essay about my school in igbo

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Language and Excellence

By Joy Agwu

Published: July 31, 2021

3rd place McPartlin Award

I first met my paternal grandparents the week before my eighth-grade graduation. They live in Nigeria, and my family and I live in America. Over the first fourteen years of my life, time conflicts and visa troubles on both sides repeatedly deterred the opportunity for us to meet; then everything came together for them to attend this celebration of academic excellence. I was so ecstatic to finally get to know them in person.

From my first encounter with them, I quickly noticed that their English was very slow and deliberate when they spoke. As a freshly graduated middle schooler with a world of wisdom, I astutely assumed that it was because they were old. Later in their visit, when I overheard them speaking in quick discussion with each other, I realized that my assumption was wrong. Observing them, laughing and discussing in quick rapport, I soon learned that my grandparents were fast-paced, humorous, and witty people…or, at least, they seemed to be. I could not know for sure, because the platform for this beautiful, almost miraculous shift in expression was a language I did not understand: Igbo, the language of their home.

The Igbo tribe of Nigeria is one of the country’s three major tribes, boasting almost twenty-million people and accounting for 20% of the nation’s population (McKenna). The tribe bears a rich, wonderful culture and is full of unique traditions, customs, attire, and art. Through my father’s side of the family, I am Igbo. As such, I enjoy listening to Naija music, know how to prepare Jollof rice, and feel a sense of pride when I see an Igbo victory in the news. I have a general awareness of the culture, and for years, this was enough to convince myself, and other Americans, of my heritage. However, after meeting my grandparents and listening to them speak in Igbo, my confidence in that fact shifted. Despite technically being Igbo, I could not fully connect with grandparents because I did not know the language. Was this my relationship with the tribe — technically a member, but restricted in my ability to truly connect?

In one of the more candid, one-on-one discussions I had with my grandparents, my grandmother asked me why I did not know Igbo. I froze. She did not ask it confrontationally, or even with a hint of disappointment. Her question was instead solely rooted in curiosity—why did I not know the language of my family, the language in which I could freely speak to them?

I was struck speechless for a moment. Eventually, I opened my mouth and gave her the best answer I could muster:

I don’t know.

In the years since, however, I have come to realize a better answer. As an Igbo child of the diaspora, [1] it is not entirely unexpected for me to not know the language. In the years since my grandparents’ visit, I have gone through dozens of group chats, YouTube videos, and blog posts where others have shared similar experiences. Through these platforms, I have become increasingly aware that my situation is not unique. It almost seems as if not learning Igbo has become a tradition of its own for many children of the diaspora. As more and more Igbos move out of Nigeria, it is an unfortunately common occurrence that Igbo immigrants do not foster their language in their households. Many times, if the children do learn the language, it is not until adulthood and through their own determined pursuit. When asked why they do not know the mother tongue, many diaspora-born Igbos are quick to point the finger at their Igbo parent or parents, and this behavior is not discouraged within Igbo society and conversation on the topic.

When referring to the tribe’s attitude towards their language, most characterize the act as resentment. Many subscribe to the idea that, as Igbos have immigrated and built roots in other Western cultures, we also built resentment towards our own background. One research paper even claims that such negativity “has been established” and as a result, Igbos living in the diaspora “prefer their children speaking English to speaking Igbo” (Asonye). Authors typically produce the claim without evidence, and most accept it as an explanation of Igbo behavior within the diaspora. However, while this claim is not entirely unfounded, it is not wholly accurate. While there may be individuals fostering negativity towards the Igbo language, I believe it is the tribe’s nature that lies at the heart of this trend—particularly regarding our drive towards excellence. In order to achieve, Igbos must set priorities in line with their new homes in the diaspora. Unfortunately, the mother tongue does not always make the cut. With this understanding, our objective should not be to change the nature that prompts this trend, but to utilize it in a concerted effort to revive the Igbo language.

While I do not know the language, I realize that I am well-acquainted with the tribe’s nature of excellence. Growing up, I was not the strongest at school. If anything, I was an average student and struggled at times. However, the moments when I did well on an assignment are ingrained in my memory for two reasons: first, the feeling of achievement, and second, my father’s reaction. I have distinct memories of showing my father various tests, assignments, and report cards, and the interaction typically followed similar, if not the same lines:

Daddy, Daddy, look! I got an A!

Of course you did, princess. A is for Agwu, after all.

