Listening to the conversations my mother had with her siblings
was a cherished pastime of mine, from a young child to the adult I've become.
I was always curious and entranced by the beautifully crafted words she wove,
Jealous that I couldn't grasp their meaning,
And even more regretful that I still do not speak her tongue.
My mother hails from the Egbira people,
A resilient group that faced their share of trials and triumphs,
A people who proudly traversed the land and passed down these treasured traditions.
To me, my mother's tongue is not just a method of communication,
It's a testament to centuries of enduring traditions.
This is why I could listen to my mother for hours on end,
Never growing tired, but increasingly stressed,
Trying in vain to piece together what she was saying.
Yearning to speak Egbira, to understand and proudly use it.
Sadly, I can't, and I imagine my ancestors shake their heads at me,
As well as at every other "Englishified" child wondering what went wrong.
So, I daydream about a reality where my first language isn't that of the colonizers,
But that of the Egbira people, the nomads, the farmers, and the lovers.
and I am reminded all the more of my loss.
To all "Children of our ancestors" like myself I say,
we should strive to learn our language because it's more than just a means of communication.
It's a mark that we survived, a sentiment that speaks volumes
To those who are willing to listen.
It's a connection to histories almost lost.
In my imagination,
A day will come where our ancestors might look down proudly at our somewhat correct
pronunciations, with a smile on their faces.
However, I find myself rendering them speechless by composing this poem in the language
imposed upon us by our oppressors.
sigh....
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