I speak an African language, not a ‘dialect’

Self Editor’s Note: Ekegusii, the language of Our Man in America’s ancestors.

WHEN three years ago, my hero, renowned Kenyan novelist, playwright and scholar, Prof. Ngugi wa Thiong’o, told me to think about writing in Ekegusii, I said, “Get out of here.” (Not to his face, of course). wa Thiong’o writes mostly in Gikuyu and has his work translated into English. (By the way, Mwalimu, if you are reading this, please know Wizard of the Crow is too big to read in bed. I suffered a broken nose when my hands gave up, but knowing the state of the Kenyan judicial system, I’m not going to sue your publisher. Just tell me “Weep not, Child” and I’ll be OK).

Last week I had my first-ever story written in the language of my ancestors published.

Yes, I know, but those Standard III (Third Grade) letters I wrote asking my classmate Nyaboke to sleep with me for a couple of passion fruits do not count as stories. In my days passion fruits grew wild in forests — we had forests back then — and I had to crawl through thorny trees and climb the tall trees the fruit vines wrapped themselves around, so don’t judge me.

Some of you might be surprised that I wrote in Ekegusii. But you know we Africans are great orators. Our great oral tradition is the reason the world has embraced our proverbs and allegories. Remember this one, America? “Walk softly and carry a big stick.” Teddy Roosevelt didn’t write that. He borrowed it from West Africa. Now add exceptional writing skills acquired from UC Berkeley and you’ve got trouble.

I know, I know. But $60,000 in student loans ($150,000 really if you count interest), of course I’m going to keep reminding you that I read my books at Berkeley. Just kidding. No one in Berkeley or any other U.S. college reads books. They just go to class — half the time — and pass with flying colors. <== Gotta love that Standard I cliche — it has no equivalent.

If you are among the remaining 21 or so speakers of the language of my mothers, you might ask, “Gaki, Omwana oito o Mache Ng’umbu, nomanyete koriika Ekegusii? (Come on, Our Man in America, you really wrote that?) And I would say, “You sound like some of my American college professors and classmates who think only Americans can be fluent in English. (Many of my classmates failed the college Writing Skills Test — Standard V English, really — but were quick to judge me by my accent).

Anyways, I’m writing a whole book about that, so let’s go on with the story.

The story this story is about is called “Esese Isiko, Ekemoni Nyomba.” (Dogs Outdoors, Cats Indoors). I might warn you that it is not on a topic you’d expect a graduate of Berkeley to write on.

It is about how ridiculously spoiled American pets are.

Ne esese nero nigo yanchire mono. Emenyete nyomba, egoikaransa esoba seti igoro yarigereria etelebiseni na abanyene. Esese ya Amerika oise konyereta seito Kenya nigo erakwe bwango mono. Nyama mbese sese ya Amerika terikoria. Tenga buna Ondieki yaito yakaminyokirie egesusu gose egechure yabwata twaria, twanyea amauga. Buna ekemoni kia Amerika, esese ya Amerika nigo ekoroserigwa endagera special ekogorwa korwa etuka.

(The American dog is a darling. He lives in the house and shares the couch and even watches television with his “family.” If you brought him to Kenya he’d die in a minute. He doesn’t eat raw flesh, like Ondieki, my childhood dog who used to catch rabbits and antelopes for us, but only got the bones after our feast. Like the American cat, he eats special food bought from the supermarket).

Some might say that the same could be said about some American children, but, hey, be nice. The American kids I know like their steak very rare. (Lest you think “rare” in this case means they eat steak only on special occasions. Rare steak is thrown on the grill for about 20 seconds. Yeah, I know. The last African you saw eat raw meat was your 106-year-old great-grandfather, way back in the ’60s. And I know it doesn’t make sense to spend an hour kindling a fire just to “cook” steak for a fraction of a minute. But America is full of irony and contradictions).

My Ekegusii story has no plot, and the characters are poorly developed. It proposes no solution to the plight of that supposedly godforsaken continent of great suffering. Why bother when we have Bono, Angelina Jolie, Madonna and Hillary’s and Melinda’s husband, Bill? Do Africans even have the education required to solve a simple math problem? But  my story is so damn well-written.

I wrote the story because whenever I go home to Kenya my kinfolk often ask why, despite being in America for 15 years, I haven’t forgotten Ekegusii. That’s because there are Abagusii who go home after only two years abroad and tell the “natives” that they forgot Ekegusii — because, in their America, we don’t speak the language.  I have even run into Abagusii  here in America who pretend that they don’t speak our language.

“There is not need for it,” one Omogusii told me when I asked why he didn’t speak the language. A few weeks later, a girl I set him up with told me she had him speaking in tongues in bed and it wasn’t Kiswahili. Just kidding. I don’t help guys like him get laid. And if I had a female friend that wanted to romance a guy, don’t you think I’d hook myself up first?

While some pretend, others are victims of parents who live in Kenya, but hold that colonial mindset that our languages inferior to European ones. They have bought into that stereotypical baloney that unlike Europeans, we Africans have dialects.

Yo hablo poquito español, y peinso que it’s a dialect de mas idiomas de los gringos. Las Latinas son muy preciosa y romántico, though.

Soma “Esese Isiko, Ekemoni Nyomba,” aa seito Gusii.com. Gogoika oo onkwanerie Jared o Nyaberi.

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Tags: african languages, ekegusii, gikuyu, Gusii, ngugi wa thiong'o, student loans, uc berkeley, weep not child, wizard of the crow