My
country of birth is a loosely knitted collection of more than three
hundred tribes, each with unique culture, language, and traditions.
Cobbled together by the British, it became independent of the empire
shortly before my birth.
Growth
centers in the emerging nation attracted people with diverse talents.
My father, for example, being an auto mechanic, had skills needed
where modern transportation was popular.
My
parents were mobile in their search for lucrative jobs and a
conducive place to raise children. They exposed us to a variety of
local customs, languages, values, and habits.
Shortly
after I was born at Port Harcourt City, my parents moved to our
village and worked at our county council, currently known in Nigeria
as local government area. Two years following the siting of the
University of Nigeria at Nsukka, and the consequent need for
intellectuals and skilled workers at the nascent college, Father
relocated there.
Settling
down in the dusty and hilly town, he moved his family over in 1965. A
laidback place with locals working bare-bodied as they tilled the
earth with sticks and hoes, Nsukka quickly transformed into a
cosmopolitan town. It attracted Nigerians from different tribes and
aliens from around the globe. Natives spoke Wawa, a dialect of Ibo
language.
The
town was a potpourri of the modern and the traditional. Round huts
made of mud and thatch ringed the glittering and upscale university
campus. The unpaved village roads that stirred with dust storms when
a vehicle drove by contrasted sharply with the finely curated and
well-manicured lanes of the university.
While
locals drew from water streaming from crevices in rocks and relieved
themselves in the bush or outhouses, the university community lived
in houses with running water and plumbing.
The
university town looked like a page torn from science fiction against
a drab and gray landscape. On the outskirts of the university, goats,
fowls, dogs, humans, masked dancers, rusty bicycles, and gleaming
cars shared common space.
Here
if you listened carefully, you could hear Ibo, Ibibio, Annang, Efik,
Ijaw, Hausa, Tiv, Eket, and the ubiquitous pidgin, a form of
creolized English spoken exuberantly at the flea market and in
dust-laden surroundings.
The
urbane university setting contrasted sharply with its rustic
neighborhoods. Here you could hear spoken, although in a muffled way,
English, French, Chinese, Russian, Spanish, Italian, and other
languages that sounded way out of this world to us.
In
this rainbow coalition of peoples, cultures, and languages, my
excitement at speaking languages other than English and my native
Annang was fired. Speaking the predominant Ibo helped me to adjust to
my new setting, spared me from the heckling of bullies at school and
on the streets, and broadened my outlook.
The
university had a primary but no high school at the time for the wards
of its faculty and staff. This was not enough to admit everyone.
Those of us who had just arrived poured into the few other schools in
town, such St. John’s at Enugu Road and St. Paul’s C.M.S.
Odenigbo — both of which I attended in 1965 and 1967.
The
nearest high school to where we lived at Onuiyi, beside the residence
of Nnamdi Azikiwe, the first president of our country, was St.
Theresa’s.
As
is standard practice in eastern Nigeria, the language of instruction
at school was English. My siblings and I picked up Ibo at playgrounds
and on the streets as well as from the yards where we lived. With it
we helped our parents get by at market, church, or wherever they
needed help, for they least understood the language and spoke it
awkwardly.
Thinking
them slow, we laughed at them. Hardly did we realize we had wider
exposure at school and at play than our parents and hence the ease of
our facility with the language.
I
had one year of schooling before moving to the village. Before I
started school, my sisters and cousins who were ahead of me taught me
whatever they learned at school. That put me on advantage over other
village kids who had no such privilege at home.
When
eventually I made it to school, I was so well ahead of my mates that
at the end of that school year my teachers recommended I skipped the
next class to the third. They thought I would be a nuisance if I did
not have something to challenge me.
Even
when I moved, they sent a recommendation that was accepted at my new
school. I had no idea that the faith my teachers had in me required
hard work to justify it. I was so besotted by the sights and sounds
of the city I became distracted.
My
new friends, seeing I was good at tree-climbing, routinely took me on
a tour of clumps of mango and cashew trees. As I walked back from
school I would sometimes fancy myself a traffic policeman and stepped
on the road to direct vehicles the way I saw the officers do. One
day, an irate driver pounced on me and beat me an inch from death.
At
the end of the first term, I failed my exams woefully. Though I
improved on my grades the remaining two terms, one of my uncles,
afraid I was being spoiled and well on my way to a career in
insurgency in the future, convinced my parents to let me live with
him at Umuahia, another Ibo city.
There
the Ibo I had learned a year earlier was reinforced. As a civil war
was about to break out, I was reunited with my parents, my uncle
being satisfied he had corrected my misguided steps. After the war we
lived at Etebi where I added Eket, Oron, and Ibibio to my fund of
languages. Later while living for more than two decades at Calabar, I
learned Efik too.
These
languages would come in handy in life. When I went to ask my date’s
parents for their daughter, the mother took a swipe at my tribe. I
had arrived with smoked fish, prawns, and lobsters as presents, these
being common among us riverine people. My prospective mother-in-law,
while seemingly happy, asked in Ibo to the daughter if the fish was
all that attracted her to me.
My
folks, she observed, were lazy and good for nothing. So what exactly
did her daughter want from such shiftless people, she asked? When my
visibly shaken date warned her I understood all she said, she changed
gear and we flowed along.
The
most important work I would do with some of these languages came more
than five thousand miles from where I learned them. Soon as I moved
to the United States, my wife and I were called to interpret and
translate General Conference talks into Efik and Ibo. Being fluent in
both, I doubled as a resource person.
Before
long, I was convinced every good gift is divine and my long
preparation had a purpose I hardly knew.
Imo Ben Eshiet was born in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. Raised in his village, Uruk Enung, and at
several cities in his country including Nsukka, Enugu, Umuahia, Eket and Calabar, Eshiet is a
detribalized Nigerian. Although he was extensively exposed to Western education right from
childhood in his country where he obtained a PhD in English and Literary Studies from the
University of Calabar, he is well nurtured in African history, politics, culture and traditions.
Imo is currently a teacher in the high priests group in the Summit Ward of the Greensboro North
Carolina Stake.