Lost in Translation, Found in Love
Relearning My Mother Tongue with My Kids, One Broken Sentence at a Time
The first time it truly slapped me was during a lockdown family Zoom call. Not a tap. Not a gentle nudge. A full-on spiritual backhand.
Uncles were speaking into the camera like they were trying to inhale it. Aunties were yelling “CAN YOU HEAR ME” on repeat like a broken gospel chorus. Cousins were appearing and disappearing like Wi-Fi-powered spirits. Everyone was talking at once, completely ignoring the mute button.
Then it happened. One of the elders started speaking. In our language.
And there sat my child. Next to me.
Eyes wide.
Smile frozen.
Comprehension? Nonexistent.
Then, the inquisition began.
“Ah-ah, she doesn’t understand?”
“So you people are not teaching them?”
“These children of nowadays ehn…”
Cue the gut punch. That very specific African parent guilt. Loud, dramatic, wearing full traditional attire and holding a megaphone.
But here's the part they never ask:
How do you teach what you barely speak?
I grew up in an English-speaking household. Not because anyone disrespected their heritage, no, far from it. It was more a diplomatic arrangement. My mother and father came from different tribes. Different tongues. Different proverbs, philosophies, and pepper preferences.
To avoid linguistic warfare and marital misunderstanding, English became the lingua franca. The Switzerland of our home. Peaceful. Neutral. Unproblematic.
And like many of us raised in postcolonial African societies, we were marinated in the gospel of English as the golden ticket. English got you through school. English got you the job. English made you sound intelligent in public and "exposed" at family gatherings.
By the time I started caring about my culture, it was already out of my mouth’s reach. I could understand fragments, sure. But when I spoke? I sounded like a malfunctioning generator on a hot day. And in an African family, if you butcher the language, they won’t whisper it. They’ll announce it with full audio.
Now, here I am. A parent. Raising children in a country where English is not just dominant — it's default.
I want them to know where they come from. To hear our language and feel something stir. To understand when their grandmother drops a proverb mid-conversation. To reply without looking lost.
But when it comes to language? Sometimes, I feel like I’ve got emotional riches and linguistic poverty. My other half? Same situation. Different tribe. Same English-default upbringing. The desire is there. The fluency is not.
So the cycle loops again. Not out of laziness. Not out of apathy. But out of life. Busy, relentless, real life.
And here’s the part no one prepares you for:
Language is not just vocabulary. It’s vibe.
It holds humour that doesn’t survive translation.
It carries sarcasm that English can’t replicate.
It offers respect in ways that hit deeper than “please” and “thank you.”
There are proverbs in my mother’s tongue that, when translated, just sound like the rantings of a confused uncle.
There’s a whole emotional texture I cannot gift my children … not fully; without the language.
But here's where I choose grace over guilt.
Many of us are navigating complex identities.
We are the diaspora.
We are multicultural.
We are married across tribes, cultures, even continents.
We are juggling legacies and Lego blocks at the same time.
And language, while powerful, is just one expression of culture.
Culture is also in the soup we serve on Sundays.
It’s in the music playing while in the car. In how we gather
It’s in how we greet your elders.
It’s in the stories we tell, the names we give, the silence we keep, the prayers we whisper when things get hard.
So what do I do now?
I start small.
I let them hear the language, even if it limps from my lips.
We learn a few words together.
We laugh when we mess it up.
We listen to songs that make no sense but sound like home.
We greet grandparents with clunky but earnest attempts.
Will they ever be fluent? Who knows.
But they will know they come from somewhere.
They will know their mother tried.
They will know we honoured the effort — the clumsy, beautiful, glitchy effort.
Many of us inherited a world that placed English above everything else. We did not choose that. But now we are choosing differently.
We are the bridge generation.
We are building what we didn’t fully receive.
And that, my friend, is a legacy of its own.
Just the other day, my child asked,
“Mummy, why don’t you speak your language properly?”
I smiled and replied,
“Because when I was your age, they told us to stop. But now? We’re learning together.”
And that right there? That is culture in motion.
Not perfection. Not performance. Just presence.
And the audacity to keep going.
Even if we sound like a struggling car trying to start on a cold morning.😂
If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story. How are you navigating language and culture in your home? What’s working? What’s messy? Let’s learn from each other. After all, culture is a shared journey. And there’s always room for one more word, one more laugh, one more lesson.
With love, laughter, and a side of jollof,
- The African Parent