IT DIARY: ENTRY 23

THE AGE-OLD WALL

This is the 23rd entry to my Internship diary series, which I started sometime in March 2021. I had initially uploaded them on twitter before I decided to use this Medium instead (pun intended). The link to the first 22 can be found at the end of this entry.

The wall I wish to speak about today is one that has stood for centuries, even millennia. All this while, the age-old wall has stood tall, unmanned, yet nearly impregnable to all except those who dare to cross it. This wall, is quite ancient, as old as the towers of babel themselves, if the tales tell it true. It has separated tribes and cultures, stood between friendships and heritages. This age-old wall is made, not of sticks and stones, not of bricks or blocks, neither tar nor mortar — this wall is made of sounds and words. This wall is known by many different names; lingua, idioma, taal, asụsụ, ede, harshe, sprache, 语言, and more commonly, "language".

The effects of language barrier is something I experienced today in a new light in what I would tag one of the funniest bus rides to work since I begun my IT Diary series.

I've never fancied myself as even nearly fluent at Yoruba, but I never thought I'd be as grateful for understanding my language (Igbo) and a bit of Yoruba as today in the bus. There I was, on track to get to work in time, trying to catch up with my duolingo quota for the day whilst squeezed between a passenger and a window. Then, the danfo conductor started collecting money from each passenger. I gave mine when it got to my turn, got my change returned to my lessons. I started to hear some shouts from the woman directly behind the driver. Her igbo accent gave her away and immediately caught my attention.

"No oo, I no fit give you ₦300," she said, protesting. "Na ₦200 I dey enter everyday."

"Wo madam, no go dey whyne me this early morning. Na tiri-hundred I tell you," the conductor shot back in his typical thick, really deep Yoruba-accented voice.

The driver was having none of it.

"Madam, oya e bolè," he yelled, signalling the conductor to let her come down.

There's this myth that nearly every word in Yoruba sounds like an insult when you don't understand the language. I guess it was proven right today because when the lady started to alight, the driver kept yelling, but in Yoruba (I'll type the English meanings)

"Everytime, you people will want to give us problems in the morning. Carry your ₦200 and go. Why not even ask us to take ₦50?"

Lady A, not understanding the Yoruba and assuming she was being insulted, shot back,

"That thing wey you dey talk na for you and your family!"
Then she continued in Igbo, "You're a mad man! Back to sender! That insult will follow you and your kinsmen."

Countless insults were exchanged within the next few seconds between them as she alighted and he zoomed off angrily (including one where he tried to mimick an Igbo insult she gave him) and I couldn't help but laugh. All these insults came from misunderstanding; from the fact that they could not understand one another.

The insults, the differences, were as a result of the demarcation caused by the AGE-OLD WALL. It got me thinking; all those times I was new to Lagos and thought I was being insulted by the conductor, all those times I got angry because I was told Yoruba words I didn’t understand, how many of them may not have been insults? I don’t know about you, but I think it’d be really cool to scale as many of these walls as possible. Once you conquer the language barrier, I truly believe there’s so many opportunities on the other side — the other side of the age-old wall.

#MyInternshipDiary

#LasgidiIntern

Link to the first 22 entries (it’s a thread): https://twitter.com/diuto_okorie/status/1374770188328042496?s=19