My dad would repeat some rendition of this axiom whenever I shared my best grades with him. Four little words— A is for Agwu —but the message there was clear: We are the best. We excel in all that we do.

As I look back, I can tell that this mindset accurately reflects his Igbo upbringing and the general culture fostered within the tribe. The message could also present some fuzziness, though. Does one excel because they are Igbo? Or is one Igbo because they excel ?

The general consensus is: if you are doing it right, you should not have to ask.

The Igbo standard of excellence is primarily represented in business and academic achievement. In the United States, Nigerians make up the most educated ethnic group, with 61.4% of their population bearing a bachelor’s degree or higher (Ogunwole, Battle and Cohen). Based on my own experience, with most of my paternal relatives boasting multiple degrees, I am sure that Igbos make up a considerable percentage of this number. The tribe values excellence, and such is their reputation. Within Nigeria, a well-known Igbo stereotype is that we are all businesspeople, industrious, and constantly on the lookout for advancement and success (Agwu; Ogunfowoke). While the image does have its negative connotations, I believe there is some truth to this statement. As a people, we are not in the habit of doing things halfway, and it shows. While we may not all venture into business—I, for one, have very little interest in the field—we are brought up with industrious, resilient spirits and are encouraged to achieve. Igbo immigrants branch out into the world, bearing a desire to create roots and excel in their new environment. This excellence not only requires adapting to the language of the land but mastering all of its avenues for success.

A common explanation Igbo immigrants provide for not teaching their children the Igbo language is because, as they transition from Nigeria to another country, they do not see it as a priority. Regardless of origin, in a new country, it is not uncommon for immigrant parents to prioritize creating firm roots over passing on a language not spoken in their new location (Kheirkhah). The Igbo diaspora community is no different in this regard. In fact, they direct even more time and emphasis to this step. In their efforts to build a solid foundation in the diaspora, parents may set aside teaching their children Igbo in favor of establishing roots in their new environment. However, as time goes by, the perfect circumstances to educate their children pass as well; then the children reach adulthood, and it feels too late. The pull of building a successful foreign life repeatedly triumphs over the desire to pass on the Igbo language, but this decision is not made in resentment towards the language. Rather, it is them adhering to another aspect of their Igbo identity.

The Igbo culture of excellence further explains why the “settling in” process can be so detrimental to passing on the Igbo tongue to their diaspora-born children. In their desire to excel in this new country, they want to set up their child for the same goal. A common concern amongst Igbo parents is how learning Igbo at home will affect their children’s ability to learn English at school. “[My parents] wanted me to speak good English and they didn’t want me to go through the same struggles that they went through,” one young man shared in a YouTube video, explaining why his parents did not teach him Igbo (Okwu ID). While being bilingual may offer benefits in the long run, there are difficulties associated with learning both English and a tribal language in childhood. In Maryland, my home state, if a child is identified as an English Learner, they are supposed to receive accommodations so they may still be able to follow in a classroom (“English Learners”). However, this is far more difficult with a tribal tongue, because translators are not as accessible. As this is not an ideal, or even guaranteed, circumstance, most Igbo parents find themselves deferring from it entirely. This is what happened in my own experience.

In an interview, my father described his decision to not teach me Igbo as providing the “best option” for me; he wanted me to thrive here, first, “and here, the language is English” (Agwu). By electing to not teach their youth their mother tongue, Igbo immigrants are not displaying resentment towards the language. Rather, they are recognizing the trends of the land, and equipping children with what they believe to be the best tools for success. While the intention here is noble, and evidently provides stellar results, it also has detrimental effects.

If you posed the question of what makes a person Igbo, language or excellence, Nigeria-born Igbos might boastingly answer with excellence , whereas their diaspora-born youth might be more inclined to answer with language . For the diaspora-born Igbos who do not know the mother tongue, there is often an inner struggle of identity. This is displayed by how often these youths express an intense desire to learn the mother tongue later on in their lives. Objectively, one could understand why familial aspirations eclipsed this area of education, but there is still a sense of identity missed. One young man shares that, as much as he appreciates his parent’s intention in not teaching him Igbo, “in hindsight, [he feels] like it’s a barrier” (Okwu ID). In this trend of choosing excellence over language, diaspora-born Igbos receive what has been deemed the more valuable aspect of our culture—but it is still only a portion of a whole. We may be excellent scholars, businesspeople, and working members of society, but we are still missing a piece of our identity. Without the language, diaspora Igbos are prevented from fully connecting with their heritage and other natives of the tribe. It feels as if there is a whole part of the culture that we cannot access, and the key to unlocking it was taken from us years ago. A culture is not solely defined by its means of expression, but the two are undoubtedly connected.

