15/08/2026
The Return
Emeka had been in Lagos for four years, speaking fast Yoruba on the street and polished English in the office. When his mama called from Ihiagwa that his younger sister was doing her traditional marriage introduction, he knew he had to come home to Owerri.
He landed in Owerri with his big-city accent intact.
At the compound in Egbu, his grandmother was waiting in the parlor, fanning herself.
"Kedu ka i mere?" she said to him. The real Owerri greeting, soft and musical.
Emeka grinned. "I'm fine, mama. How are you?"
His grandmother squinted at him. "Eh? I said kedu ka i mere? You don forget our tongue?"
His cousins laughed. His sister whispered, "She said you are now a Lagos boy."
That evening, they sent him to buy palm wine from Mama Nwanyi down the road. He got there and said in English, "Good evening ma, give me one bottle."
Mama Nwanyi looked at him from head to toe. "Nwa m, i bu onye Owerri?"
"I am, ma."
"Then say it well."
He swallowed. He remembered small bits from childhood.
"Biko... nye m mmanya... kedu ka... ego ole?"
She laughed loud. "Ehen! Now you are talking! Ole? We say ole? In Owerri we don't drag mouth. Say Ndaa, biko nye m manya Ngwo, ego ole di?"
He repeated it, badly. She repeated it for him, slowly. He repeated again.
By the time he walked back with the calabash, he was practicing under his breath.
That night after the introduction, the elders sat outside drinking. His grandmother called him.
"Emeka, bia kọ akụkọ."
He wanted to tell them about Lagos in English, but he saw her eyes. So he tried in Owerri Igbo.
"M... Mama, na Lagos... ihe siri ike. People too many. But anyi na-eme. I miss nri Owerri. I miss ofe owerri."
Broken, but honest. His grandmother nodded, and replied in that deep Owerri Igbo that doesn't rush:
"Ngwa, i chetala. Asusu bu ndụ. When you lose your language, you lose your road home. Language is life."
The cousins stopped laughing. Emeka understood.
He didn't become fluent that night. But he learned that Owerri language is not just words - it's how you greet an elder with both hands slightly bent, it's how you say Ndaa instead of just hello, it's how you argue, joke, and pray without translating yourself first.
And from that day, every time his mama calls from home, he answers first in Owerri:
"Da, kedu ka i mere?"
Watch, follow, and discover more trending content.