BY RITA OYIBOKA/AMAYINDI YAKUBU/JUDITH OBIANUA
The first words a child hears often shape the world he grows into. In a middle-class home somewhere in urban Nigeria, a young mother makes a deliberate decision that her child will speak flawless Queen’s English. She wants confidence, sophistication, and global opportunity for her daughter, not the perceived limitations of a local accent.
At home, conversations happen strictly in English. Visitors are gently corrected when they slip into the native language. Grandparents are encouraged to “speak properly” so the child does not pick up an accent considered undesirable.
The strategy appears successful. The child grows articulate, polished, and academically confident. Teachers praise her diction. Relatives admire her pronunciation. She excels in debates, writes essays effortlessly, and navigates English-speaking spaces with ease. Yet, years later, subtle cracks begin to appear.
At family gatherings, laughter erupts over cultural jokes she cannot understand. Elders switch briefly into their mother tongue to share wisdom or settle disputes, and she becomes an outsider in conversations meant to include her. When cultural rites demand participation, she struggles to respond appropriately.
As an adult, she realises the cost of linguistic disconnection. She cannot fully engage with her heritage, cannot pass the language to her own children, and occasionally misses opportunities where cultural and linguistic fluency matter, community leadership roles, cultural engagements, and even professional openings requiring indigenous language proficiency. English gave her access to the world, but it quietly severed a bridge to home.
Her story is no longer rare. Across Nigeria, in the Delta, in Lagos, and across the North, where Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, and dozens of other tongues intersect, young people are navigating a delicate balance. English opens doors to scholarships, global platforms, and international conversations. Indigenous languages anchor memory, belonging, and cultural authority. Between the two lies a generation negotiating identity in real time.
As the world marks International Mother Language Day today, under the theme “Youth Voices on Multilingual Education,” the conversation becomes deeply personal. For some Nigerians, the inability to count from one to ten in their mother tongue becomes a humbling awakening.
To gauge the impact of this growing linguistic shift, The Pointer Newspaper spoke with educators, youth leaders, parents, and cultural advocates whose experiences reveal a nation quietly drifting away from its linguistic roots.
The Identity Conflict Many Young Nigerians Carry
For Delta State Female Youth Ambassador, Iyebe Peace Oritsesan, the consequences of language loss are not theoretical; they are personal.
“Honestly, not being able to speak my mother’s tongue fluently has been one of my biggest internal conflicts,” she said, reflecting on growing up in a multilingual environment where English dominated both school and home life because it was simply easier.
English equipped her for leadership spaces. It allowed her to speak confidently on platforms and represent her state publicly. Yet beneath that confidence was an uncomfortable disconnect.
“So, at some point, I could confidently represent my state in the leadership space and speak on platforms, but I was struggling to express myself in my native language,” she explained. “It made me feel slightly disconnected from my roots because some cultural groups I couldn’t fully understand. There were some talks that I could not relate to.”
The struggle went beyond communication; it touched belonging itself.
“There were moments when I wanted to respond in my native language just for belonging, not just for respect.”
The consequences nearly became life-altering. She revealed that she almost lost a scholarship opportunity because of a language requirement.
“I was asked a question in my mother’s tongue. I was told to say one to ten, but I couldn’t. That experience actually humbled me deeply.”
For Peace, the incident reframed her understanding of language entirely.
“It wasn’t just about that experience. It was about my identity. This made me realise that language is actually more than just communication. It is actually heritage.”
Now, she is intentionally relearning her language, a process she admits is uncomfortable but necessary.
“I know it’s uncomfortable, but it feels like I’m reclaiming something that was actually always mine.”
Her story mirrors a quiet reality among many Nigerian youths: fluency in English brings mobility, but the absence of the mother tongue creates emotional and cultural gaps that only become visible later in life.
Multilingualism: Advantage or Imbalance?
Nigeria’s education system heavily prioritises English, even as indigenous languages remain widely spoken at home. According to Peace, the real issue is not multilingualism itself but imbalance.