As more and more Igbos leave Nigeria for other countries, I implore them to cease leaving the Igbo language behind as well—if not for the cultural identity of their children, then for the sake of their tribe. In 2006, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization shared that the Igbo language was in danger of going extinct by the year 2050, if preventative action is not taken (Asonye). Decades of not passing down the Igbo language has finally shown its wear on the mother tongue, and now we must correct it. I urge the tribe to utilize its thirst for excellence and redirect some of that energy towards the revival of the Igbo language. We are a tribe that strives for success, and I strongly believe that this mindset can be applied to any challenge.

Migrational circumstances may never change, and the language of a new location may always pose as a more convenient tool for success. However, that does not mean we must continue to compromise one factor of our identity for another. It is time that Igbo immigrants stopped treating excellence and language as two competing cultural aspects, but rather as two equal parts of Igbo identity. As a child of the diaspora, I am grateful to my father for his intentions, but I now urge future Igbo immigrants to do better. Teach us the language of Igboland. While it may create a few challenges in our international upbringing, it will be invaluable for our Igbo identity. We do not excel because circumstances are always easy; we excel because we are an industrious, striving people.

We excel because we are Igbo. Because we are Igbo, we will save our language.

[1] In this case, anywhere outside of Nigeria or Igboland.

Works Cited

Agwu, James. Personal interview. 28 Oct. 2020.

Asonye, Emmanuel. “UNESCO Prediction of the Igbo Language Death: Facts and Fables.” Journal of the Linguistic Association of Nigeria , vol. 16, no. 1 & 2, 2013, pp. 91-98, https://www.researchgate.net/publication/330854897_UNESCO_Prediction_of_the_Igbo_Language_Death_Facts_and_Fables .

“English Learners: English Language Proficiency Assessment.” Maryland State Department of Education , www.marylandpublicschools.org/programs/pages/english-learners/english-language-proficiency-assessment.aspx .

Kheirkhah, Mina. From Family Language Practices to Family Language Policies: Children as Socializing Agents . March 2016. Linköping University, PhD dissertation. ResearchGate, https://www.researchgate.net/publication/317606264_From_family_language_practices_to_family_language_policies_Children_as_socializing_agents .

McKenna, Amy. “Igbo.” Encyclopædia Britannica , Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., www.britannica.com/topic/Igbo .

Ogunfowoke, Adeniyi. “5 Igbo Stereotypes Every Nigerian Must Drop.” Medium , 10 Mar. 2016, medium.com/@Sleeksavvy/5-igbo-stereotypes-every-nigerian-must-drop-a1d78c59d3b4 .

Ogunwole, Stella U., Karen R. Battle, and Darryl T. Cohen. “Characteristics of Selected Sub-Saharan African and Caribbean Ancestry Groups.” The United States Census Bureau , 28 June 2017, www.census.gov/library/visualizations/2017/comm/cb17-108-graphic-subsaharan.html .

Okwu ID. “Episode 1—Is the Igbo Language Dying?” YouTube , 17 July 2017, www.youtube.com/watch?v=u92lFfDgVdo .

How do the Aristotelian appeals (logos, pathos, and ethos) interact in this essay? Look especially for places where two or three of the appeals appear in the same place—how do those overlaps impact the overall effect of the argument?

First-person narration is a crucial piece of this essay’s argument. What sort of ethos does the author craft for herself, and what specific authorial moves most successfully establish her credibility on her topic? How does the author’s positionality, especially in relationship to the Igbo community, qualify her to make her argument?

There is essentially no research that speaks directly to issues of Igbo language learning in the diaspora, and yet this essay is still firmly grounded in research. What strategies does the author use to incorporate other voices into her argument? At which points is the essay most successful in integrating research and narrative?

Joy Agwu is a student from Bowie, Maryland and resides in Pasquerilla West Hall. She is currently majoring in both English and Philosophy in the class of 2024. After graduation, she aspires to enroll in law school and practice in Washington D.C. In her essay, “Language and Excellence,” Joy focuses on the diaspora population of the Igbo tribe of Nigeria and their relationship with the Igbo language. Motivated by her own experiences as a diaspora-born Igbo, Joy explores this topic through the lens of cultural identity, weighing the merits of language versus excellence in considering oneself as Igbo. Joy would like to thank her Writing and Rhetoric professor, Laura MacGowan, for her support and instruction throughout the writing process. She would also like to thank her family for their constant love and encouragement, specifically her father for being an amazing and informative resource as she explored this topic.

