By Favor Chukwuemeka Ikechukwu, winner of Afrocover Essay Contest, August 2025 Edition
Mama Ugo sells akara near our house in Jos. Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba, and even Fulani children queue there before school. And no matter who comes, she switches tongues like a broken radio—Igbo for “bia, nwa m,” Hausa for “sannu, yaro,” and sometimes pidgin for “you go chop now now?”
But one day, a councillor came and said she must put a sign in English or pack. She wept that day. “So my tongue no matter again?” she asked, tying her wrapper tighter like she was holding back her history.
That akara stand, small as it is, holds the heart of this topic. Because if you sit there long enough, you will hear the whole of Nigeria speak. And the question comes: Is this thing that makes Mama Ugo’s tongue dance a blessing to our politics— or a curse?
The Beauty and Burden of Many Tongues
To be African is to wake up in a house where your grandmother sings in one language, your father argues in another, and your radio tells the news in a third. That is not confusion. That is our normal.
We speak as we live—layered. In Nigeria alone, over 500 languages jostle for space inside one border. If you take a bus from Benue to Bayelsa, you are likely to pass through five tongues, each carrying its own wisdom, pride, and grief.
In theory, this should be our advantage. It means we can think in more than one way, express ideas richer than English can contain, and negotiate with depth. When politicians respect this, development follows.
Multilingual societies can promote participation when local languages are used in governance. It allows a farmer in Katsina to understand climate policies in Hausa, or a trader in Aba to follow tax reforms in Igbo. You do not have to speak Queen’s English to belong.
Everyone matters. But that is not always the story. In practice, many African leaders have weaponized language. Political campaigns become tribal drums. Appointments go not by merit but by mother tongue. A Yoruba man becomes uncomfortable if the President and Senate President are both Hausa.
Suddenly, competence bends to the weight of identity. Multilingualism, instead of building a house, becomes the stick we use to draw lines in the sand. When the language of power is not your own, you feel like a visitor in your country.
When Culture Clashes With the Ballot Box
Multiculturalism, too, carries this same two-faced nature. Africa is a continent of rituals, music, faiths, and stories that refuse to die. Every culture has its own version of “welcome,” its own way of mourning, its own idea of respect.
These differences should colour our politics beautifully, like Ankara patterns on election day. They should help us create diverse policies that touch every corner of society. But they often do the opposite.
In Kenya, post-election violence in 2007 showed how fast culture could become a wound.[1] Political parties there were not just vehicles of ideology, but tribal armies. In South Sudan, multicultural tensions between Dinka and Nuer peoples helped fuel a brutal civil war.[2] In Nigeria, too, politicians use culture as a campaign tool, not a governance tool. “Vote your brother,” they whisper.
And so, rather than choosing ideas, people choose bloodlines. Political development suffers, not because we are too many, but because we treat culture like territory.
The irony is painful. These cultures, when respected, can teach us fairness. Igbo culture prizes debate. Yoruba culture respects elders. Hausa culture values dignity. These are democratic values hiding in plain sight. But politics does not often tap them. Instead, politicians package culture into stereotypes—Ijaws are militants, Fulanis are killers, Igbos are traders, Yorubas are cunning—and these lies turn neighbours into strangers.
Bridging the Voices: Solutions from Within
The answer is not to erase these differences, or to pretend we are one big happy family. We are not. But we can become a functional one. And that begins with how we treat language and culture in politics. If we want real political development, then representation must reflect reality.
That means translating policy documents into local languages. It means broadcasting National Assembly debates in pidgin and major indigenous tongues. Let people hear what is being done in their name.
Education must also stop being so allergic to African voices.
Children should not only learn to write in English, but also in their mother tongues. Let them debate in Hausa, read poetry in Igbo, and sing the anthem in Yoruba. Political consciousness begins in the classroom. If politics is taught in a language people dream in, then maybe they will care more.
Leadership must also change its tone. We need fewer politicians who speak like colonial leftovers and more who can say “wetin dey worry una” without shame. Because the masses do not live in English. They live in pidgin, in Tiv, in Efik, in Ebira. When leaders connect to that, trust grows. And where trust grows, development is possible.
Constitutionally, power must stop favouring dominant groups. Federal character must become more than tokenism. For instance, Nigeria’s language policy states that three major languages should be taught in schools, but it is rarely enforced.[3] We need a multilingual constitution that does not only get read in courtrooms, but on the lips of common people.
Returning to Mama Ugo’s Table
Mama Ugo still sells akara. Her English signboard now sits beside the same basket of words she has always spoken. She learned to spell “Bean Cake” but never stopped calling it “akara.” That is the lesson. We do not need to choose between tongues. We need to let them all sit at the table, share the oil, and taste from the same plate.
Politics should be like that akara stand—small, noisy, diverse, but welcoming. A place where different tongues feed one stomach. That is the kind of development Africa deserves. Not one that fears its many voices, but one that hears them, speaks with them, and learns from them. After all, what kind of democracy does not understand its own people?
