The Deep-Rooted Bondage Ebbing Away at the Youth By Megan Kamau, Ivainesu Mutasa and Khanyisile Sithole

Colonization has been relegated to the role of a taboo topic – at its mention, discomfort is induced in both the descendants of the colonizers and the colonized. As a consequence, the discussion of one of (if not the most) influential conflicts in human history is swept under the rug. We choose to ignore the skeletons in our closet to make ourselves comfortable; we ultimately want to cushion our egos. After all, who wants to be associated with the victim? Or perhaps the oppressor? The evidence lies in the history taught in today’s education system: Exam boards like Edexcel and AQA opt to offer papers on wars that are albeit impactful, but surely cannot hold a candle to the invasion of an entire continent sparing only two nations. What argument could possibly excuse the exclusion of colonization from the syllabus in favour of, for example, in-depth learning about Russia in 1905 or Anglo-Saxon England? However, despite our persistent efforts, the skeletons have seeped into the world beyond the closet rather covertly; Decades after the conclusion of colonial presence, the effects still wreak turmoil across each and every one of the liberated nations. As we continue to feign normalcy, we give room for roots of destruction to take hold. How long until we finally see that we are fostering ostensible peace for underlying strife?  

Culture in African nations today is distinctly influenced by the West because of the lengthy period of occupation. As a consequence, the people born later are more enculturated than those born earlier. In itself, Westernization isn’t entirely a terrible thing: After all, we now have global interactions that are enabled by the globalization of Western culture; we can relate to people across the world because we have much more similar tastes, passions and ideals. Otherwise, we would be living in a world where a Nigerian singing K-pop or even a Kenyan dancing to Amapiano would be utterly unfathomable. However, in exchange for this level of interconnection, we have left behind the connection to the cultures of our fathers and mothers. As we ignore the roots of Westernization, we in turn ignore the erasure of our traditional culture. If we address the loss of what once was, we must address the why question. Unfortunately, those are taboo grounds not to be dwelled on. Thus, the children brought up speaking only English who attend funerals and can’t understand anything that was being said. I can personally attest to feeling completely foreign amongst my own family in bereavement: As prayers are uttered over the grave in my mother tongue (Kikuyu), I shamefully stare at the ground with the knowledge that I am not connected to my own flesh and blood. I can personally attest to feeling completely foreign in my own country: As my father stops any man on the road and strikes an immediate bond using his Kikuyu, I sink in the backseat knowing I will never come close to understanding what it is like to be a Kenyan in its entirety. I can personally attest to feeling fearful of the future as I cannot pass the mantle of culture to my children: I know white weddings with a mountain of cake, but I haven’t the first clue about how to set up a Ruracio (Kikuyu traditional wedding). If the youth have no idea what their culture is, who will pass it on? Will it dissipate into something no one even recalls? In a hundred years will our children be asking what a Kikuyu is the same way we ask what a Nilote is? Will they even remember to ask? 

Language is the vessel that facilitates communication between us all. Without that vessel, connections are lost. One such dwindling connection is that between the old and the new generations. What is worse than not being able to properly bury the dead is not being able to live with the living. In 1972, only twenty-one percent of Ugandans could speak English. Because of the desire to enculturate into Western civilization stemming from the considerable length of time of being forcibly ruled in their own land, English was incorporated into the education system. As a result, nearly ninety percent speak English today. One must wonder, how young Ugandans communicate with their great-grandmothers who were long past the age of education by the time the change was adopted. When one has English as their main language while another speaks only their mother tongue how does that communication happen? I have heard accounts of people who don’t even know their great-grandparents' names let alone their likes or passions or stories. The universal passing of not only love but wisdom is not experienced. As we busy ourselves with hiding our skeletons, we are unable to discuss the effect that the severing of generations. As we pretend nothing ever happened, we cannot identify with let alone deal with the grievous predicament we have: A predicament where children cannot ask their elders to make them their favourite snack. A predicament where children cannot share sneaky laughs with their grandmothers about school crushes. A predicament where children cannot thank their grandfathers for the extra pocket money in a language they understand. So, the old are doomed to perish with tales they dreamed of one day sharing with their grandchildren. They are abased as the value of tradition is diminished – how European your English sounds becomes the indicator of your value to society. In the end, the chasm between the grandchild and grandparent stretches as wide as the night sky; It stretches enough for the past to only be a story for the museums. How unfortunate when the door to a genuine understanding of the people before us was sitting right across the Christmas table.

Of course, the skeleton will occasionally bang against the closet doors; After all, we can never completely pretend what is there isn’t. When this happens and we notice the fading orthodox customs, the blame always somehow falls upon the youth. Every blue moon or so, parents all across Africa will ask “Why don’t you speak Shona?”, “Why can’t you cook jollof rice?” or “Why don’t you know the lyrics to the song sung at every wedding?”. The better question is “Why didn’t I teach you?”. As a teen, one is only gaining an understanding of the intricacies of the world while at forty to fifty, one has been on earth long enough to have understood the dissipation of traditional conventions. Yet, the choice to evade the unease of discussing colonization, every concern is at once batted away. Instead of instilling a mix of modern ideas and customary concepts, the primary focus becomes setting a child up for their notion of success. This notion tends to be a European accent, with a European language and European mannerisms. Regardless, the blame shifts onto the youth. The youth is inevitably left as feeling adrift and without roots just as their parents perceive us. The question “Who am I?” is difficult to answer when we are entirely disconnected from our communities: Imagine a language barrier with loved ones, a cultural barrier with their country and a defence barrier against the blame for being uncultured. Deep down, we all suffer from the sporadic pangs of emptiness when we realize, we realize we are ultimately dislodged from our community without anyone to lodge us back in. As we get older, resentment festers within as we blame those around us for not bringing us up as per custom. Thus, this generation’s promise to do right by the culture of their ancestors. Perhaps the closet will finally be opened, and a long-overdue conversation can be had.  

The universe is one hundred sextillion kilometres wide, so, there is a good chance we are alone here. The odds of our existence are absurd, and it doesn’t seem like there is a grand purpose to our being here. I would say the ridiculousness of our predicament is reason enough to want to live this life to the fullest. Eradicating the diverse cultures and connections in favour of maintaining surface-level peace as a façade for the tumult ensuing underneath is definitely not the way to do so. Unpicking what has caused us to break away from what once was is the way to find our path back to our roots. Once we let the skeleton free, we will see what we are dealing with and conquer the remnants of colonialism. Then, we can all appreciate the beauty of how far we’ve come despite our conflicts in between. We can love and be loved. We can experience the richness of our traditions. Finally, we can be free of the age-old shackles that have kept us in strife.