July 2015

July 20, 2015  by

From the Community: Names Explained by Their Bearers

What is the story of your name? The answer to this question is always deeply personal, touching on family history.

We asked community members to email or tweet an interesting story about their name, with no format restriction. Though the contest launched about a month ago was titled ‘My Name, My Story’, upon reading the pieces, it becomes clear that it would have been more aptly dubbed ‘My name, Our Story’, so deeply embedded they are in a larger context.

Two of the winners have already received their prizes, a YorubaName.com T-shirt…and sent back photographic evidence !

Below are excerpts from the winning entries.

Stephen Adewale Oluwarotimi Ajayi

my name my story contest - stephen ajayi

My names are Stephen Adewale Oluwarotimi Ajayi.

From the moment I could read and write my mother never missed the opportunity to tell me how special I was to her. She had gotten married at a young age (as they all did back then) but was unable to bear a child for my father in the first 6 years. She was getting pregnant though, just wasn’t able to carry to term.
In the 7th year of her marriage I came. Oh yeah, my father came from a line of Adeyemi’s, which means ‘the crown befits me’ so he instantly named me Stephen, which according to my findings means ‘crown’ and then he added Adewale, which means ‘the crown has come home’.
The 6 years drought my mother had, had taken her through a deep journey in seeking her spiritual self and when she ‘took-in’, carried to term and had me (a bouncing baby boy) she immaculately named me Oluwarotimi, which means ‘the Lord stayed with me’. This is a compound name, so to speak, the second part being ‘Rotimi’ (I find this name so soothing), which means ‘Stay with me’. This I did till she left us to the Lord.

Olanrewaju

my name my story contest - olanrewaju 1

My name is Olanrewaju. Olanrewaju means ‘honour is continuing’ or ‘honour is moving forward’. (…) At birth and naming, it was glaring that honours continued coming to my father and the entire family  as a whole.

My father was a palm wine tapper, he became the head of the tappers (in Agbado/Agidingbi, present Ogun state, Nigeria) in the late 1930s. He left wine tapping/selling to become a stationery and book seller in Jankara market, Lagos state. This business grew from kiosk trade to shop and later departmental store in the late 50s. All this while, only female children were born, with only a male out of the eight.

In the wake of Nigeria’s independence in 1960, my father came home to the village (Iludun-Oro, Kwara State) to give his house a modern architectural facelift. Three years after independence, on August 1st, 1963, I was born, the much awaited male child had come!

Abiodun Temitope Ayotunde Omowon Idowu

Abi’s parents, living in London at the time, had one child before they were advised that, due to medical issues, another pregnancy would pose a severe risk to her mother’s life.

Eight years later, while curled up in the arms of my father in bed at night, my mother had a dream where she saw her father-in-law, dressed as a woman in high fashion and with an ample bosom and he called her name and told her that he was returning to her and that she was three months pregnant and that he would return as a girl, fair of skin and dark of eyes and though men would find her appealing, she would struggle to pick one as a mate.

My mother woke up and while she was struggling with how to tell my startled father who was wondering why she was shaky, the phone rang and my father was informed that his father had passed at midnight. My mother then told my father her dream after he had calmed down and he went and got a pregnancy test kit. It was positive.

As my parents made plans to come for the funeral, my mother convinced my dad to make the move permanent as she was terrified that she would be made to abort her baby. Father agreed and they came home finally and three months and three weeks later I was born in Lagos, premature but strong and healthy and I was immediately named Omowon (a child is rare).

I now have two other siblings. My eyes are dark and a bit fair of skin and though I have been engaged four times, I am yet to pick a mate.

[Abi hasn’t claimed her gift yet, which is why we couldn’t feature her photo on the blog post.]

