Greetings to all my hivian's! Trust we're doing great?
Have you ever spoken a language so confidently wrong that even your ancestors wanted to unsubscribe from your lineage? That was me, the day I decided to show off my “French skills” in front of real humans. I say “skills” loosely, because what I really had was Duolingo confidence mixed with village accent.
Back in secondary school, French was a compulsory subject. Our teacher, Madam Chinonso, had the patience of a goat chewing fresh cassava. She once told us that, to speak French, you must romance the words with your tongue. I didn’t know what that meant, but I tried. Unfortunately, my tongue refused to be romantic.
One day, she called me to read a short paragraph in French. I stood up, chest out like I was about to drop a Grammy speech. The first word was “Bonjour.” I said “Bohn-jaw” like I was ordering pounded yam in a village buka. Everyone burst into laughter. Madam just looked at me and whispered, “See disgrace.”
I didn’t stop there. I continued to murder every single word in that paragraph. By the time I got to “Je m’appelle,” I pronounced it as “Jem Apple.” Madam Chinonso stood up, removed her glasses slowly, and said, “If I hear ‘Jem Apple’ again, I’ll turn this French class into a Biology dissection.” I sat down quietly, begging God to restart the day.
Fast forward to university, I thought I had matured. I downloaded Duolingo and decided to take French seriously. I even put “Intermediate French Speaker” on my CV, oh God, forgive me.
Then came the disaster. During a cultural symposium, one of the organizers said, “Anyone here speak French?” I raised my hand with the boldness of someone possessed by Napoleon Bonaparte. They handed me the mic to give the welcome address in French. The moment I opened my mouth, Duolingo unfollowed me spiritually.
I started with, “Bonjour mes amis,” which was fine. Then I said, “Je suis fatigue de Nigeria,” thinking I was saying “I am proud of Nigeria.” I had just told a room full of educated people that I was tired of Nigeria. Some clapped. Some were confused. One aunty whispered, “Did this one just insult the country?” My ancestors wept.
I tried to say “I love my culture” but said “J’adore mon couteau.” That means “I love my knife.” At that point, I don’t know if they thought I was a proud Nigerian or a French-speaking assassin. I ended the speech with “Merci beaucoup,” but I pronounced it “Messy Boko.” My friends avoided eye contact for a week.
After the event, a French guest walked up to me and said, “Interesting dialect, where did you learn it?” I smiled and replied, “Oh, just small, small practice.” Inside my mind, I was telling Duolingo, “You will hear from my lawyers.”
Moral of the story: Before you raise your hand to speak a foreign language in public, ask yourself, “Is this my calling?” If the answer is no, drink water and mind your native language.
Till today, anytime I hear French music, my ears automatically turn off. Even my phone autocorrect now avoids French words.
Language is beautiful, yes. But embarrassing yourself publicly? Even more universal.
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Image used is Ai generated
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