‘We spoke English to set ourselves apart’: how I rediscovered my mother tongue

While I was growing up in Nigeria, my parents deliberately never spoke their native Igbo language to us. But later it became an essential part of me. By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

W hen I was a child, my great-grandmother, whom we called Daa, came to live with my family in Umuahia in south-eastern Nigeria . My father had spent most of his infancy in her care, mostly during a period when his mother was preoccupied with her role as one of the founders of a local Assemblies of God church. As Daa grew older and weaker, he felt it was his turn to take care of her. After much persuasion, he finally convinced her to leave her humble dwellings in a village far from where we lived and come spend her last days in the comfort of our modern home.

Each time I watched her shuffle one foot in front of the other, her back bent almost double until her head nearly touched the top of her walking stick, it was hard to imagine my father’s descriptions of a Daa who was once one of the tallest and most stunning women around. The story went that the colonial-era arbitrator who presided over the dissolution of her first marriage found her so beautiful that he decided on the spot to take her as one of his wives. “How can you maltreat such a beautiful woman?” he was said to have asked the errant husband.

Daa’s favourite pastime turned out to be watching American wrestling matches on TV. She had lived almost an entire lifetime with no television; and yet no other entertainment that the channels had to offer caught her fancy. With her ashen legs stretched stiff in suspense, she stared agape, chuckled loudly and gasped audibly as Mighty Igor and his ilk beat each other up on the small screen. Daa also enjoyed telling stories. But, apart from popular words like “TV” and “rice”, she knew no English. Her one and only language was Igbo. This meant that her storytelling sessions often involved vivid gesticulations and multiple repetitions so that my siblings and I could understand what she was trying to say, or so we could say anything that she understood.

None of us children spoke Igbo, our local language. Unlike the majority of their contemporaries in our hometown, my parents had chosen to speak only English to their children. Guests in our home adjusted to the fact that we were an English-speaking household, with varying degrees of success. Our helps were also encouraged to speak English. Many arrived from their remote villages unable to utter a single word of the foreign tongue, but as the weeks rolled by, they soon began to string complete sentences together with less contortion of their faces. My parents also spoke to each other in English – never mind that they had grown up speaking Igbo with their families. On the rare occasion my father and mother spoke Igbo to each other, it was a clear sign that they were conducting a conversation in which the children were not supposed to participate.

Over the years, I endured people teasing my parents – usually behind their backs – for this decision, accusing them of desiring to turn their children into white people. I read how the notorious former Ugandan president Idi Amin, in the 70s, brazenly addressed the United Nations in his mother tongue. The Congolese despot Mobutu Sese Seko also showed allegiance to his local language by dumping his European names. More recently, the internationally acclaimed Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o , after a successful career writing in English, decided to switch almost entirely to writing in his native Gikuyu. Upholding one’s mother tongue over English appeared to be the ultimate demonstration of one’s love of people and country – a middle finger raised in the face of British colonialism.

L ee Kuan Yew, the first prime minister of Singapore, thought differently. When he replaced Chinese with English as the official medium of instruction in his country’s schools, activists accused him of trying to suppress culture. The media portrayed him as “the oppressor in a government of ‘pseudo foreigners who forget their ancestors’,” as he explained in his autobiography, From Third World to First. But he believed the future of his country’s children depended on their command of the language of the latest textbooks, which would undoubtedly be English.

“With English, no race would have an advantage,” he wrote. “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. Without it, we would not have many of the world’s multinationals and over 200 of the world’s top banks in Singapore. Nor would our people have taken so readily to computers and the internet.” Within a few decades of independence from Britain in 1965, Singapore had risen from poverty and disorder to become an economic powerhouse. The country’s transformation under Lee’s guidance is often described as dramatic.

My parents shared Lee’s convictions. They hoped English would give their children an advantage. But, as potent as that reason might be, my father admitted to me that it was secondary. He had an even stronger motivation for preferring English: “We spoke it to set ourselves apart,” he said. “Those of us who were educated wanted to distinguish ourselves from those who had money but didn’t go to school.”