“I think multilingual education can strengthen young people when properly structured,” she noted. “English actually gives us global access, diplomacy, business, and technology. We can’t ignore that reality. But our indigenous languages ground us; they preserve our history and our values.”
The danger emerges when one replaces the other.
“When English completely replaces indigenous languages, young people lose cultural attachment,” she said. “On the other hand, when indigenous languages are poorly taught without resources or modern relevance, students see them as unnecessary.”
Her argument is straightforward: multilingual education should be strategic, not symbolic.
“It should not be a limitation. It should actually be an advantage, a balance between local strength and global relevance.”
If given the opportunity to influence national education policy, Peace proposes sweeping reforms aimed at modernising indigenous language learning.
She believes teaching must move beyond grammar drills into lived cultural experience.
“We could include storytelling, digital media, local history, and cultural entrepreneurship,” she suggested. “That would make it interesting for young people.”
Teacher training, she insists, is equally critical, alongside technological integration through apps, podcasts, and online platforms.
“Cultural content on TikTok can help because many things go viral there. It becomes appealing to young people.”
Her most ambitious proposal is policy-driven accountability. “We should ensure proficiency in at least one Nigerian language in addition to English, maybe as a requirement for scholarships, public service roles, or leadership opportunities.”
Such policies, she argues, signal seriousness.
“When young people see that the country takes indigenous languages seriously, they will value them too. Nigeria doesn’t have to choose between global competitiveness and cultural rootedness. We can do both.”
When Mother Tongue Becomes a Cultural Anchor
While some Nigerians struggle to reconnect with lost languages, others experienced early exposure that strengthened their cultural grounding.
Speaking from Lagos, certified educator and theologian Dorcas Enitan Ajayi described how structured learning of Yoruba shaped her identity from childhood.
“In the school I attended, my mother tongue was encouraged even though English was the main language,” she explained. Teachers from her tribe actively promoted Yoruba language learning.
She recalls learning proverbs, traditional ceremonies, naming rites, and wedding customs through language instruction, cultural knowledge embedded within linguistic education.
“When I got to secondary school, Yoruba was one of the main languages. Teachers frowned at English dominating their mother tongue. They ensured we spoke it and learned traditional practices.” The impact was lasting.
“Being introduced to my mother tongue shaped my sense of identity. It helped me value my roots. It helped me connect. Although I’m not a perfect Yoruba speaker, I’m better than people who weren’t introduced to it. It helps me see that I have a root, and English is not my root.”
On multilingual education, Ajayi offers a nuanced perspective. “There are two sides,” she said. Nigeria’s linguistic diversity can create challenges when individuals relocate across regions, especially if they know only one language. However, multilingual ability ultimately expands opportunities.
She cited examples of children raised in regions different from their parents’ origins who became bilingual or multilingual, learning Hausa and Yoruba simultaneously. “I wouldn’t say multilingualism limits opportunities,” she said. “Knowing multiple languages actually strengthens careers.”
She pointed to comedians who successfully switch between languages through code-mixing and code-switching, entertaining audiences while educating them culturally. Language flexibility, she argues, enhances adaptability.
“It strengthens career opportunities when we can move from one environment to another.”
Language Tool for National Development
Ajayi believes government intervention is essential to preserve indigenous languages while preparing youths for global participation.
“One indigenous language should be compulsory. It used to be compulsory before it was scrapped,” she said.
Language, she emphasised, is fundamental to communication across professions.
“If a medical doctor is posted to a Yoruba community and doesn’t understand the language, you need an interpreter. But if the doctor learned the language, communication becomes easier.”
She also challenged the assumption that global success requires abandoning native languages, pointing to countries like China, where indigenous language use remains dominant despite international engagement.
“The global world itself encourages indigenous languages,” she said. “But because everything about us is colonised, we want to be like the white.”
