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Suwanu Igbo: Reconnecting with our roots, one word at a time.
“Oge Eruola” – (The Time Has Come.) Amara said to herself as she wondered in the coal city of Enugu, in Nigeria.
The good news is that you don’t need to travel to Nigeria to learn Igbo. We are bringing it to your doorsteps. Here is the story of Amara who took the Bull by the horn and embrace her heritage. You can do the Same.
“Oge Eruola” – (The Time Has Come.)
Amara stood in front of the small language center in the coal city of Enugu, her heart
thumping louder than the noise of the bustling streets. The faded sign above the
door reads "Igbo Language Academy." It seemed almost like a relic, much like the
language Amara had grown up hearing but never truly learned.
At 28, she had spent most of her life in the UK, far from her roots, her family history
reduced to occasional WhatsApp calls and brief visits to Nigeria. The Igbo phrases
her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a child had long faded into the
background of her mind, buried beneath the rhythm of English. Now, after years of
feeling disconnected from her heritage, something had shifted. It started with a
simple question during her last visit home: "Amara, do you know who you are?" her
grandmother had asked, her voice soft yet piercing. The question echoed for months
in Amara’s mind until she found herself standing here, at the threshold of
rediscovering a part of herself she had long neglected. She said to herself, “the time
is now” (Oge eruola).
Amara stood in front of the small language center in the coal city of Enugu, her heart
thumping louder than the noise. The classroom was modest—wooden desks, chalkboard, and a handful of students,
each from different walks of life. Some were expatriates eager to learn the language
of their new home, while others were young Nigerians like her, desperate to reclaim
what had slipped through the cracks of modern life. of the bustling streets. The faded sign above the
door reads "Igbo Language Academy." It seemed almost like a relic, much like the
language Amara had grown up hearing but never truly learned.
The instructor, a woman named Nkem, greeted the class in fluent Igbo. “Nnọọ!
Welcome!” she said, her smile warm and inviting. "Today, we begin with the
foundation. How to introduce yourself in Igbo. It’s more than just words—it’s a
statement of your identity.” Amara listened carefully, her pen hovering over her
notebook. "I am Amara," she thought to herself. But when it was her turn, she hesitated.
“Introduce yourself, my dear,” Nkem said, encouraging her.
Amara cleared her throat. "Aha m bụ Amara," she said, feeling the unfamiliar yet
comforting syllables roll off her tongue. Her classmates clapped lightly, but for
Amara, it was more than just an introduction. It was a moment of belonging—a small
bridge back to the village stories her grandmother used to tell, back to the songs that
she used to hum while cooking, and back to the culture she feared she had lost.
She learned how to say everyday things—kedụ ka ị mere? (how are you?), biko,
nyere m aka (please, help me). She was fascinated not only by the words but the
connection and the deep sense of pride that came with every phrase. With each
word, she felt herself getting closer to the stories of her ancestors, to the heart of her
heritage. She felt it deep in her bones: Oge eruola—the time had come. Time to
embrace all that she was and carry it proudly into the world.
