Confessions of a Nearly-Native

My name is Idara. I am Annang from Akwa Ibom. And I cannot speak my language. My mother speaks to me every day in Annang. “Idara, di” “Uwanne, di mi!” I reply in English. I was probably thirteen the first time I noticed. My grandmother was praying, eyes closed, her hands over the yams, “Abasi edioong udia emi," and I understood her. Every word. But when she finished and looked at me, waiting for something, I couldn’t find my tongue. I just sat there. She smiled and turned back to the pot. I didn’t think about it again for years. Now I think about it constantly. At weddings, my aunties switch to Annang, leaning in so the children won’t catch their gossip. I catch every word. I keep my face empty. I don’t let them know I’m listening. In the village, my grandmother takes my hand in prayer, both of hers wrapped around my small ones. "Yak nnyin akam." Poor child. Her eyes go somewhere I can’t follow. I want to say something. Mma, I’m trying. Mma, teach me. Mma, I’m sorry. But the words don’t come in any language. I just let her hold my hand until she lets go. My cousins call me white. They laugh when I open my mouth. “Idara, say something! Say usen!” I laugh with them. What else can I do? But I’ve started watching their faces when they laugh. Udo’s eyes go hard around the edges. Ekaete’s eyes look down. Kufre laughs loudest, but his laugh cuts off quick, like he remembers something. I don’t know what they remember. I don’t ask. But here’s what I know. Sunday afternoons in my mother’s kitchen. Afang bubbling. Palm oil slick on my fingers. Tiny dried fish stuck in-between my teeth. I learnt that my grandmother learnt English at missionary school. Speak or else. She spoke to her own children in English too so they would never feel the cane. So my mother spoke to me in English. And here I am. I asked my mother once, “What did you lose?” She looked at me for a long time. Then she said, “Ask me again when you’re ready to hear.” The kitchen went quiet. Just the hum of the fridge, the indistinct tick of the clock. I washed my plate. I went to my room. That was three years ago. Last week, my grandmother prayed over me before I left the village. Same prayer. Same hands. Same eyes going somewhere I can't follow. When she finished, she looked at me. And I said: “sé” Thank you. Just that. One word. Probably wrong. Probably butchered. Probably not even the right tone. But her face. She didn't smile. She didn't cry. She just looked at me for a long time. Then she nodded. Once. And went back inside. I don’t know what I wanted. Maybe tears. Maybe for her to pull me close. Maybe the ancestors to descend and declare me found. What I got was a nod. One nod. Then the door closing. I stood there for a long time. The dust. The heat. I don't know if sé was enough. I don't know if anything will ever be enough. But I said it. My name is Idara. I am Annang from Akwa Ibom. I know what my grandmother’s hand feels like around mine. I know the quiet after a question I’m not ready to hear is answered. I know my cousins laugh with something in their throat’s I’m too afraid to name. I know one word in my mother’s tongue. Sé.

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