The Identity Conundrum.

I never really learned how to speak my mother tongue, growing up I was a late bloomer, I couldn't speak till I was about 2 years old. On the way to surgery, my parents were advised by a wonderful doctor that I didn't have stunted growth, he said I wasn't able to speak cause I was exposed to a plethora of languages (Kiswahili, Luganda, Lugisu, Samia) The latter of which is my mother tongue. My parents partly relieved they wouldn't have to subject their only child to the horror of surgery and the uncertainty that entailed, ably hatched a genius plan to speak only one language, which fortunately or unfortunately was English.

This task was much harder than it seemed considering that most of the residents of the garage (our then humble place of abode) were illiterate and didn't know any English. This nonetheless didn't deter them but led to multiple English tutorials in order to get them to learn and ultimately for me to begin speaking.

This led to the much-appreciated tradition of English speaking at our home something I've grown viscerally fond of. The only time Samia was ever spoken was when addressing the house helps who didn't seem to learn English fast enough.

Fast forward, I'm a semi-adult who can't speak his mother tongue which in my culture, society, if you will, is a taboo (a crime that endangers the posterity😐) and I only have a menial clue of any local languages but for the little, I could pick up from the back and forth conversations between my parents and the house help or the occasional village guest. The trivial fact that I spent little or no time in the village is a story I can only delve into at length in another blog post.

I also grew an aversion towards my surname 'Wanyama' which was a source of bullying from the momentary satirical adaptations that each bully took on, considering the fact that Wanyama can loosely be translated into a myriad of Bantu speaking dialect as meat which ushered in the very much dreaded name-calling. This coupled with the alienation stemming from most of my relatives due to my inability to speak my mother tongue led me to my alias 'Troy' I took on this pseudonym as an escape from my apparent estrangement from my culture and this served as a refuge from my feelings of 'not-being-man-enough' for my inability to speak my language.

The truth is I had an inherent identity conundrum, but Troy was a clean slate that I could slowly populate with all my imaginations, a bucket list of stuff I could only achieve with a cool alias. The girls seemed to like it too, the way it slid off their tongues when they attempted to say it with a less conventional accent sounded like music to my ears. I can't shake off the sheer amusement I felt when one of my friends was vexed by the fact that any African parent from the '90s could name their child a cool name like Troy.

This alienation and criticism received by us the not-African-enough children, outcasts who have been dealt a bad hand in which we had no say, is a very abysmal experience. If only people took the time to ask why we don't know our languages other than casting blame onto us a priori. The reason I'm writing this is so we are more mindful about the castigation and belittlement we thrust onto these seemingly culturally indifferent youngsters. We need not forget that we are but stewards of our robust African culture and dialects, we additionally have the obligation incumbent upon us to pass it on to the successive generations.

Considering my love for writing and the cathartic nature writing has continually conferred upon me, I wrote this poem which is an embodiment of my heartfelt sentiments.

They said,
You are Wanyama, born in the abundance of meat and in this I got my identity,
I was not ashamed anymore of the name that I bore for it made more sense to me now,
so “Troy” the clear evasion of my culture was my name no more.

They said,
I speak with a click,
a clear understanding of the Queen,
neo-colonialism within,
But No!!
Y’all were too busy to teach me my language,
‘Kati njogera oluganda Nga omutontomi ava mu jubileewo!!’

They said,
You should pay tax, that’s what an honest Christian would do.
But how can I pay tax yet my air, life, thoughts, views are taxed with the tariffs so high I might have to borrow the money to be used at my funeral so I can stay alive.

They said,
I was too small, not fat but thin enough to play the part, I was not cool enough but had the viiibeeee.

I was busy self-discovering, trying to build my pride and growing one day at a time.
But these critics think they know it all

So I say,
To hell with informed opinions by wannabe artists, no wonder Professor Okot P Bitek told them, I quote, “You keep quoting others when will you be quoted?”

So I say,
To hell with these culturists, who have successfully alienated, US!!
Their ‘pseudo’ descendants occasionally imitating our foreign accents like:
"Jebalekow Sebow or Wasuze bulunji"
They say we are outsiders, then what happened to our communal traditional character where everyone was a neighbor, not an outsider,

I cry for us, the future generation packed in boxes and exported to study abroad
and still blamed by our Uncles and Sengas for adopting the foreign culture and not being African enough,

I mean the Elders in the African Traditional society were teachers and I urge our parents and Sengas to teach us what we ought to know.

So the next time they say,
"You are Wanyama!”
In echoes, I'll repeat, Yes I am Wanyama! born in the abundance of flesh - meat, the one I possess and the one you eat
And this is the foundation of my identity.

Thank you for reading, and have a blessed weekend. 😃😃