My
parents forbade my local language, Igbo, from being spoken in our home when I
was a child.
Unlike
the majority of their contemporaries in our hometown of Umuahi in south-east
Nigeria, my parents chose to speak only English to their children.
They
also conversed between themselves in English, even though they had each grown
up speaking Igbo with their own parents and siblings.
On
the rare occasion my father and mother spoke Igbo with each other, it was a
clear sign that they were conducting a conversation in which the children were
not expected to participate.
Guests
in our home adjusted to the fact that we were an English-speaking household and
conformed, with varying degrees of success.
Our live-in domestic
staff were equally compelled to speak English.
Many
arrived from their villages unable to utter a single word of the foreign
tongue, but as the weeks rolled by, they began to string complete sentences
together with less contortion of their faces.
Over the years, I
endured people teasing my parents, usually behind their backs, for this
decision. "They are trying to be like white people," they said.
Similar
accusations were levelled against Lee Kuan Yew, Singapore's former prime
minister, when he replaced Chinese with English as the official medium of
instruction in schools.
But,
as he explained in his autobiography, From Third World to First, "With
English, no race would have an advantage.... English as our working language
has... given us a competitive advantage because it is the international
language of business and diplomacy, of science and technology.
My parents seemed to
share these convictions.
Each time it was my
turn to stand and read to my primary school class from our recommended Igbo
textbook, the pupils burst into a giggling session at my placement of the wrong
tones on the wrong syllables.
Language tests
Again and again, the
teacher made me repeat the words. Each time, the class's laughter was louder.
My off-key pronunciations tickled them no end.
But while the other
pupils were busy giggling away, I went on to get the highest scores in Igbo
tests. Always.
Because the tests were
written - they did not require the ability to pronounce words accurately.
The rest of the class
may have been relaxed in their knowledge of the language and so treated it
casually, probably the same way a reckless Briton might treat his or her study
of English.
I, on the other hand,
considered Igbo foreign and so approached the subject studiously.
Igbo banned in school
I also read Igbo
literature and watched Igbo programmes on TV. My favourite was a comedy titled
Mmadu O Bu Ewu?, which featured a live goat dressed in human clothing.
Speaking Igbo was also
banned in the boarding school I attended.
The Federal Government
Girls' College, Owerri, was one of the country's "Unity Schools"
founded after the Nigerian civil war to promote integration among ethnic groups
and to discourage divisions and tribalism.
Local languages were
part of the curriculum, but speaking them beyond the classroom was a punishable
offence.
And so, under the
tutelage of some of the country's best teachers, I continued my ardent study of
Igbo, despite not having the opportunity to practise how to speak.
By the conclusion of
secondary school, I was confident enough in my knowledge of Igbo to register it
as one of my subjects of choice for the university entrance exam.
Everyone thought I was
insane. Taking a major local language exam as a prerequisite for university
admission was not child's play.
Results for language exam
I was treading where
expert speakers themselves feared to tread. I still meet many Igbos who have
been speaking the language all their lives, but are unable to read and write it
fluently.
On the appointed day,
presided over by supervisors in premises outside my school, less than six of us
sat in the large hall, never mind that the exams were taking place in an Igbo
town.
When the results were
eventually released, my score turned out to be good enough, when combined with
my scores in the two other subjects I chose, to land me a place to study
psychology at Nigeria's prestigious University of Ibadan.
In Ibadan, south-west
Nigeria, home to the Yoruba ethnic group, I was free to speak Igbo at last.
Far away from home,
from the giggling voices, and from those who did not allow me to speak Igbo, I
was finally free to express the words that had been bottled up inside my head
for so many years - the words I had heard people in the market speak, read in
books and heard on TV.
Speaking Igbo in
university was particularly essential if I was to socialise comfortably with
the Igbo community there, as most of the "foreigners" in the
Yoruba-dominated school considered it essential to be seen talking their
language. "Suo n'asusu anyi! Speak in our language!" they often
admonished when I launched a conversation with them in English.
"Don't you hear
the Yorubas speaking their own language?" Thus, in a strange land, I finally
became fluent in a mother tongue that I had hardly uttered my entire life.
An English-Igbo man
Today, few people can
tell from my pronunciations that I grew up not speaking Igbo.
"Your wit is even
sharper in Igbo than in English," my mother insists.
These days, she enjoys
it when I gossip with her in Igbo, although I still can't get myself to speak
the local tongue with my father who, despite being a typical Igbo man in many
ways and a titled chief, has never regretted choosing English over Igbo.
And, for some strange
reason, my eloquence in Igbo often regresses whenever I am in the presence of
anyone who was privy to my days as a non-speaker.
Maybe it is the memory
of their mockery that ties up my tongue.
Eager to show off my
hard-earned skill, whenever I come across publishers of African publications,
especially those who make a big deal about propagating "African
culture", I ask if I can write something for them in Igbo. They always say
no.
Despite all the
"promoting our culture" fanfare, they understand that local language
submissions could limit the reach of their publications.
Now comes the BBC with its announcement that it will broadcast in
Igbo, as part of the World Service's biggest expansion since the 1940s. At
last, the next generation of Igbo experts have an international platform on
which to display their skills.
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-38069481
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