Although the contest has now ended, we have not stopped receiving emails. Do you have any peculiar story about your name? Send them to us at project@yorubaname.com. We’d love to read (and possibly share) them. We are not definitely promising you a t-shirt for your efforts but you can never know…

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July 17, 2015  by

Benin Travel Report #2: Bright Yellow Wave in Cotonou

I always find it very telling to hear about other people’s experiences of space, especially when they are travelling in a place where they can’t rely on the cues they are used to. Someone like me, who was used to maps and street names and generally to written signs indicating the location of things in the city, navigating Bangkok was a huge adjustment because I initially had no clue how to read Thai, nor did I know that most people in Thailand don’t orient themselves using maps.

Since then, I’ve noticed how what we pick out in our visual environment is trained by our interests but also by experiences such as getting lost in Bangkok and working out strategies for that not to happen too often.

Painting behind Fondation Zinsou, Cotonou

Painting behind Fondation Zinsou, Cotonou

More than any landmark, this is what struck me the most on my first few days in Cotonou: the yellow wave of motorcycle taxis, the yellow of MTN-sponsored shops and ads, just yellow everywhere. In Cotonou, you hardly see any buses, minibuses, or any form of public transport other than shared green and yellow taxis. What you see a lot of, on the other hand, are motorcycle taxis donning the yellow sleeveless shirt indicating their registration number with the city council. Each city enforces their own regulations regarding this form of public transport and they have colour codes – blue in Porto Novo, green in Ouidah, purple and yellow in Bohicon – but nowhere is it as massively visible as in Cotonou, where competition for passengers is stiff.

Another observation that took a while longer to register but is no less impressive, is the contrast between the languages you hear on the streets and the signs and various written material present in the city. I can’t tell Fon from Gun or Minna but I definitely hear some French seamlessly woven into speech here and there, a bit of Nago (a dialect of Yorùbá) on a lucky day, and the occasional exchange in Nigerian Pidgin English. In all these daily conversations, French isn’t the most used language, unless a foreigner is involved.

But if you were to block your ears for a while and look only at the signs, you would be forgiven for quoting French, not Fon, as the city’s main lingua franca. I mentioned the wide dominance of French in the publishing sector, but it goes way beyond this aspect. Billboards, electoral campaign posters, shop signs, booklets about how to be a good wife: all these are in French, entirely. Of course, the language of instruction in Benin is French, and international brands probably produce advertising concepts that are only regionally localised, but what of local shopkeepers? Simply put, they learnt to write in French and wouldn’t think of using their own languages in writing, provided they knew how to.

In Porto Novo, I had a nice chat with a lady called Raoulat who owns a kitchenware store. We spoke for a few minutes in French, then in Yorùbá, and she helped me find my way to the Jardin des Plantes (botanical garden). She seemed so concerned about my well-being that I decided to send her a reassuring text once I got to my destination. A few minutes later, she called me back…to say she supposed I got there safely, but she was sorry she couldn’t read her mother tongue, Yorùbá. I was embarrassed not to have thought of that beforehand, and remembered how my own grandparents, who were native Breton speakers, never learnt to read or write it, but were literate in French, a language they had to acquire the hard way at school.

I started looking out for bilingual signs or at least traces of the languages I heard spoken in Benin. Porto Novo was different from Cotonou in this regard: Nigerian movies in Yorùbá are quite popular there, and there are entire shops full of DVDs with covers in Yorùbá or a mix of Yorùbá and English. The botanical garden, though currently in an alarming state of neglect, has multilingual labels indicating the plant species in Latin, Fon, Yoruba and French:

Multilingual board at the botanical garden, Porto Novo.

Multilingual board at the botanical garden, Porto Novo.

Guedevy Hotel in Abomey is famous for its wall decorations depicting the symbols of successive Danxome kings, but something else altogether caught my attention: a bilingual Fon / French reception sign! Granted, the font for ‘Agbaji’ is somewhat smaller than the French but still…

Bilingual reception sign at Guedevy Hotel, Abomey. Agbaji / Reception

Bilingual reception sign at Guedevy Hotel, Abomey. Agbaji / Reception

So the trip continues!

Did you miss part 1? Head over here to read about Benin’s multilingual youth.

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July 10, 2015  by

Benin Travel Report #1 : Language Obsession

After a little over three weeks in the country of Benin, I decided it was time to share some of my obsessive thoughts on language, literature and…just generally people I talk to on a daily basis.