A perennial issue among the Igbo of south-eastern Nigeria is the battle between the mind and the purse; between certificate and cash. All over Nigeria, the Igbo are recognised for their entrepreneurial spirit and business acumen. From pre-colonial times to today, a majority of the country’s successful traders and transporters have been Igbo. Many of them began as apprentices and worked their way up, never bothering with school. The Igbo are also known for ostentatiousness and flamboyance – those with great wealth usually find it difficult to be silent about it. While the moguls flaunted their cash, the educated members of my parents’ generation flaunted their degrees, many from British and American schools. They might not have had the excess cash to fling at the masses during public functions or to acquire fleets of cars, but they could speak fluent English – an asset that was not available for purchase in stores.

I still remember strangers staring and smiling at us in wonder whenever my family talked among ourselves in public. Speaking English was just one way of showing off, especially when one lived, like my parents, in what was then a small, little-known town. Some of my parents’ contemporaries distinguished themselves by appending their academic qualifications to their names. Apart from academics and medical doctors, it was common to hear people describe themselves as Architect Peter or Engineer Paul or Pharmacist Okoro.

My father’s first degree was in economics, while my mother’s was in sociology. They met during the civil war between the government of Nigeria and the secessionist Igbo state of Biafra, and they spoke to each other in English throughout their three years of courtship, long before any of their children were born. “That was one of the things that attracted your daddy to me,” my mother said. “The way I spoke English fluently.” Back then, villagers made fun of my father for his choice of wife. They sneered that his determination to marry a university graduate had blinded him to the choice of a woman who was so skinny that she could surely never carry children successfully in her womb. Even if female university graduates were scarce, couldn’t he marry an uneducated woman and then send her to school?

T he simmering resentment between those with certificates and those with cash exploded to the surface in the 1990s, when the Nigerian economy plunged. Suddenly, it was not so difficult to find an educated wife willing to marry a man who could also take on the responsibility of her parents’ and siblings’ welfare. Whether or not he could speak English or read and write was immaterial. Around that same time, a significant number of uneducated but daring Igbo men found infamy and fortune by swindling westerners of millions through advance fee fraud, known locally as 419 scams. There were stories of learned men – professors and engineers and accountants – being openly scorned during community meetings. “Thank you for your speech, but how much money are you going to contribute?” they would be asked. “We are not here to eat English. Please, sit down and keep quiet.” There were also stories of 419 scammers sneering back at those who mocked their incorrect English and inability to pronounce the names of their luxury cars. “You knows the name, I owns the car,” they would say.

This longstanding battle between the mind and the wallet is probably why Igbo has suffered the most among Nigeria’s three main languages. The other two, Yoruba and Hausa, despite facing threats from English as well, seem not to be doing as badly. Yoruba is one of the languages on a list of suggestions for London police officers to learn, while the BBC World Service’s Hausa-language operation has a larger audience than any other. Meanwhile, Igbo is among the world’s endangered languages, and there is a rising cry, especially among Igbo intellectuals, for drastic action to preserve and promote our mother tongue.

Many of the children who admired people like my family grew up determined that their own children would also speak English. My parents spoke excellent English – my father certified as an accountant in Britain, while my mother acquired a PGCE in education and then taught in London primary schools. They quoted Shakespeare and used words like “effluvium” in everyday speech. Not many of the new generation of parents speaking English to their children have a command of the language themselves. Unfortunately, the public school system in Nigeria has continued to deteriorate, and few parents can afford the private education that could provide their children with good English lessons. There is now an alarming number of young Igbo people who are not fluent in their mother tongue or in English.

M y difficulty in communicating with Daa was not the only disadvantage of not being able to speak Igbo as a child. Each time it was my turn to stand and read to my primary school class from our recommended Igbo textbook, the pupils burst into grand giggles at my use of the wrong tones on the wrong syllables. Again and again, the teachers made me repeat. Each time, the class’s laughter was louder. My off-key pronunciations tickled them no end.

But while the other pupils were busy giggling, 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 were relaxed in their understanding of the language, and so treated it casually. I considered Igbo foreign to me, and approached the subject studiously. I read Igbo literature and watched Igbo programmes on TV. My favourite was a series of comedy sketches called Mmadu O Bu Ewu, which featured a live goat dressed in human clothing. After studying Igbo from primary school through to the conclusion of secondary school, I was confident enough in my knowledge to register the language as one of my university entrance exam subjects.

