In Nigeria, the language spoken by one of the largest ethnic groups, the
Igbo, is in danger of dying out - which is odd because the population
is growing. In the past this didn't worry the BBC's Nkem Ifejika, who is
himself Igbo but never learned the language. Here he explains why he
has changed his mind.
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| Nkem Ifejika |
When I'm in Nigeria, I say my dad is Igbo from Anambra State, and my
mum is from Rivers State. I might throw in that I partly grew up in the
United Kingdom. In Britain, I say I'm Nigerian, though I often
add explainers about having been educated at British schools and lived
outside Nigeria since I was 12 years old. When visiting other countries though, I identify myself as British - occasionally adding "via Nigeria", for good measure.
I
speak English and French, I can hold conversations in Spanish, and
Yoruba and I've formally studied Arabic and German to varying degrees.
But I can't speak Igbo, a language which should be very personal to me,
the tongue of my ancestors.
If you'd asked me my name 10 years ago
I'd have given an Anglicised pronunciation - one I learned from my
British teachers and fellow students, rather than the one I learned from
my parents.
Nkem Ifejika (or Nkemakonam Ifejika in full) is an Igbo name from
south-east Nigeria, and Igbo is a tonal language. So words with the
wrong stresses and tones either change their meaning, or worse, become
unintelligible. The word "akwa" can mean crying, cloth, egg, or bridge,
depending on how it's said.
In Igboland, as it's informally known,
names have meaning and history. Circumstances of a child's birth can
determine the name given to a child. Names can be prayers or
pronouncements on the child.
Nkemakonam
means "may I not lack what is mine", while Ifejika means "what I have
is greater". By mispronouncing my names, I was throwing away generations
of history, and disregarding my parents' careful choice.
My indefatigable and proudly Igbo wife, Chikodili, rescued me when we met. "You don't even know how to pronounce your name," she'd say, half-teasing, half-scornful. And only half-correct... I did know, I just stuck as a rule to the Anglicised version.
I look back on those
days with a hint of shame. But now, when I'm on air, I say my name
properly, with the correct tones, and with pride. I can and do forgive
other people for getting my name wrong, but I should not be
mispronouncing my own name.
Igbos I come across often complain
that Igbo children don't speak the language. It's a refrain I hear both
in Nigeria and among the Igbo diaspora abroad. They're quick to praise
Yorubas and Hausas (the other two large ethnic groups in Nigeria) for
teaching their children their mother tongue.
When two Hausas meet, they always speak
Hausa, and it's the same when two Yorubas meet. But when two Igbo meet,
they may well speak English to one another. These anecdotes are backed
up by Unesco's description of Igbo in 1995 as "endangered", a rarity for
a language whose population is actually growing.
But why are Igbo people failing to pass on the language to the next generation?
Even though my mum isn't Igbo she speaks it fluently. As I said, she
comes from Rivers State in southern Nigeria, where once Igbo was a kind
of lingua franca. But she didn't think it was critical for me to learn
it as she wanted me to have an international outlook.
And I cannot fault that pragmatic decision to teach me other world languages, even though my Igbo languished as a result.
It's the same with many other Igbo families. They are outward-looking and aspirational.
Igbos
have a reputation for exploring faraway lands in search for a better
life. Some complain that we're too quick to assimilate and adopt the
culture of the host country, others argue this traveller spirit is
something to be proud of. Assimilation isn't always easy, so I give
credit to immigrants who succeed in doing so. But distance from homeland
takes a toll on the old culture.
Storytelling and proverbs are very important to the traditional Igbo
way of life, and have always helped to sustain the language. Away from
the elders, and away from the village square where the stories are told,
it's easy to start losing contact with it. There are some books in
Igbo, but no newspapers.
Igbo people have also faced more than just the cultural battering which is the norm in a world where English predominates.
My
dad returned to Igboland after decades in Lagos, to live close to our
ancestral village in Awka, Anambra State. He feels Igbos are
discriminated against within Nigeria, and comes very close to endorsing
secession. I tell him many groups within Nigeria feel marginalised, and
that such disaffection is not unique to Igbos.
Nigeria and Igbos have been here before, and it didn't end well. The
Nigerian Civil War (1967-1970) in which the Igbos tried to form a
separate state of Biafra saw a million Igbos die, mostly through
starvation. After the war ended, the Nigerian government declared "no
victor, no vanquished" as a way to bury enmity.
But as a friend told me, the civil war was akin to a child being flogged, but told not to cry. Emotions are still raw as there's been no closure, no catharsis, and the Biafran war isn't taught in schools.
This
continued disaffection has given rise to secessionist groups such as
the Indigenous People of Biafra and Movement for the Actualization of
the Sovereign State of Biafra. While many Igbos I speak to are not
necessarily in support of secession, they see these groups as standing
up for Igbo rights.
All these issues are interlinked, fear of marginalisation, identity crises, an endangered language.
After the war, Igbo lost its status as a lingua franca that non-Igbo people like my mother would learn.
While
growing up, I didn't care that I couldn't speak Igbo, but in adulthood,
especially since becoming a father, it's something I want to fix. I
find myself wanting to bequeath Igbo to my son, Anyikamba (the name
means "we are greater than a nation"), as an invaluable inheritance.
I
don't yet know as much as I should about my ancestors, or enough about
Igbo history, so I can't pass these on to him. But language as an
embodiment of that living, breathing, history, I (and especially my
wife) can give.
My identity is fairly cosmopolitan and outward
looking, and I'm very adaptable. I've never been anywhere where I felt,
"there's no way I can live here".
The global languages I speak
are probably more in keeping with my outlook, so why would I want to
speak a language which restricts me to 41,000 sq km in the south-east
Nigeria?
I think it's because the modern world is so fluid, and
multiple identities are more possible than ever before, that I want
something rooted and preserved in time.
And for me, that's Igbo.
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