JPN

Jardin des Plantes, Porto Novo

Never multilingual enough

Most Beninois I’ve met are fluent in at least 3 languages – usually including Fon and French, but combinations vary – while some are able to communicate in an impressive number of languages spoken in the region. Multilingualism is definitely the norm and younger generations are now going one step further to embrace English and Mandarin Chinese as foreign languages.

And it’s not just talk: parents are ready to spend their hard-earned CFA Francs on sending their children to Ghana during the school holidays for them to improve their English in a conducive learning environment. There are summer language schools popping up on every block, bilingual English/French schools, and kids randomly greeting me in English on the street. From what I’ve been able to observe in Cotonou, learning English is very popular as the language is seen as a key to unlock study and job opportunities around the world.

Another upcoming trend is the study of Mandarin Chinese, both at university and at language centers such as the Confucius Institute. There is a lot of interest in Mandarin from young people who are looking to bag scholarships to China but are also keenly aware of the rise of Chinese businesses on the continent, and investing in the language as a way of keeping ahead in a competitive job market.

My impression is that young people’s attitude towards foreign language learning is positive, since these popular languages are meant to increase their chances of achieving a desirable lifestyle, but also incredibly confident and driven. While practically every single person I’ve told that I am learning Yorùbá has asked me if I found it difficult and seemed a bit incredulous, I don’t hear language learners saying English or Chinese are a big challenge to them. They just go for it!

On the situation of indigenous languages

When I look back at the past 3 weeks I’ve spent here, meeting quite a few professionals and academics involved in language-related fields such as linguistics, language instruction, indigenous language promotion, it is striking to realise that for the most part, they are forced to either create their own learning materials at great expense to themselves and/or their institutions, or rely on books imported from Nigeria. Based on my contacts’ assessment and my own short experience in the country, publishing in indigenous languages in Benin is virtually non-existent.

However, Yorùbá language and literature are taught at undergraduate levels at Université Abomey-Calavi and the numbers are very encouraging: every year, over 400 linguistics major are enrolled in the Yorùbá elective at various levels. Some of them may even be poets in the making for all we know! With enough support from teachers and publishing industry players, literature from Benin could in future become a better reflection of the linguistic landscape of the country. Already, Dr Adjẹran has a poetry collection in Yorùbá coming out very soon and his colleague at Université Abomey-Calavi, Pr Ige Mamoud, is working on a monolingual Yorùbá dictionary as well as Yorùbá learning materials for Benin.

That’s not all there is to Benin…

I’ve been dwelling mostly on Yorùbá language and literature in this first report because this is where my current interests lie but from my wanderings in the streets of Cotonou, Porto Novo and Ouidah, I took away some other peculiar stories and observations.

For instance, did you know that TVs are absolutely everywhere, even the smallest neighbourhood kiosk, but almost nobody here watches Benin TV channels? Or that motorcycle taxis wear different uniform colours depending on the city where they operate?

I will talk about this in my next post, coming up later in the week. But for now, back to work.

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July 7, 2015  by

Teaching Yoruba in Nigeria

A couple of days ago, I came across this otherwise exhilarating piece of news. For the umpteenth time, a body of lawmakers in Nigeria have passed a law to teach local languages in secondary schools in the state of Lagos. Good news, yay… sort of!

Kola3I teach English language in a high school in Lagos, Nigeria, and I’ve complained for a while about the removal of languages from the syllabus of schools in response to a federal mandate. I have also taught Yoruba abroad at the university level, so I know and appreciate the enthusiastic response of other people far away to these languages that we had held in so much disrespect. So, from afar, this looks like a timely intervention in a negative trend that has kept Nigerian languages in the back burner while foreign languages (like French, German, Spanish) have enjoyed tremendous prominence and priority in our educational institutions.

An “urging” isn’t what it takes

From up close however, the piece of news is not only late, it is empty. Rather than actually demand that syllabi be changed across the state to make the local language compulsory, and funds made available to make this a reality, the news reports that the legislative body only “urged that the language should be introduced in both public and private primary schools in the state.” To most people who care about the matter, an “urging” certainly is the least expected outcome.