Everyone thought me insane. Taking a major local language exam as a prerequisite for university admission was not child’s play. I was treading where expert speakers themselves feared to tread. Only two students in my entire school had chosen to take Igbo in these exams. But my Igbo score turned out to be good enough, when combined with my scores in the other two subjects I chose, to land me a place to study psychology at Nigeria’s prestigious University of Ibadan.

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.

Indigenous works form an essential part of a people’s literary heritage, and there is definitely a place for them – but not, it seems, when it comes to world domination, or pushing beyond the boundaries of our nations and taking a place of influence on the world stage. Every single African writer who has gained some prominence on the global scene accomplished this on a platform provided by the west, to whom our local languages are of absolutely no significance.

Africans are no longer helplessly watching outsiders tell our own stories, as we did in past decades, but foreigners still retain the veto over the stories we tell. Publishers in Britain and America decide which of our narratives to present to the world. Then their judges decide which of us to award accolades – and subsequent fame. The literary audiences in our various countries usually watch and wait until the west crowns a new writer, then begin applauding that person. Local writers without some western seal of approval are automatically regarded by their compatriots as inferior.

The west is also where our books scoop the easiest sales. The west has better marketing and distribution structures, while those which exist in the majority of African countries are simply abysmal. Nigerians in Punxsutawney can have access to my novels if they so desire, and so can those in Pontypridd. But in my country, where online shopping is still an esoteric venture, my books are accessible to the public in only a handful of cities.

Over the past decade alone, a number of major literary prizes have been awarded to writers of African origin. Ngũgĩ has been rumoured as having been considered for the Nobel prize in literature. That would hardly have happened had he begun his career writing in Gikuyu. He would probably not even have been known beyond the peripheries of Kenya, where the prevalence of that local language begins and ends. As the Nigerian author Chinua Achebe noted in a 1964 essay: “Those of us who have inherited the English language may not be in a position to appreciate the value of the inheritance. Or we may go on resenting it because it came as part of a package deal which included many other items of doubtful value and the positive atrocity of racial arrogance and prejudice … But let us not in rejecting the evil throw out the good with it.”

Perhaps Ngũgĩ and some other African writers care little about westerners being able to read their works. It could be that Nobel prizes and sales figures mean absolutely nothing to them. Maybe they are quite content with a local audience – but the local audiences themselves may not be able to read the authors’ books written in Gikuyu or Igbo or Chi.

Africa currently has the world’s lowest literacy rates. Unesco reports that more than 1 in 3 adults in sub-Saharan Africa are unable to read and write, as are 47 million young people (ages 15-24). The region accounts for almost half of the 64 million primary school-aged children in the world who are not in school. Not even the English are born with the ability to read their language. They are taught – usually in schools.

I wonder how many literate Gikuyu speakers can read their language. I wonder how many have read Ngũgĩ’s work. My parents, who have spoken Igbo their entire lives, can hardly read and write their mother tongue fluently. They were never taught. At the time they went to school, the colonials, whom we detest so much, were probably still busy transcribing our own mother tongues for us – from ideograms to the more universal Roman letters – to enable us begin to read and write our own local languages.

D aa eventually got weary of modern life and sulked until my father allowed her to return to her village, where she eventually died peacefully in her sleep. But it was not until the 2000s that I finally understood her fascination with US wrestling, after a former colleague told me of how her aged grandmother, while visiting from her village and watching Jerry Springer for the first time, suddenly exclaimed in shock: “Ah! So white people fight?!”

All those years ago, Daa was probably equally intrigued to see white people punching each other on TV. Living in Umuahia, where the sight of a white person is still today so rare that it draws a crowd in the street, meant that the few Caucasians Daa had glimpsed in her lifetime were probably missionaries and colonial officers – most of whom were models of civilisation, poster boys of higher breeding. When she came to stay with my family, she must have been shocked by the uncharacteristic sight of white people acting so savagely on TV.

That said, having one language to dominate others must have reduced conflict. If, for example, we decided to dump English and use a mother tongue as the language of instruction in local schools, which of the at least 300 tongues in Nigeria or the 70 in Kenya or the 120 in Tanzania (and so on) would those countries use to teach their children? This would be more difficult than ever today, when many African societies are becoming urbanised, with different ethnic groups converging in the same locality. Which language should schools select and which should they abandon? How many fresh accusations of marginalisation would arise from this process?

Lee Kuan Yew pointed out in his book how a multitude of mother tongues could have been a major hindrance to Singapore’s national security. Without a unifying language, the country’s armed forces faced a huge risk: “We were saddled with a hideous collection of dialects and languages,” he wrote, “and faced the prospect of going into battle without understanding each other.”

