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That early morning of January 1981, my mother walked me quietly into Ndindiruku Primary School, in Central Kenya. At that time, I had never spoken a word of any other language, apart from Kikuyu[1]. Starting primary school, I found myself in an environment I considered extremely confusing. At least for the first year, this school was like the ‘Tower of Babel’, and I never adjusted. The many children I met on that busy compound spoke mostly Kikamba[2] and Kikuyu, while the few daring ones made failing attempt on Kiswahili and English. One thing was, however extremely consoling – Mother Tongue lessons.
Today, whenever I recall how I learnt how to read, my mother tongue, Kikuyu, quickly comes to mind. That’s when school was really interesting and encouraging. Interesting because we quickly read stories in a language we knew. Encouraging because one could easily score 100 percent on a random mother tongue test. The stories I read in grades one and two created lasting impression on me. Despite the decades past, the titles from those primary school story series (which were popularly refereed to as TKK) are still clear in my mind: ‘Njoroge na mubara wake’, ‘Kamau na ndigiri’, ‘Waceke Kuririra Ndunyu’[3], and so on. The illustrations were so impactful, that they nearly got us weeping during Mother Tongue lessons.
Later, it became criminal to speak my Mother Tongue at the school. Teachers gave us something to hang on our necks whenever we were caught speaking this language, a disk we called Monto (I came to learn later, that the right word was monitor). In response, many children made the strategic choice to remain mum all day, rather than open your mouth and plunge into trouble. The daring ones spoke some unidentified language, rather a hybrid of all four languages. As a coping mechanism, the suffering extroverted boys were often caught in a toilet conversing in Mother Tongue, taking full advantage of the privacy and anonymity that this space provided. We burst into energetic conversation as soon we crossed the school fence on our way home, always with sigh of relief.
As I moved up the ladder of education, speaking in Mother Tongue evolved into a sign of an ethnic and retrogressive mind. Inside the lecture halls of Kenyatta University, speaking in Mother Tongue was seen as a means of isolating others, even conspiring against other ethnic groups, and more important, a sign of backwardness. Students who spoke in mother tongue came from rural schools, and were easily seen as political agents. As such, speaking in English was expected, even if you didn’t speak it so well. Speaking in Kiswahili was tolerated, as long as this was outside of the lecture hall. Years later, in my places of work, speaking in Mother Tongue was interpreted as outright discrimination, and in a way, a reason to be sanctioned.
In my mid-twenties, I moved to Germany and in the little language school in Bonn, I did my best to integrate the new language. It was pretty challenging, knitting simple words to form one complex word, and deciding when the verb should come at the end of the sentence. This time round, English appreciated in value to become my Mother Tongue. But then, we were students from many world languages, and speaking it would not help anyway.
What made greater impact on me however was when I attended first lecture at the University of Hildesheim. While I had reasonable German language competence to help me get along on the streets, the lecturers and students spoke it rather too fast, and I was totally lost. Right in the middle of the lecture hall of that psychology class, I looked around, everyone possibly German, apart from me – the only Kenyan. Everyone learning psychology in their Mother Tongue, save for this one foreigner. In fatigue and frustration, my mind took a walk down memory path. Savouring my sweet memories, I went back in time to Standard two at Ndindiruku, walked to the corner and picked my favorite story – Kamau na Ndigiri. Kamau falling off the donkey coincided bitterly with the Professor’s final greeting – auf Wiedersehen. It became clear to me, that learning in Mother Tongue was such privilege.
Sitting now in my office, where I know I cannot speak Kikuyu, makes me wonder, when did our good mother languages become discriminatory? And today, as we celebrate the International Mother Language day, I can only wonder what it will take to de-stigmatize our Kenyan languages, de-burden mother tongue from political connotation, view them as rich heritage, and like the Germans, grant our children this badly endangered privilege. What I hope though, is that children in Ndindiruku still enjoy TKK and the nice stories – though I highly doubt it.
Dr. John Mugo is the Director, Data and Voice with Twaweza East Africa. He shares his story to commemorate the International Mother Language Day (IMLD), which this year, on 21st February, celebrates the theme of ‘Towards Sustainable Futures through Multilingual Education’. The overall objective of the Day is to contribute to promoting Global Citizenship education. IMLD also supports Goal 4 of the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs): “Ensure inclusive and equitable quality education and promote lifelong learning opportunities for all”.
[1] Kikuyu is a language of the Bantu family spoken primarily by the Kikuyu people (Agĩkũyũ) of Kenya.
[2] Kikamba, is a Bantu language spoken by the Kamba people of Kenya. It is also spoken by 5,000 people in Tanzania (Thaisu).
[3] Kikuyu titles which loosely translate to ‘Njoroge and his toy car’, ‘Kamau and his donkey’ and ‘Waceke is crying at the market’