My Mother's Tongue - by Chukwuka Valentine

They said her English was broken.Like glass on the kitchen floor.Like something shatteredand not worth picking up.But I grew up inside that “broken” language.It wrapped around me like warm steamfrom a pot of Sunday soup. I am from Ala Igbo —land where words are not just spoken,they are carried.My mother says,“Nwa m, asụsụ bụ ndụ.”(My child, language is life.)And life does not beg to be understood.It simply is.You want everything in clean English,pressed and polished,like Sunday church clothes.But my heritage does not speak in straight lines.It dances.It carried warnings, prayers,and lullabies that didn’t need perfect grammarto feel like home.It says,“Ị ma onye ị bụ?”(Do you know who you are?)And that question hits deeperthan any perfectly constructed sentence. Her verbs stumbled,her tenses bent in unfamiliar directions,but her love—her love was fluent.Fluent in sacrifice.Fluent in long nights and tired hands.Fluent in the way she said my namelike it was a promise she refused to break.The world heard mistakes.I heard music.The world heard limitation.I heard legacy.Because when I say“I’m proud of where I’m from,”it sounds simple.But when I say“Anyi si n’ọbara ndị dike.”(We come from the blood of warriors.)It tastes different in the mouth.Heavier.Richer. I learned two tongues growing up—one for classrooms,polished and proper,smooth as pressed uniforms;and one for home,soft around the edges,thick with memory,seasoned with history.One built my grades.The other built me.If her English was “broken,”then let it be broken like dawn—splitting darkness in two.Let it be broken like soil—making room for something new to grow.Because from her imperfect sentencescame my voice.From her mispronounced wordscame my courage.And I will never callthe language that raised meless than whole.English taught me structure.Igbo taught me spirit.English says, “I love you.”Igbo says, “Ahụrụ m gị n’anya.”— I see you in my eyes.Tell me which one feels deeper. You worry people won’t understand?Then let them lean in.Let them learn.Because I refuse to shrink my tongueinto something easier to swallow.My tribe is not a footnote.My state is not an accent to hide.My name is not too difficult to pronounce.“Aha m bụ…”(My name is…)And it carries ancestors.So no, I won’t write entirely in English.And I won’t drown you in only Igbo either.I will build a bridge.Half grammar.Half memory.Half colonial inheritance.Half ancestral rhythm.Because I am both.And I will not amputate one sideto make the other comfortable.“Asụsụ m abụghị mmejọ.”(My language is not a mistake.)It is a map.It is a drumbeat.It is home.

Other insights from Chukwuka Valentine

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons