About a year ago at the Lekki area of Lagos, Nigeria, while on a
Yuletide visit to an Uncle who lives there, I had met a man – my host’s old
acquaintance (for I could tell from the dialect they spoke)– who had visited
with his Journalist wife of slim built and two chubby-looking children who appeared
good and tender by all standard. One of the girls was perhaps four (the older
one), while the other was a lovely toddler who drew irregular lines on my books
when she wandered into my room.
One bright morning (for we had both come the previous
night), while eating in the dining section, the man – middle-aged – had said to
his wife, ‘Look at our children, they can’t even speak a Nigerian language.
They only speak English.’ I saw frustration brewed in his brows, as if it were his one singular problem in the world. So while his wife defended herself that she
could not speak the man’s dialect to the children because she did not know how
to speak it, and while the man replied still with the same gloominess, that he
didn’t care whether his children spoke his language or that of his wife; all he
cared about was for them to master a Nigerian language, I was deeply
engrossed in the discourse and thus tore off my reticence to dare give my
thought. My voice was deep, devoid of the faintest coat of nervousness when I
spoke:
‘Sir, diversity in language in developing country like
Nigeria is a nuisance rather than a blessing.’ Said I. Then I saw a sudden
glimpse of exasperation smeared over his face, which dissolved abruptly into something like pity
(either for my disposition or for himself). But, this faded, replaced by a somewhat pitiful smile, when I
added with the same confidence: ‘You know in this country, if one can find
someone who can speak his tongue, he becomes so carried away that he can trade
competency for familiarity. I am afraid, but I must say, one language is enough
for Nigeria.’ The man nodded in consent either in admiration or to put an end to the
topic (I couldn’t then tell from his countenance).
I have recalled this scenario in the beginning because it is
quite pertinent I do. Before that morning, I had had no distaste for language
diversity, and if I did, it was buried somewhere in my philosophical mind, so
deep that I could not reach easily to get hold of it. Moreover, I had said what
I said that morning to defend the woman; to make the worry all writ on the
man’s faced disappear. But since that day, I began to think deep into this
grave subject, weighing, with the same scale, the advantages and disadvantages,
and discovered the later by far outweigh the former.
Language is powerful with respect to unity, or else the
biblical Tower of Babel, would not have been foiled. And this wouldn’t have
caused me any trouble, if my very close friend, while lamenting the mess
Nigeria had yet been found, confided in me that studying countries with
language and religious complexities around the world, he was able to find out
that a common string binds them all – retrogression! Then he went on to tell me
that majority (if not all the world powers) have common languages they speak in
their countries; there was not as much diversity in language and religion as
evident in Nigeria. I grappled on the ugly truth and at once felt soporific.
Yet, I wouldn’t have thought of a blog post as this – I would
have ignored how language keeps segmenting Nigeria into a weak structure
(keeping the youths at bay), while greedy politicians feed on the ruins without being
noticed, because of the nightmarish effect of tribalism (a direct offspring of
different languages) – if not that one of my friends had but last night given
his own sad tale of how language had wounded him. According to him, he had
taken a close friend – an Igbo boy – to a market in Lagos because he wanted to
buy something. Unknowing to his friend that he could understand his language,
his friend was communicating with the Igbo seller (who he did not know) on how
best to extort him in the bargain. The results were breach of trust and hatred
for language.
Filled with this thought, today, while some people spoke
Yoruba very close to me, I became irritated by it, but I felt superiority over them because I spoke perfect English their tongues verily lacked.
When they pointed to me that I was missing something nice as if they were
devouring honey (because I couldn’t understand their tongue), I asked (in
sarcasm) if they understood my dialect. Afterwards, I gave them a stern lecture
why it may never cross my mind to speak any more language save the ones I know
now.
Ohikhuare Isuku
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