The Polyglot That Never Was - by Ibn Abdullah 🦁

Doom scrolling is a fatal flaw of mine and you know what they say: bad habits die hard. Don’t judge me. So, I was doom scrolling in the dopamine-inducing realm of Instagram when my attention was seized. I saw a pretty wholesome video. There was a boy, a toddler no older than three. Beside him stood his father, and behind them, out of view, was the mother. The father was Italian, speaking Italian. The mother was French, speaking French. They were in their kitchen having quite some fun brewing coffee. Like I said, pretty wholesome. The father spoke to the boy in Italian, and the boy responded in Italian. Then in came the mother, speaking to the boy in French, and the boy responded in French. Boy, was I impressed. Not only did he effortlessly switch between languages, but he sounded fluent. And since the video caption described the boy as a “trilingual baby,” it would be safe to assume the boy spoke English as well. So, three languages. Colour me impressed. Until… I lingered in thought. Then realization. This was possible?!!! A child could be taught multiple languages. Wait, so that means… I could have been this child! I couldn’t help but feel slightly envious. Yes, I envy a toddler. Deal with it! I like to describe myself as a man of many worlds. My ethnicity is all over the place. Pretty diverse. Ebira, Hausa, and a sprinkle of Fulani. I wouldn’t be shocked if I found out I’m also part Igbo. That would be pretty exciting, to be honest. Igbo Kwenu! Anyways, the mosaic of ethnicity isn’t even the interesting bit. I have multilingual parents. Both of them speak four languages with impressive degrees of fluency. My mother is Ebira through and through. One hundred and one percent. Confirm Ihima woman. But the funny part is that quite a number of people have assumed she was Yoruba. My class rep confronted me one time, asking me why I didn’t speak Yoruba. I had fallen seriously ill right before a test, so my mom went on the phone with my class rep and they spoke Yoruba. He assumed she was Yoruba. I told him she wasn’t. He asked why she spoke Yoruba so fluently. Well… she lived where people spoke Yoruba. Took me a hard time convincing him. She spent a sizable chunk of her childhood in the heart of Lagos. There’s Ebira and there’s Yoruba. But then there’s also Hausa. As a teenager, she moved to Kano, where she picked up Hausa, and now, after living in Bauchi for the past 28 years, Hausa has settled comfortably on her tongue. English is already a given. My father’s linguistic repertoire is almost identical to my mother’s. He speaks Hausa as a first language, having been born in Bauchi. And of course, English is to be expected. Having spent the latter half of his formative years in Ilorin, he picked up Yoruba. Ebira is where he’s a little rough around the edges, but he still understands it well and speaks a little. Hausa. Ebira. Yoruba. And, of course, English. Linguistically identical. Quite the match, lol. And then there’s me. English is, of course, a given. But there’s just Hausa. At home, it’s Hausa. In school, it’s Hausa. Everywhere, it’s Hausa, Hausa, Hausa. For the most part, I’ve been satisfied with that. There have been a few times when I felt my collection of languages was insufficient. The most severe case was when my grandmother came from Ihima. All she could speak was Ebira. Not even English. I do know a little Ebira, though I can’t even claim I know the basics. I know Nwao. I know “good morning” is Nyene. I say Nyehi when I step into the house and Nyase when someone returns. I know Avo is “thank you.” I know Akoro from all the times my mom caught me halfway through my ascension of her wardrobe.I even have an Ebira name: AdeizaI know that when I’m told wadahi, I respond with Madahi. Etemeya with etodahi. And the long line of -yo questions. School yo? Odahi. Auwal yo? Odahi. Onyaoya? Odahi. And that’s it. That’s literally all the Ebira I know. Basically nothing. And that was how my grandmother came and went without being able to properly connect with her grandchildren without having my mother as a translator. It saddened me quite a bit. My mother always said that she had tried to teach us Ebira when we were little, but apparently Hausa wasn’t willing to share our tongues, so Ebira was pushed out. But kai! I don’t buy it! She should’ve tried harder, lmao. My father never even tried. He never cared much to try. The fact that we spoke English was more than enough for him. Even Hausa was more of a bonus. English was what mattered most. Mr. Man, you lieeeee! You lie!!! Why would you decide that on my behalf? Now I look at this little half-Italian, half-French child, and I can’t help but think… I could’ve been that child. Multiple languages can coexist on the same child’s tongue without conflict. There’s probably a version of me somewhere in the vastness of the multiverse effortlessly switching between Hausa, Ebira, Yoruba, and English fluently. I’m sure he must be a show-off. I'm in painssss! But well… Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and as long as there is life, there is hope. So maybe I shouldn’t give up. Maybe I should still try to learn them. Alongside the five million other languages I want to learn.

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