Ironically, interest in Nigerian languages is growing abroad. She recounted hearing about an American woman who travelled to Nigeria to study Yoruba formally after encountering language barriers overseas, as well as university lectures delivered in Yoruba in the United States.
“Our indigenous language is a tool in the global market, if only we embrace it.”
However, she warned that neglect carries consequences. “Teachers themselves don’t understand indigenous languages anymore. They need training, funding, and research support. If we don’t retain our languages, in two or three decades they may die off.”
The Parents’ Dilemma: English as Survival Strategy
For many parents, abandoning mother tongue is not cultural rejection but economic calculation.
Mrs Faith Solomon believes the fading of indigenous languages is closely tied to parental aspirations. “Mother tongue is fading away because most parents want their children to be the best in English,” she said.
Children who primarily speak dialects sometimes struggle socially in multilingual classrooms, becoming timid among peers. “Parents want their children to speak with a British accent, especially the international standard,” she explained. “We speak more English and forget our dialect.”
The decision is often future-focused. Many families plan overseas education and believe English proficiency guarantees opportunity. “After secondary education, we want to fly them overseas,” she said. “We want to give them a good future.”
Social perception also plays a role. “If you speak dialect outside, sometimes people pretend not to understand. Parents conclude there is no need to teach children what even our own people are not proud of.”
Intermarriage further complicates language transmission. Couples from different ethnic backgrounds frequently default to English, leaving children fluent in neither parent’s native tongue. Technology, she added, accelerates the shift toward English dominance.
Still, she advises balance. “It is necessary to know both English and the local dialect.”
Language Begins at Home
Mrs Rita Charles believes parents carry the primary responsibility for preserving the mother tongue.
“These days, children hardly speak their mother tongue because English, a borrowed language, has taken over what should be the first language a child learns,” she said.
Teaching, she insists, starts early, even during infancy.
“Start teaching when the child is still blabbing,” she advised. Parents can speak their mother tongue while interpreting meanings in English to build bilingual understanding.
She recalled her own upbringing, where her father taught the family through everyday interaction. “When he said ‘biabe,’ we knew it meant come here. As we grew older, we spoke both languages fluently.”
However, balance remains essential. Children exposed only to indigenous languages may initially struggle with English pronunciation, though adaptation happens with exposure.
“I had a child in my class who spoke only Igbo at first, but within a period of time, the child began learning English and now speaks a little,” she said.
Her recommendation is to teach both languages simultaneously, so children understand and navigate both worlds.
Meanwhile, Mrs Oluchukwu Ike agrees that mother tongue decline reflects changing parental attitudes.
“Gen Z parents believe English supersedes every other language,” she observed. “Easterners no longer value their language like before. If we don’t speak it, how will our children understand it?” Her solution is institutional reform. “Mother tongue should be included in school syllables to retain our language.”
Going forward, English undeniably functions as a bridge, connecting Nigerians to global education, commerce, diplomacy, and technology. But indigenous languages carry something English cannot replicate: ancestral memory, worldview, humour, authority, and identity.
Language shapes how people think, negotiate, relate, and belong. Lose the language, and cultural nuance slowly erodes.
The irony is striking. While Nigerians increasingly abandon their languages in pursuit of modernity, universities abroad are studying those same languages academically. Foreign scholars travel thousands of miles to learn what many Nigerian children are no longer taught at home.
International Mother Language Day, therefore, becomes more than a symbolic observance. It raises an uncomfortable national question: can a country truly preserve its identity while gradually abandoning the languages that created it?
The answer may lie not in choosing between English and indigenous languages but in restoring equilibrium.
As Peace Oritsesan’s experience shows, language loss often becomes visible only when opportunity, identity, or belonging is at stake. By then, recovery requires intentional effort.
The child trained only in Queen’s English may indeed succeed internationally. But the child who speaks both English and their mother tongue carries something more powerful, access to the world without losing access to home.
And in a nation as diverse as Nigeria, that balance may ultimately determine whether cultural heritage survives as a living voice or fades into silence remembered only through translation.
