Issue 32: Stop Calling It Vernacular
Random thoughts on language and expression. Nothing conclusive.
Last week, after writing to you about my problematic (read: childish views about amala), I decided I would begin ‘unpacking’ some of the harmful beliefs [Nigerian] children are made to believe. Today, it’s vernacular.
Second Class Language
A month ago, I read Buchi Emecheta’s ‘Second Class Citizen’ and wrote to you about it. The novel touches on several themes — some of which occupy space and unravel throughout the novel. Speaking local languages is one of the smaller themes. Set in the 1960s, Adah Ofili, the protagonist, has just moved to England with her two children and husband. A few weeks after getting a childminder to watch her children (while she works at the library), she discovers that her daughter, Titi, who is described as a real chatterbox, has stopped talking altogether. After prodding and attempts to find out why her child isn’t speaking, Adah finds out her husband warned the less than five-year-old girl that he would beat her if she speaks in Yoruba. Since she doesn’t know much English, the smart girl decides to stop talking.
Buchi Emecheta explains the reason behind Francis’ warning:
“This was due to the fact that Nigeria was ruled for so long a time by the English. An intelligent man was judged by the way he spoke English. But it did not matter whether the English could speak the languages of the people they ruled…”
More than 40 years later, local Nigerian languages are still considered substandard.
A Language Called Vernacular
I’ve seen a bunch of stories on social media about people being punished for speaking their local languages. I am lucky because this was never my experience growing up. Everyone in my immediate family spoke Yoruba. In fact, it was the only way I could communicate with my maternal grandmother. In church, I enjoyed memorizing the words of the man who translated the sermon from English to Yoruba. But in school, it was slightly different. Mine wasn’t overt. In my first secondary school, it was subtle aggression and existed as an unspoken rule: to speak in a native language or pidgin meant that you were uncool, ‘razz’ and unintelligent. People who spoke poor English, pidgin or any other language were shunned. At some point, I too believed this was fine
When I started at a different school, I discovered the word ‘vernacular’. I was on the school bus on my way home and had said a word in Yoruba. A classmate threatened to report me to the English teacher for speaking vernacular. I didn’t know what it meant then, but it sounded dirty and it made feel me wrong.
Earlier in that decade, I was in primary school. The day before, we had been instructed to ask our parents where we were from, as a kind of homework. In school that day, on the assembly line, I asked my friends about their tribes and one of them who had an English-sounding last name said she was English. She was confident about this and I was quite certain, even for a seven-year-old, that she couldn’t be English. I had seen her parents and they didn’t look ‘English’. I mentioned a list of tribes I was familiar with and she considered all of them in disdain before telling me, ‘no’ curtly.
It was in that same year that my primary two teacher, Ms Afoloyan went to Mecca and returned wearing colourful scarves and calling me ‘Esteri Ayaba’ (Esther, wife of the king). About two years before this, on the evening before my first day in primary school, my sister told me that I had to stop using my middle name (Ope) and begin using my first name (Esther) in primary school. I don’t remember why, but it must have made sense to a five-year-old. I recognise it now as placing value on the English language over Yoruba (or being ashamed of the latter). By the time I finished primary school and was about to start secondary school, I knew I didn’t want to be Esther. I switched back to Ope. It was the first act of reclaiming my roots. But I was still a long way from recognising the ways in which upholding one language over the local languages had affected me. One of the many ways I later discovered as I read African literature was in the creation of very English characters while writing fiction.
This newsletter is listening to Lagbaja and Fela’s Vernacular
Literature
‘Their Eyes Were Watching God’ (Zora Neale Hurston, 1937) and ‘The Palm-Wine Drinkard’ (Amos Tutuola, 1952) were criticised for various reasons at the time of publication. The language used in these novels is one: ‘negro vernacular’ and ‘modified English’ respectively.
I enjoy the (possibly unconscious) resistance to language rules happening in both. Particularly with ‘Palm-Wine Drinkard’, I can’t stop thinking about Amos Tutuola’s response to criticism about his work (‘young English’, ‘primitive’, ‘naïve’, ‘lazy,’ etc.) Tutuola said:
“Probably if I had more education, that might change my writing or improve it or change it to another thing people would not admire. Well, I cannot say. Perhaps with higher education, I might not be as popular a writer. I might not write folktales. I might not take it as anything important. I would take it as superstition and not write in that line.”
I don’t know how to conclude random thought strands, without sounding preachy, so I’ll leave it as is.
Allow me to leave you with a few articles this week, some of which push my agenda:
Why are schools punishing children for speaking African languages?
What to Do if You're Feeling Especially Bad About Your Body Lately
Why it’s time to stop worrying about the decline of the English language
I hope you’re having a good week! Don’t forget to like, share and comment! Errors in the newsletter are a reminder that this is a labour of love. [Insert Crying Gif]
I enjoyed this. To think I just got home from a screening of Saworoide and a fireside chat with Tunde Kelani, and one of the things he talked about was language. Particularly Yoruba and how it may or may not disappear. Anyway, a conversation for another time. But I loved this and I love how you ended it. It’s...different. I like different.
This was a very interesting read, especially as my experience was almost the opposite. I got laughed at by my relatives for speaking bad Yòrùbá as a child so much so I completely refused to speak it for 10 years, though I understood the language. It was hearing my schoolmates in secondary school discussing in Yòrùbá and being unable to join in that made me finally start speaking Yòrùbá.
Also, fantastic taste in music re: Abami. Lágbájá needs to come back on streaming platforms 😭. This album is the OST to a lot of my childhood memories and holds a special place in my heart. I still say "Idea is need" whenever someone tries to criticize my poor Yòrùbá (accent).
Last but not least, good job on posting today. It's encouraging to me as I often don't post my newsletters because I worry it's too late in the day for a newsletter when I run late, yet here I am reading yours regardless and seeing it for the labour of love it truly is. Well done.