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Rooted in Language?

Written by L. Akitelek Papakemus
Monday, 10 September 2007
An established resident of love's limbo, I find myself once again caught up in a whirlwind romance with language. African by birth, blood and the sunshine in my skin, I still find it necessary to retreat when confronted by a "real" African language. Swahili it seems is not such a language, but the rest of them leave me shrinking back like a scared puppy, retreating into some shadowy corner to wait for scraps to fall off the table. So it is that anyone speaking to me in Gikuyu will receive a confident reply in Kikamba, put forth with a distinctly Luhya intonation and the occasional reference to the price of millet porridge in Dholuo, exclaimed along with a stream of severely adulterated Somali swear words. As I grow older, ever more estranged from my two year old self who thought and spoke in syntax and rhythms so different than I do now, I am filled with such guilt as only my maturity has the knowledge to formulate. It seems that in adopting the medium of the oppressor I have closed myself off, not only from my history and culture but also from my own voice; a mysterious essence that exists intertwined with the voices of the past. These ancient voices within me are at once so close and clear that I can feel their accusation, while at the same time so far removed from me that I cannot comprehend their whispers. The hideous product of a culture that has itself no culture, I find only my nomadic roots sustained. The shifter in my blood guides me to be the unwelcome guest at sumptuous, exotic banquets and on returning to my earthy home I find naught left to nourish me in this organic yearning for my true self. My community sees in me a traitor, one who failed to take in the rooting that was denied to me at my mothers breast. For this sin I am banished from the homestead as though I had myself chosen as my bedfellow the spirit of ignorance in opposition to the wisdom of the ages. To them my journey into the future can amount only to futility as my beginnings are mysterious, unknown to my spirit. In drawing from more than one well I have caused my vessel to be parched and the roots to which I feel bound continue to wither from a lack of sustenance. Like a cripple I am left to the wilderness because to my people I carry only the stench of the unfamiliar, the disgusting odour of all things alien. If a language really is to the mind what a meal is to the body ,then I shall remain forever haunted in the hyper-imagination by famished and with thoughts of imminent death. Cut off from their tongue, the secrets of my forefathers are forever lost on me and I remain but the distant echo of a glorious beginning. Though my voice resonates with the timbre of new music there is falsehood in my tongue and I feel myself fettered and reduced to a slave as my master mocks my novel creation. What gnaws at my heart is the unravelling web of captive lies that my colonizers spun to convince me of my primitive heritage. The edification that should have improved me, instead blinded meÂ to the constitution of my self and cunningly peeled from me the layers of my identity. I am left weathered and suddenly feel so far removed from the source that I find I cannot return. Related Articles: An extraordinary Valentine's Day Glorifying the Inglorious Political tribalism, moral ethnicity Brain Dump The romance of scars and scabs Set as favorite Bookmark Email This Trackback(0) TrackBack URI for this entry Comments (5) Subscribe to this comment's feed Show/Hide comments Rhythm Within written by Atandi , September 11, 2007 Akitelek,this is a beautiful piece;very well written. I can associate to an extent to the situation you present; of all the languages I should know, I know not my fathers. However, even though one feel mocked by the mere fact that s/he can only express self in tongue of the oppressor, this should be a bouncing board to strive to learn what was previously unknown. A language is but one expression of culture....everything you are takes up the rest. English is a means by which you communicate, a path of running forth your thoughts; however, the thoughts themselves....their content and character is not at all English; that is you and every aspect of you. If you read a book by Chinua Achebe or Ngugi wa Thiongo, you will find that the queens language is a means they use to convey a message; nonetheless, their is nothing english in what way that message is put down. Culture is soo much engraved in a person that it comes out in whatever they do. Remain well my sister. report abuse vote down vote up Votes: +0 a word in your ear written by Jayawardene , September 11, 2007 Thanks for another lovely offering. I cannot help noticing that if the author did not write in english all this beautiful writing would be lost to most of us. Language...strictly speaking... we should say spoken language is just a means to expressing the inner thoughts, where your true identity lives. So what if I have to translate this article in my mind into a language that will convey it to the heart? Have you ever watched a mime act? If a group made up of ten different nationalities or languages sat down to watch a mime act..... When a native of France comes up to you in the street and asks you, in anglais, "which time is it"? you clearly understand, look at your watch and provide the required information. Need served. Similarly if a inhabitant of our fair republic darts off in a hurry saying something about needing to go and "mount" a bus, you do not scratch your head in bewilderment....you know exactly what he means. report abuse vote down vote up Votes: +0 well..... written by papakemus , September 11, 2007 Njugi himself is fanatically critical about writers who see English/French etc as their primary medium of expression.Will have to find that reference. Salman Rushdie on the other hand argues that in using these languages we recreate our origins and to a certain extent make them richer. I have always felt there were parts of my history that were hemetic. report abuse vote down vote up Votes: +0 linguistic compromises written by Jayawardene , September 12, 2007 Papakemus, Hello there Ngugi can indeed be described as fanatical on that topic. He is a brilliant writer and many of his books are a must on any critical reader's shelf. I happen to think that one can love Ngugi's books whilst not fully subscribing to some of his more fanatical views. I wonder how it escapes Ngugi and his followers that he became an international name by making his genius accessible to the widest possible audiences via the tongue of the oppressor. How many similarly gifted writers are languishing unknown because they vowed only to write in the vernacular? It is a fine line between becoming an accomplished national writer and being labelled a sell-out. It seems that we will have to negotiate on that point a bit further. Which is more important, the contents or the package in which it was delivered? We see the same in the current politics of the day which is full of spin and presentation but bankrupt of ideas. Style gains importance over substance and we are led by the Bushes, Blairs, Mugabes, Mbekis and Kibakis, like sheep to the slaughter. report abuse vote down vote up Votes: +0 Jaya written by papakemus , September 12, 2007 I cant imagine not being to read and write and speak english....so much of what is key in my life i couldnt get in Teso or Luo, but all the same i find that because i cant speak LUO or Teso people will always ask me wher i'm from and i'll get really confused..... something about lacking a coherent sense of identity report abuse vote down vote up Votes: +0 Show/Hide comment form Write comment Name Email Title Comment smaller \| bigger Subscribe via email (Registered users only) I have read and agree to the Terms of Usage. Write the displayed characters
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