English is one of the most spoken languages in the world. It has travelled and attached itself to nations, lodging itself in schools, governments, and global businesses. Today, out of the world’s 7.8 billion inhabitants, about 1.35 billion speak English. Yet the majority are not native speakers. For these people, English is an additional language, spoken alongside their mother tongues. Their children then have the opportunity to acquire two languages.
Meanwhile, language learning and acquisition are a matter of exposure. A child learns what they hear most often. In Nigeria, it is increasingly common to find children who cannot speak their native languages, even while their grandparents are fluent. Parents, often with good intentions, choose to emphasise English at home. They believe English is the ticket to social mobility, an easier future in a world that tilts toward the West. And they are not wrong; English does open doors. But it quietly closes others.
In language learning, it is said that our ability to grasp a second language is tied to the first. As the saying goes, if something does not exist in your language, it might as well not exist at all. But, as there are always exceptions to rules, there are several things that exist in English cultures that do not native cultures. So, if children lose their mother tongue, they lose more than just a set of words. They lose the grounding that helps them understand nuance and meaning.
So, how should non-Western parents, especially in Africa, raise their children? With English, or with their native languages?
On one hand, English is access. It carries exposure, relevance, and in many ways, survival in a global economy. To deny a child fluency in English may feel like handicapping them in a world where job applications, university admission essays, and even medical consultations are performed in English. On the other hand, surrendering completely to English carries its own risk. Isn’t this a shadow of colonial inferiority, that the very language of the colonisers now becomes the only tongue the children can claim?
Every culture begins with language. It is the first and most intimate marker of identity. A Tiv man abroad may not be recognised by his clothes or features, but the moment he speaks Tiv, he is immediately seen by his people. Language collapses distance. When children are raised without their native tongue, they lose not only connection with their elders but also the instinctive cultural codes buried in proverbs, idioms and histories that are often untranslatable. Or how do you translate, Igi gogoro ma gunmi loju? from Yoruba to English?
It is understood that children can grow into both, but it requires intention. The mind can accommodate two languages at once, and whichever dominates depends on deliberate exposure. In practice, this might mean speaking Hausa or Ibibio at home, while English takes its natural place in schools. It might mean insisting that children know how to greet, pray or tell a story in their mother tongue, even while they write their essays in English.
The bigger picture is that globalisation has already ensured that our children will learn English, or other languages, if you may. It is almost inescapable. But we can always find that balance. How? I will let you know when I have a child. What I do know is that a child fluent in their native language carries a piece of history. And if they lose it, they lose their identity.
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