accent1

I confess, I confess. Yes my accent is fake. I'll admit that I didn't come by this blend of British and American accents naturally. It is the result of careful hours of practicing enunciation and paying attention to elocution. As a result, all traces of my African accent are gone, except of course when I get angry or sad and then all of a sudden, my words take on a natural quality, maybe I sound igbotic, maybe I drop my H's.

It all started one day…My first day of term at a secondary school, known for its airs and pretensions, however I must say, we alumni of that institution are also among the most accomplished out there (I can feel the hateration already). The senior girls called a bunch of us to take what they thought were the standard tests in determining who among us were refined (more western) or bush (less western). If you passed the tests, you were deemed refined however if you failed, you were deemed bush or local. So they called about ten of us to the front of the class. We were young, small and intimidated. “Pronounce D-E-V-E-L-O-P,” they barked out. The first girl, a stocky dark-skinned girl from the east, said boldly day-vay-lope, and they collapsed in laughter. The second one, a biracial Lagos girl, started to speak, she began to stutter, when she spoke, it was barely audible but a couple of senior girls started shouting “she said it the right way”, whether she did or not is still up for debate, because biracial girls were considered to be premium already, but that's another story. So it came to my turn, I felt as if I could hear the drum roll, the seniors started taunting me, “spit it out”, and I could feel beads of sweat forming in my armpits. Di-vey-lup, I said, breathlessly. “Say it again” they commanded, all of a sudden I was pronounced refined. Me, a regular girl, not rich, biracial or particularly pretty, I found myself placed in the “correct” category. Not long after that, one of those senior judges decided to make me her school daughter.

And so I discovered the power of elocution.

I took it upon myself to continue my education in this matter. If merely pronouncing a word in a certain way could yield these results, then what could changing the way I spoke do? The possibility loomed ahead of me like a hot air balloon, promising visits to worlds I could never seek to enter. First destination, popularity.

Coolness had been defined as being as close to American or European as possible. The more claim you could lay to the western world; the higher up the ladder you went. All around me, people were proclaiming their affiliations to the west. “I am half-caste” “I am one- eighth caste, (I know I don't look it but really I am, please believe me)” “I travel every summer”,, “Have you ever been to Madame Tussaud's” “Yes, but have you been to Trafalgar Sq” “Forget Trafalgar Sq, I just got back from Disney world” “I'm sorry, I can only eat Kellogg's cornflakes” “I know what you mean, I can only stomach weetabix” What's a girl to do? You can judge me if you like but I don't see myself as any different from those of you who try to westernize your names, you know who you are, those of you who are calling yourselves patchy, when your christened name is Patience (pronounced with Ibo emphasis) or Cece when your name is chiemelogumifeoma. I mean really. Am I any worse that those of you who change the pronunciation of your African name to sound more western, abandoning the African syllabic style that gives your name meaning, rendering it powerless with a strange western lilt, making a proud Yoruba name like Tola, into something that rhymes with cola!

After all is it my fault that I live in a society that values anything foreign over anything homegrown? Is it my fault I come from a place where people speak with British accents, long before they see past the horizon of the Atlantic ocean, a place where been-to's are placed on pedestals, simply for having touched foreign ground?

You can look at me with disdain if you like, but I know you; you who fancy yourselves the elite. Dressed in your fancy suits, with designer gear to match, you are conspicuous, and how do I know, because I'm the one in the fancy suit with designer gear standing next to you and if I asked you the time, you'd probably answer in a pseudo-British accent too. Maybe I am an addict, getting off on the high of feeling superior. Now I understand why the English are so snooty, that accent makes you feel better than everyone else. I get high off appearing to be worldlier than I am, more educated, richer and more sophisticated. I admit it I am an addict.

I am in recovery though. A card-carrying member of fakes anonymous. I am letting go over my old ways and embracing the new my first step is this, my anonymous confession.

So my accent is fake...

While this article is satirical look at the way we tend to idolize all things western in Africa. In America speech discrimination is a reality experienced by many immigrants.