For over a year now, a federal mandate from the Ministry of Education has ensured that most secondary schools around the country remove the local language element from the syllabus in order to accommodate new compulsory subjects (like Computer, and Civic Education). Though not particularly problematic as subjects themselves, since at least one of them is important in today’s global learning environment, the mandate has ignored the terrible unintended consequence: teaching local languages has now become an optional expense which most secondary schools have become comfortable enough to avoid, satisfied with meeting the criteria of any other nine WAEC subjects. For a typical student, this includes Math, English, Civics, Computer, Economics, and four other elective subjects that are NOT Yoruba, Igbo or Hausa, or even History.

“I don’t speak my dialect”, they proudly say

What this has meant for interested observers is the sad reality that the most formative years of a Nigerian child’s life today are spent learning everything but the most important information about his/her history, language, or culture; and doing this in English, a global language that not only helps in ensuring the eventual extinction of our own medium of thought, but that has not accepted us enough as authentic or, if you will, native speakers capable of generating norms in the language. (Hint: it will probably never happen).

What this future portends is bleak: a generation bred in a comatose vat of a tepid growth in either direction of thought or language competence. When a fourteen year-old responds to an inquiry on his language use, with pride, as “I don’t speak my dialect” when he actually means “I don’t speak my language”, what is problematic there is way beyond just a mere issue of language loss, even though that’s what jumps out at first. This child has mastered not only the apathy of his immediate environment, but he has mastered it with an ignorance that equates “dialect” with “language”.

When you ask “Why don’t you speak your language?” one of the more common responses point to either the absence of a speaking parent, the lack of encouragement by society, the total disillusionment about the need, usefulness, or value of such a skill at all in today’s “global” world, or a personal apathy: “I don’t think it’s important. It doesn’t matter. Everyone speaks English anyway, and I intend to travel abroad soon for my college education. Why would I need Igbo/Hausa/Yoruba then?” I’ve often followed up my question with another one: “You do realise that Britain/America have people who already speak English as a first language, who would never be any more impressed by your use of it as they are of anyone else from Jamaica or Ghana. Is there anything else you bring to the table other than this language that – as you said – is already spoken by everyone else in the world?” Also: “Do you realise that you’d never be competent enough as to be referred to as a native speaker of English, no matter how hard you try?” Even more: “Have you prepared for your TOEFL exam yet? Do you know why you have to write it?” And this: “Do you know how much these countries spend every year to have their own citizens learn these languages that you have treated with apathy?”

Penalised for speaking “vernacular”

This apathy was not manufactured by the children. This “problem” being “solved” by a body of elected officials is also not a new one. Way back in the eighties, we were penalised in school for speaking what our Ghanaian teachers – employed particularly because of our parents’ preference for their English accents – called the “vernacular”. Today, colleagues of mine in a high school will frown at conversations between teachers conducted in any other Nigerian language, yet have no problems with ones done in French, or Spanish. I thought back to my primary school days in the hands of the Ghanaian teachers and found no resistance, among the school authority heads, for the Twi conversations among those same teachers, and for all the times we were called kwasia (as my memory remembers it) for some class behaviour. The fact is that over time, we have sold ourselves to the idea that a foreign language is superior to ours, and that we need it to survive in the world, even if our own languages die out of disuse. Most secondary schools in the country that dropped Yoruba, Igbo, Hausa, etc from their syllabi in response to the federal mandate, have not dropped French, and when asked will probably see no problem whatsoever in that behaviour.

I am happy for the new rule (or “urging”) by the Lagos State legislators, and hope that similar and more enforceable rules spring up in other states in the country, backed by state resources, to keep our languages alive. However, the biggest effort to stem the erosion of our indigenous language future will come from the home, and from our minds. As the musician rightly said, “None but ourselves can free our minds.” The question is: do we know how bound it currently is?

Meanwhile, FG is sending Nigerian teachers to teach Yoruba in Brazil.

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