By Ebuka Ukoh
I remember landing in the United States for graduate studies and realising—with a quiet jolt—how many years of Hollywood had shaped my view of the world. I caught myself unconsciously assigning superiority to white people before even speaking to them. That was the moment it hit me: colonialism is no longer just what was done to us. It is also what we continue to do to ourselves.
Nowhere is this clearer than in our obsession with the English language.
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Take the case of Vera Anyim. A Nigerian police officer and graduate of the National Open University of Nigeria, Anyim stepped up to give a testimony at a popular Abuja-based church, only for the founding General Overseer to dismiss her because she didn’t “sound like a graduate.”
Her supposed crime? Misnaming her degree as a BSc in Law (instead of LL.B) and speaking English in a way that did not meet the polished expectations of the Nigerian elite. The testifier wasn’t judged by her knowledge of Igbo, Yoruba or Hausa. Neither was she judged by the strength of her story. She was judged by how well she performed in a foreign language—the same language imposed on us via colonial conquest.
Contrast that with the nationwide celebration of Dame Patience Jonathan, Nigeria’s former First Lady, who recently earned a doctorate. Despite her famously unconventional English, she was met with a standing ovation. Churches welcomed her with choreography. The same society that mocked Vera Anyim applauded Patience. What changed?
Status.
This double standard shows that many Nigerians are not respectful people—we are respecters of persons. Vera was penalised for how she spoke English because she was “nobody.” Dame Patience was celebrated because she is “somebody.”
And this is the tragedy: we have enthroned English not only as a language, but also as a god. We have made it the gatekeeper to our dreams. A student in Nigeria cannot gain admission to university without at least a C6 in English, even if they fail their indigenous language. What does that say about what we truly value?
In Nollywood, characters with strong indigenous accents are cast as comedic relief, never heroes. In job interviews, an Igbo or Yoruba inflection is enough to cost someone a position. On social media, we circulate videos of people who “blow” grammar in church or in court for laughs. We rarely pause to ask: what does it mean when we mock people for not mastering a language that was forced on them?
The deeper issue is this: language is identity. When we reject our own languages, we sever our connection to communal wisdom, indigenous knowledge, and generational pride. Our mother tongues are more than tools for communication. They are keepers of worldview. When we lose them, we lose ourselves.
And we are losing them.
In Lagos, it is now fashionable for children not to speak Yoruba. In Abuja, many Hausa children speak only English in school. Igbo parents fear that their children will sound “local” if they speak the language at home. What we call “progress” is, in fact, cultural erosion dressed in European grammar.
This is voluntary colonialism.
To be clearer, English has its place. It allows us to connect globally. But it should never have become a measure of intelligence, dignity, or social capital. It should not replace our languages in the courts, classrooms, churches, or cinemas.
We must:
Reimagine language policy to give equal weight to Igbo, Yoruba, and Hausa in schools and media.
End the tyranny of English as the main university admission requirement.
Celebrate bilingual and multilingual Nigerians as the norm, not the exception.
Encourage churches, Nollywood, and influencers to normalise and uplift indigenous language use.
The Vera Anyim saga is not just about a testimony gone wrong. It is about what we’ve become. When language becomes a tool of oppression rather than expression, we have lost our way.
But we can find it again.
It begins with valuing our own voices—in all their inflections. It begins with making peace with who we are. It begins with dethroning English from its colonial pedestal and restoring our mother tongues to the heart of who we are.
We must stop asking whether someone “sounds like a graduate.” We must start asking whether our society still sounds like itself.
The moment we do that, we stop merely surviving colonialism and begin healing from it.
Let us speak the truth. Let us speak justice. Let us speak home—in the language that shaped us first.
•Mr Ukoh, an alum of the American University of Nigeria, Yola, and PhD student at Columbia University, writes from New York
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