25th July, 2023
By Ifedayo Babalola
I only find myself inside the New Gbagi market at Ibadan under two conditions. The first are those moments of matrimonial bliss when I’m begging to be led anywhere by the nose. The other are times of marital compulsion when I lose the battle to stop me from being led everywhere by the nose hair.
My wife and I have been joined together for long. Yet, we remain as divided as ever on why man created markets. A market to me is a place to visit as a last resort; and once you buy whatever you need, you navigate an exit in a flash.
To her, however, the buying and selling aspects of a market visit are secondary. More important are long-winding multilayered haggling. In fact, no transaction is legal without them. To her, stopover salutations must be attracted and items not required must be priced because ‘we may need them tomorrow’ – and I am sure you realise that that ‘tomorrow’ is often spoken of very liberally rather than literally in Yorubaland.
Ah! And former church members who have relocated to newly built homes in virgin corners of the Ibadan must, as a matter of duty, be run into.
I have also learnt to patiently wait in the car while she tried to catch up on weddings she could not attend.
On the up side, patience in Gbagi market has at times yielded benefits, the staple of which is being in a privileged spot to hear indiscreet banters between female merchants whose pepper-and-onion wares encroach on both sides of the road. When we were growing up, women did not say such things even in the safety of their homes.
Was I shocked? Not really because I have, in the last few decades, noticed Nigeria transform into a dark alley of the so-called global village. Besides, I have also seen women liberation assume the status of a global cultural phenomenon.
All said though, I still struggle to come to terms with the reality of a Yorubaland that is gradually turning into a “bad English” nation.
So, on this occasion, I was waiting patiently in the car at Gbagi market. The main actors of the drama playing that day were a mother and her son. The boy of about four had just returned from school and finished a meal of rice and ponmo. Then the mother, who hitherto had discussed with customers and colleagues in flawless Yoruba language called to the boy:
‘Saidi, Go an’ carry your omework now!’
‘I not carry my omework…ummm..’ answered Saidi, swinging his head towards his extended, rice-filled stomach in defiance. ‘I wan’ to go an’ play boll…ummm!’
‘Go an’ carry your ‘omework now now’, insisted the mother.
‘I do my ‘omwork at awa ‘ouse!’ Saidi held his ground.
‘Sebi you ‘ave hear, abi?…. I say go an’ carry your ‘omework now now now!’
In the sixties and seventies, we were sanctioned too for speaking Yoruba, but not at home by family. Conversely, first words and phrases a toddler learns these days are ‘come, go, take, come and give grandma…’In most families, mums and dads discuss with each other in Yoruba language, but as a matter of duty, speak to their children in English language. So it’s not hard to figure out why the only language of communication between many siblings today is English. This is the lot of children from middle and upper class homes. Ferried in private cars regularly between expensive private schools and private estate homes, they lack the street learning opportunities open to Saidi.
The dialogue went back and forth for a while, mother marking each time she was disobeyed with an added ‘now’. Then having run out of patience (and ‘nows’?), she made for the boy’s buttocks, giving it a heavy smack. Saidi coiled, recoiled and sprang to a distance. Now feeling safe from his adversary, he threatened:
‘When my daddy have come, I will tell it to my daddy that you ‘ave beat me…’he wailed ‘..ummm… I will tell my daddy when he have come that you are beat me…’ he repeated, probably unsure of the correctness of his earlier sentence.
Unfolding before my eyes were different layers of the cultural transformation taking place in Yorubaland. For example, I remember it was mothers who threatened erring children with fathers. But that is for another day.
What really bothers me is the fact that parents, grandparents, pastors, neighbours, uncles, aunties and naturally, teachers in Yorubaland now converse with children in English as a first, and sometimes, only language. In nearly every home, in street corners, in markets places, in Sunday schools, children are no longer given the opportunity to speak Yoruba. In fact, children and toddlers are sanctioned for ‘speaking in vernacular at home’.
‘Mummy, mo fe je KFC.’ said the little girl staring down the street through the tainted windscreen of mummy’s Toyota Sienna.
Mummy looked briefly into the inner rear view mirror. The daughter’s two little eyes popping out of a small head tucked inside a bluish school uniform peered back at her, terrified. Even before her mother spoke, Laide knew she had committed the unpardonable.
‘Mummy, I’m sorry I spoke in vernacular. Please don’t tell daddy’ she pleaded. Daddy had threatened she’d be transferred to another school if she kept picking up the wrong manners.
Well, gracious mummy did not tell daddy. But as no sinner shall ever go unpunished, Laide paid the price of a missed weekly delicacy.
In the sixties and seventies, we were sanctioned too for speaking Yoruba, but not at home by family. Conversely, first words and phrases a toddler learns these days are ‘come, go, take, come and give grandma…’
In most families, mums and dads discuss with each other in Yoruba language, but as a matter of duty, speak to their children in English language. So it’s not hard to figure out why the only language of communication between many siblings today is English.
This is the lot of children from middle and upper class homes. Ferried in private cars regularly between expensive private schools and private estate homes, they lack the street learning opportunities open to Saidi.
They are therefore sentenced to lives of English as the only language – sentenced by parents who have the benefit of speaking three languages (if you count their native semi Yoruba dialects).
Saidi, the market woman’s son, may be luckier. He will probably pick Yoruba from Gbagi market and from the inner recesses of Ibadan city to where his family retires at night. The scars of his confused upbringing will however include the bad English inherited from illiterate parents, and for which his five thousand Naira per term private school will be unable to provide cure.
Ifedayo babalola
[email protected]