A Eulogy for Dead Languages

Photo Illustrations by Ezinne Osueke/ THE REPUBLIC.

And because I cannot speak my mother’s tongue, there are phrases I may never say.
Verses I may water down with ignorance,
Words that my mouth cannot make the shape of,
I am half a woman,
Untranslated, raw, unfinished.

—Tukiya Fundafunda, Photographs of Dead Lovers

At 16 every Zambian gets a green National Registration Card (NRC). Proof of life. Evidence of identity that will open doors to banks, voting booths and (hopefully, maybe) land ownership.

Name:
Date of Birth:
Place of Birth: Kabwe
Village: Kajimina
Chief: Mukumbi

On my NRC, much of that information is either a lie, a slight fabrication, or, as with many things in life, a well-intentioned truth turned false. This was my confession. Voice quivering amongst a group of strangers as we discussed the evolution of Zambian culture, charting its transformation since independence, at once marvelling at and decrying its fluidity. The conversation was all-encompassing—art, literature, attire, and most pertinent for me, language. A garbled cultural debate extolling indigenous knowledge. ‘But what is indigenous?’ I implored. And more to the point, ‘Who?’

I took the picture for my NRC outside the local government office of my hometown, Chingola. A white cloth shielding the dust-smeared cream soda-coloured wall. The image on the card is faded now, a tiny black and white face intently staring at me, hair slicked back, lips pursed in new-found adulthood. Had I known that face would follow me this long, across continents, slipped in ever-changing wallets, I might have smiled a little. The year was 2000, seven days after the world was supposed to have been irreversibly altered by a mysterious computer bug. We were for a moment a species at the precipice.