In Africa’s case, it would not just have been going to battle without understanding each other, but going to battle because we do not understand each other. The many wars around Africa are usually fought along ethnic lines. The lack of a common language would have further accentuated our differences, giving opportunity for yet more conflict. Languages like English have made Africa a more peaceful and unified region than it might have been. The contemptible colonials at least gave us an easy means of communicating with one another, preventing a Tower of Babel situation on the continent.

I attended a school in Nigeria where speaking your mother tongue was banned for that very reason. Shortly after the Nigerian civil war, which was instigated by venomous tribal sentiments, my country’s government hatched the idea of special schools in every state. A quota system would ensure that as many ethnic groups as possible were represented in each of the “unity schools”. For the first time in Nigeria’s history, children from every region would have the opportunity to mix and to get to know one another beyond the fog of tribalism. We were taught to see ourselves as Nigerian, not Igbo or Hausa or Yoruba or whatever. Local languages were part of the curriculum, but speaking them beyond the classroom was a punishable offence.

It was not until university that I at last began to speak the language. In Ibadan, away from Igbo land and from the laughing voices, away from those who either did not allow me to speak Igbo or who did not believe I could speak it, I was finally free to open my mouth and 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, the words I had read in books and heard on TV, the words my father had not permitted around the house.

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 super-important to be seen talking our language in this strange land. “ 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 far away from home, I finally became fluent in a language I had hardly uttered all my life. 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. Strangely, whenever I am in the presence of anyone who knew me as a child, when I was not permitted to speak Igbo, my eloquence in the local tongue often regresses. I stammer, falter, repeat myself. Perhaps my tongue is tied by the recollection of their mockery.

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Calls to use Nigerian languages at school are going unheard

Senior Lecturer, Linguistics , University of Benin

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Maduabuchi Sennen Agbo does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

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The recent statement by Nigeria’s Imo State government making it compulsory to study the Igbo language at all levels of education in the state is one in a string of similar pronouncements since Nigeria’s political independence in 1960.

Igbo is already spoken widely in the country, but efforts to promote it in education have been resisted.

The three major languages in Nigeria are Hausa (60 million native speakers), Yoruba (40 million) and Igbo (25 million). The Igbo are found everywhere in Nigeria and their language is commonly spoken in major markets and trading points. But Nigerian Pidgin, spoken by about half the population of the country, is widely used by young people in Igboland. English, the official language, is also gaining entry into domains of use previously restricted to Igbo.

In 2009, the Anambra Igbo Language Bill was presented to the state House of Assembly, to encourage the use of Igbo in all spheres of social life. The present governor of Anambra State, Willie Obiano, pronounced in 2017 that it was mandatory for all school pupils to study Igbo. Other Nigerian languages have been similarly promoted in education, for example Ibibio and Yoruba .

By making local languages compulsory in education, the government hoped to stimulate pride and discourage the encroachment of English and Nigerian Pidgin. It’s also reasoned that a widely spoken language will be more efficiently taught and a more effective tool for mass communication .

But studies have shown that educators are not adhering to the policy for indigenous language in education.

Policies in place

The 1999 Nigerian Constitution is one of the documents that promotes the use of Nigerian languages. It refers to the need to use indigenous languages in all state houses of assembly and to use Hausa, Igbo and Yoruba in the National Assembly.

The 1988 cultural policy makes statements about the essential role of language in the transmission and preservation of cultural values. The Nigerian Broadcasting Code makes it mandatory for some programming to be done in indigenous languages.

The National Policy on Education considers the teaching of Hausa, Igbo and Yoruba in all schools to be a necessity for national unity. It stipulates that children should initially be taught in their mother tongue but gradually introduced to the language of the immediate community, and later to English.

Problems in practice

Calls for the compulsory teaching of Igbo have not been effectively implemented, however. Not only is there a severe shortage of Igbo teachers and teaching materials , it also seems that students are not interested in learning the language. They don’t see it as being useful to them. They don’t need a credit pass in the subject to gain admission to a university or to get a job.

A number of studies have shown that many students and parents of Igbo extraction find ways to avoid the subject.

Studies have also shown that many Igbo teachers lack training in how to teach the language. Teaching Igbo is not regarded as prestigious and even qualified teachers often decline such jobs.

