Once upon a time, I could not
speak English. I was two, three or there
about. My father
propounded this argument that
it was better to teach children the local
dialect from the cradle
and then in school, they
learn the lingua franca. Of course my parents are well
schooled but I
happen to have one of those
culture-conscious gentlemen for a father. This
idea augured ill with
my English-Literature
graduate mom as she watched her tots prattling
away in Igbo. Even
though in the late eighties
and early nineties when my elder sister and I
were born
respectively, the argument
made sense and was practiced by many homes in
the east.
But the tune of the dance
changed when I was four and my kid brother was
born. A new
commandment was issued: DON'T
SPEAK IGBO IN THIS HOUSE AGAIN. I guess
my mother feared
that we would end up not
having enough armor in our arsenal of English
words. That was my
third year in kindergarten
and the only English I knew were the ones just enough for me to get
by; enough not to get into
trouble in class, enough to answer questions
correctly (this is a
ball, this is a chair, etc
etc) and enough to pass my tests. But my deepest
expressions could only
be conveyed in Igbo.
To say that the new
commandment at home came in handy for us would be
such a huge lie.
Sometimes simply out of
rebellion, we took to signing after she must have
denied us a request
( ‘I
wouldn’t do it for you till you said it in English’)
after we must have tried and tried till
the speech hung in our throat
like an over-stressed Blackberry.
Sometimes to make it easier, we spoke Engli-Igbo.
Check out this conversation between Mom and
I;
Mom: How was school today?
I: Fine. Mommy, my nwa-class,
Miracle, broke my pencil.
Mom: It is not nwa-class. It
is called ‘Classmate'
The moment I eventually sat
up in my grammar was when I turned ten and had
to go to a Unity school, where all the girls
formed, ‘I started speaking English from the
womb.’ Any gaffe could earn you an everlasting
nickname. But in my efforts, I never neglected
my Igbo. My WAEC result, though riddled with C’s
and only two B’s, of the two A’s
I made, one was in Igbo. Well, I could say I turned
out well in the English-speaking world, (I am a
writer now), yet I deeply cherish learning to speak
Igbo from the cradle
and I have this strong
feeling that it added depth to my imagination and this
happens to be it an
invaluable gift if you are a
writer. What more, I can brag in my resume that I
am bilingual or (permit me to joke) even
multilingual if I include the smatterings of elementary
French we were taught at school: Bonjour,
Bonsoir, Bon chance, Ca va….J’t
aime!
The desire to write this came
upon me when at the salon, the other day, I
met a cute little boy who spoke highly-concentrated
Igbo. In this 2013, believe me, this is a
rare and beautiful thing to behold. To the
Ghanaian hair-stylist who does not understand Igbo, he
spoke correct English. But to his
playmates, he spoke Igbo. He just reminded me of my
little self, several years ago.
read more of ucheoma www.ucheomaonwutuebe.blogspot.com
Nice, nice..
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