I wonder if God no longer listens to us here.
We groan,
We kneel,
We cry in perfect English,
And heaven is silent.
But in Kifuuta, the Oracle still speaks,
Not in an American accent,
Not in BBC English,
But in a tongue that the ancestors understand.
And God answers.
Have we become orphans with a living God?
Our prayer is translated before it reaches the sky, and in translation, it loses its soul to slangs.
THE DISEASE
It came like a joke.
A boy in Primary came home and said, "Mum, don't speak that vernacular to me. I am in English class."
I laughed.
Now that joke has teeth.
It bites the infant before it bites the elder.
The infant who says, "My name is Jayden," but cannot say, "Ndi Kasekende" or "Nakyajja."
The elder who is 80 years old and says, "Actually, you know, basically..." for two minutes, and has said nothing.
Ask yourself:
- Nyerere spoke Swahili and built a nation.
- Kaunda spoke Nyanja and held Zambia together.
- Putin speaks Russian, though he knows German and English.
- Xi Jinping knows English, but speaks Chinese to the world.
- Gaddafi knew English, but spoke Arabic even at the United Nations.
Only here, a Munyankole MP cannot greet his own mother in Runyankole without mixing English.
Only here, a Muganda professor cannot say, "Oli Otya," without adding, "You know?"
We are not educated. We are captives.
Captives of self-distrust.
Lost in a cage of American accent, polishing the key to our own prison.
THE MUD HOLE
You asked, "Why has language become something that no longer gives joy?"
Because we turned it into a Kitezi—a rubbish heap.
Everybody throws anything.
"Nze actually nabadde ngenda ku introduction ya mukwano gwange, but..."
Two seconds, three languages, zero meaning. Not Luganda, not English. A dog's mud hole. Even the dog would be ashamed to bark there.
If a cow never barks like a dog,
Why does a Musoga want to sound like a Texan?
If a cock never meows like a cat,
Why does a Langi child know how to say, "I love you," but not, "Atye aber?"
The Banyankole, the Acholi, the Basoga, the Baganda, the Lango, the Iteso, the Bagisu—all of us—we have poured our own milk into the dirt, and we are begging for powdered milk from strangers.
THE LESSON FROM ABROAD
WHAT I HAVE BEEN SEEING
In London, English is English. Pure. Proud.
A German will speak to you in German. If you are lost, he will translate to help you, the stray wanderer. He does not abandon his tongue to host you.
In Dubai, Ya Salaam aleikumu.
In the United Arab Emirates, their language is their religion. A university student will argue with you for one hour about Arabic poetry. A child on the street will tell you, "The United Arab Emirates is the best country in the world"—in Arabic, with his chest out.
They went to teach their children how to love their country. We go to teach our children how to hate their village and love London.
They call a child for a meeting to make him love his flag.
We call a child with a stick: Namuginga or Akabaate—the teacher who beat the children for speaking Luganda. "SPEAK ENGLISH ONLY!"
You beat the child for speaking his Luganda, Lugisu, Acholi, or Ateso tongue, then, after he graduates, you tell him, "Now, remember your culture. Be proud of who you are."
How? How will he remember a language you beat out of him?
He will finish school and he will disown you. He will celebrate his graduation in a suit in summer heat, speaking English that even the English don't understand, while his clan totem is dying in his mouth. Why do you wear a suit in this hot region instead of drinking Waragi, Muramba, Nturire, Bwakata, or Tonto? Your budget is beer, cognac, whiskey to promote foreign products.
Listen, my people. Language is not just words.
Language is:
Kwanjula—Can you perform kwanjula in English? "We are here to introduce..." No. The Ssenga must speak Luganda. Even my Sister Nairima Christen refused to speak Luganda in the American accent. The Jjajja must speak. The words have spirits.
Amasiro & Malaalo—The royal tombs, the burial grounds. How do you talk to the dead in English? The dead do not know English. They only know the tongue you were given at birth. But you can't differentiate Amasiro ku Malaalo.
Omuziro & Obubbiro—Your totem, your second totem. The reason you don't marry within your clan. How do you explain that you are an Otter, a Lion, or Mamba clan in English without sounding like a fool? In Luganda, it's pride. "Ndi Wa Mutima Omuyanja." It's identity.
"Eradde?" "Mamu." / "Agandi?" "Nimalungi."
In that small greeting, I know you. I know your mother, your hill Naludugavu, your river Lusakalwamese. In "Hi bro, what's up, man?" I know nothing about you except that you are lost.
WHAT STOPS YOU
I am not condemning English. We love English. English is money, English is the plane, English is the internet.
But even a lion that cannot hunt is not a lion. A man who cannot greet his mother in his mother tongue cannot lead his nation.
You want to be President, MP, Katikiro, but in two sentences you are stuttering, mixing, mumbling, saying, "You know, what I mean is..."
How will you lead people you cannot speak to? How will you think for a country whose soul you cannot pronounce?
A foreign name on a building built in Kampala by a Munyankole on Baganda land—named "Greenfield Heights Apartments." Who is that for? Why not name it Muguluma, Bbemba, Mbaaga, or Nyirandorero? The ancestors are confused. They pass that building, and they don't know who lives there.
THE FINAL CALL
Either we drive in reverse or move forward,
Whether we are in first gear or last gear,
Our language is struggling like a car with no fuel.
And we are staring like cows watching water flow away.
So I say:
Let the elders meet. Let the children meet. Let us ask:
What is the thirst that unites us?
It is Olulimi.
Because if you take my land, I can buy another.
If you take my money, I can work again.
But if you take my language, you have taken my mother, my clan, my burial, my marriage, my God.
You have taken me, while I am still breathing.
Stand up.
Speak Luganda badly, but speak it.
Speak Lunyankole with an accent, but speak it.
Speak Acholi, Lango, Ateso, Lugisu—speak it, even if your children laugh.
In Kafuluma, the gods told me, "Better to be laughed at for loving your own than to be praised for being a perfect copy of a stranger."
For even animals have their own.
The Oracles in Kifuuta told me a cow will never bark like a dog.
Why should a Muganda bleat like an American? Kale, Sitani Alina amanyi.