The governments in Igboland do not lead by example in this regard. Speaking Igbo is usually reserved for partisan political activities and socio-cultural events. Government officials hardly ever speak Igbo in serious government business that deals with economic matters, state security and the judiciary.

Competing languages and identities

Nigerian Pidgin is used more widely than any of the three major languages. It is spoken across all ethnic groups and easily accepted for its perceived neutrality. Pidgin is used in all forms of media and all spheres of national life. Nigeria has radio stations that use Pidgin exclusively, and the British Broadcasting Corporation has a pidgin language service.

This spread of Pidgin may be adding to the fear that Igbo will be lost.

The various calls for the promotion of indigenous languages are not unconnected with the idea of maintaining ethnic identity in the face of multiculturalism and globalisation. In Nigerian political and social life, ethnic considerations overrule the national interest. Language is the most potent form of identity politics in Nigeria. So the promotion and greater use of Igbo or any indigenous language may have political tones.

The way forward

If governments in Nigeria want to counteract the growing dominance of English and Pidgin, they will do well to use indigenous languages in government business. For example, they could be used in reading the yearly budget speech, giving state broadcasts and performing other important government functions in the judiciary and legislature. The Lagos State House of Assembly does sometimes conduct its proceedings in the Yoruba language.

These efforts should be supported with budgets to produce teaching and learning materials for education. Students interested in studying these languages at advanced institutions of learning should be given full scholarships. Making a credit pass in a Nigerian language compulsory for admission to university would enhance the prestige of these languages in education.

In making pronouncements about the compulsory teaching and learning of Igbo, the government and people must help create the enabling socio-cultural milieu for the promotion of the language. Otherwise the latest call will just be ignored – as previous have been.

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Ihe M Chọrọ Ime Na Afọ a (What I Want To Do This Year)

This is part of an ongoing Practice Writing Igbo series where I am writing more in the Igbo language to improve my Igbo skills! I will be sharing some of my writing practice here in the blog to inspire you to write more Igbo. I include my mistakes because I want to show you that it’s okay to make mistakes and that you can actually learn from them overtime.

This month’s topic is talking about my goals for the new year: 

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Na-Eme Ụlọ M Mma (Keeping My Home Beautiful)

This month’s topic is talking about my thoughts on having a nice home: 

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Nne Ọma (Good Mother)

This month’s topic is talking about my thoughts on being a mommy: 

Ihe Nzuzo nri m (My food secrets)

This month’s topic is talking about my thoughts on certain kinds of food: 

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Igbo History and Society: The essays of Adiele Afigbo , edited by Toyin Falola Myth, History and Society: The collected works of Adiele Afigbo , edited by Toyin Falola

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Axel Harneit-Seivers, Igbo History and Society: The essays of Adiele Afigbo , edited by Toyin Falola Myth, History and Society: The collected works of Adiele Afigbo , edited by Toyin Falola, African Affairs , Volume 106, Issue 424, July 2007, Pages 529–531, https://doi.org/10.1093/afraf/adm029

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Adiele Eberechukwu Afigbo is arguably the most renowned historian of south-eastern Nigeria's Igbo society. Adiele Eberechukwu Afigbo is arguably the most renowned historian of south-eastern Nigeria's Igbo society. However, only two books by the ‘grand old man’ of Igbo historical studies are easily accessible: The Warrant Chiefs, his 1963 University of Ibadan Ph.D. thesis on colonial rule and chieftaincy in Igboland, published in 1972 by Longman, and Ropes of Sand, an inquiry into some of the exceedingly difficult and controversial issues of precolonial Igbo history, published jointly by the University Presses of Ibadan and Oxford in 1981. Several of Afigbo's works have been published in well-established academic journals, but there are many more that have appeared only as pamphlets with a very limited local distribution, or have remained unpublished. At the same time, Afigbo has exerted an enormous influence on Igbo historiography and Igbo historians, as he belonged to the early generation of historians that formed the ‘Ibadan school of African history’, taught as professor of history at the University of Nigeria in Nsukka (UNN) until the early 1990s, and became one of the moving spirits behind the creation of the Centre for Igbo Studies at Abia State University in Uturu later on. Afigbo also acted as advisor on Igbo cultural and political matters, for example in the mid-1970s, when the East-Central State government asked him to make recommendations for legislation on ‘traditional rulers’ in the Igbo-speaking areas, and more recently for Ohaneze, a pan-Igbo ethno-political organization. It would be hard to over-rate Afigbo's influence on today's thinking about Igbo history.

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