Native Tongue
English is my first and only language. It shouldn’t be. I should be fluent in many languages. My tongue should struggle against English phonemes, dancing instead to the melody and movement of other sounds. I should bear the badge of bilingualism with pride. Instead, I am taunted by the gap between what should be and what is.
English is the language of power, dominating international relations, economics and education. It is the language of opportunity, a pathway for career advancement and a tool for accessing the world’s knowledge. Yes, English has lavished its privileges upon me but not without cost. While monopolizing my communication skills, this language has denied me my full right to self-expression. My ideas and opinions are restricted by 26 letters; the vibrancy of my inner world is reduced to a greyscale vocabulary. I have the spirit of a polyglot oppressed by a monolingual tongue.
I understand the frustration of non-native English speakers when translating a word or concept from their mother tongue into English. They snap their fingers, and rub their temples, pained by the rigid boundaries of the English language. I have experienced the same struggle, but nothing waits for me beyond the borders of English. There is no mother tongue to comfort me when English fails.
I grew up in a home filled with the rich sounds of tonal languages. Yoruba was the language of emotion, sprinkled with exclamations, reprimands and raucous laughter. My parents used it to excavate old jokes and anecdotes from their memories. It was a mysterious language, carrying secrets and gossip reserved for adult ears. Igbo was the language of gentleness, softening my father’s voice as he greeted his mother on the phone. Its appearance was rare, causing me to savour it all the more. When I hear an older woman shouting into her phone or cursing out a cashier in either language, I can’t help but smile. I may not understand what the speaker is saying but the intonations and inflexions are familiar. Familiarity offers a type of comfort but it is ultimately unsatisfactory.
My parents never thought to teach me Yoruba or Igbo. They didn’t realize that while English would give me access to the world it would keep me at arms-length from their homeland. My claims to Nigerianness feel fraudulent every time I sheepishly remind my family members that I still don’t speak any of our languages. I stand at the gates of other tongues but I have not discovered the magic words needed to enter. The days of blaming my parents for my language deficiency have passed. I’m an adult with access to more resources and language-learning tools than ever before. If I remain monolingual I will only have myself to blame.
One opponent stands between me and my true polyglot identity: fear. Fear is wise. It tells me that the journey ahead will be challenging and effortful. It makes plain the sacrifices that growth demands. The problem is that fear convinces me I cannot rise to the occasion and that I do not have what it takes to endure through difficulty. “You will sound silly. You will stumble. You have tried before and failed!” fear says.
But fear doesn’t tell the whole truth. Yes, I will sound silly…until I don’t. I will stumble my way to proficiency and, eventually, to fluency. People may laugh at my Canadian accent but what can laughter do to me? Embarrassment will not kill me. I will continue to practice. I will fail and give up and try again, remembering a bit more each time. One day, when my family members ask me, “Ada, kedụ?” I will respond without awkwardness. Their greeting will initiate a conversation that flows with the textures and tones that have adopted my tongue. One day, my native tongue will welcome me home.
Who would I be if I were multilingual? Perhaps there are parts of who I am that could only be convinced to rise to the surface under the command of a different language. Maybe I would be funnier in Igbo or more charismatic in Yoruba. Perhaps I would be smarter or more compassionate? I’m tired of wondering and imagining. It’s time to find out.
I hereby give you permission to keep me accountable on my Igbo learning journey. Ask me how my language journey is going and throw tomatoes (virtual or physical) if I have given up!
