would be for young Africans to take up language learning through online resources. I have tried to learn my native dialect through different mediums, but it is challenging. I am yet to find a very good Igbo application that breaks down the language in detail. Realistically, I can more easily learn German or Turkish than I can learn Igbo, based on the resources that are available. Which brings us to a crucial question–Now that the damage has been done in terms of poor generational transfer of African languages (via verbal means), where are the high-quality resources being created to fix this issue?
Another important question is why this mass didactic hesitancy exists in the first place. I have often wondered whether there is some sort of trauma involved in the withholding of language transference; Some deep-seated shame that makes it so difficult for our parents to share this key and crucial aspect of our culture with us.
The discussion becomes even more complicated when both parents are from different tribes. There is a gendered aspect to this. Generally, it is expected that a Nigerian mother “owns” her children. If the parents are from different tribes, it is more of the mother’s responsibility to teach the children her language, than it is the father. What is there to lose if the emphasis is put on learning the languages from both parties?
In the old days and even now, speaking a colonial language such as English and French was a sign of status and prestige. A signifier of someone who is well-educated. Few secondary schools in Africa teach using native languages. Instead, European languages are used as the language of instruction and also become courses of their own. This further perpetuates the attrition of African languages.
Considering concepts like the American Dream and similar dogma, a good grasp of the English language is essential when migrating abroad. Being in the diaspora, I ruefully feel glad at times that English is my first language. People do not (always) look at me like I was from a different planet. There are many other benefits accrued when your first language is the official language of a western country. However, is it all worth it if I feel more accepted in a foreign land than the land in which I was born?
People frequently bring up the rationale that it is easier to have only one language of communication (lingua franca) in a country. People also suggest that this makes it easier to trade with western countries. Basically, these languages are languages of convenience, so to speak. They are used for business, commerce, and economic endeavors. Granted, there is some value in that. However, parents could just as easily normalize their native language in the home, so that children skillfully develop simple grammar and vocabulary capabilities.
The benefits of knowing your tribal language are vast. In addition to improving familial ties, some people indicate that it helps to be able to speak in “code” to family members when you are outside of your tribe, such as during travel abroad or while in the midst of people with ill intent.
Robbing children of their home language, this bridge to cultural connectedness, is akin to an injustice.
In the past few decades, we have seen the development of a more global outlook in regard to language identity. Especially in the context of Nigeria, where the Nigerian English language has enough nuances to be nearly considered a language on its own. A language that has taken on a new life form.
The same can be said of Nigerian Pidgin. There is a shared sense of brotherhood that comes from understanding the nuances of this creole-based language all across Nigeria and around the globe. Pidgin is so expansive to the point that I can converse with another person in such a way that someone who is also West African might still have no clue what I am talking about. If I eventually fail to learn the Igbo language, at least I can revel in the fact that my Pidgin is top notch.
It is important that I highlight the fact that language is not the singular identifier of cultural identity. It should not be a “them vs. us” phenomenon.
I am not less African because I cannot speak Igbo. I am not less Igbo because I do not have an Igbo accent when I speak English.
It is my hope that our precious languages do not become forever lost, and that we are able to exchange our beautiful culture with many more generations to come.
