In school, teacher says, “speaking and writing fluently in English is the test of knowledge.” That the inscribed tongue situated inside my oral cavity by my ancestors is prohibited, that if I keep tonguing my tongue, I will be a jackleg.
So, to prove that I am not a jackleg, I try to speak in this tongue of men that stays awake in me all night; I try to shrimp my tongue, and in doing so, I sweep off the fifth commandment, obedience, from my head.
65 years forward, we are still under the reign of Lord Lugard. We still drink from his cup of importations, eat from his plate of shepherd’s pie, Cornish pasty, Scottish eggs and wear his clothes, because we say that our clothing is not clothing enough to clothe us. We still dance to his rhythmic tone of colonization in his whitewash music, even after 65 years of divorce.
I realized we divorced on social media, in court, on paper, but not in mind. Even when the marriage certificate was burned to residue, the web of ashes still hangs around the eaves of our homes.
What happens to your mind when the exam committee evaluates your knowledge with neologisms? When they wear the dress of ceaseless smiles just to stand up for the best graduating student in English but will say Igbo speakers are the red lanterns.
From this side of the divide, accent aficionados are accorded mentors. My father, whose tongue has been darting and relishing in the red oil is now protégée.
We were told that studying the Nigeria history, we will read and write in English, that if ever we attempt to read or write in Igbo, we will never know our history, maybe we will need to declutter our legs and wear a shovel, or just in case, we might need to cut our hands & become excavators.
To read the archives of Ojukwu, Aguiyi Ironsi, and Zik, I will need to gaze at the documented English version, because if I dare the Igbo version, I am reading in hieroglyphics.
Even in my community meetings, I am unwelcome to roll my tongue at my own terms or get penalized. Period. And when I come in and ask “kedu otuonumere?” a grave silence covers the floor.
I greet a boy, “I bolachi” only for my greetings to be interpreted as a palaver.
When I am forced to read, write and be fluent in English to make As, but I can be tongueless in my tongue without affecting my grade, I wonder how deep this serpent of colonialism has slithered into the temple of the gullible, even when the mongoose’s nimble body or thick skin is immune.
The other day, a lady refused a man because he obliged to tie to aisle through the ancestral bond.
She was told that the ‘H’ in Holy Matrimony is Holier and sacred than the ‘a’ and ‘b’ in ancestral bound and should be accorded some respect, both in pronunciation and in writing.
I am orbiting the planet of astonishment, obeying the fifth commandment.
ABOUT THE WRITER
A Nigerian writer from Imo State, and musician—Victor Unachukwu demonstrates a fervent commitment to addressing social issues through his work. By giving voice to the challenges faced by society, he seeks to spark meaningful change in society—with a sense of amplifying the voiceless in society. He is currently a master’s student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, USA, where he is currently pursuing his Master of Arts in English, with a concentration in Creative Writing. He writes poetry, short stories, flash fiction and novellas. He lives at Birmingham Alabama, United states of America.