You might be a parent in the diaspora trying to teach your children your mother language so it doesn’t fade away.
Or maybe you grew up abroad and, for one reason or another, never really learned your parents’ language. Now that you can make your own decisions, you’d like to catch up, to stop feeling like a stranger at family gatherings back home, to finally talk with your grandmother without needing translation.
Or perhaps you grew up back home but never spoke your traditional language fluently. Then you moved abroad, and the cultural distance made you realise how much you miss it. Now, surrounded by new languages, you feel the need to reconnect with your roots, to strengthen that feeling of I belong somewhere, to embody your culture, and to proudly represent it in this foreign land.
Whichever story fits, the thread is the same: the desire for legacy, and the longing to reconnect with the roots.
The Dilemma
But how do you learn, or keep, your mother tongue alive when you live in a global world, where people who speak your language represent less than 2% of the world’s population, most of them back in small villages at home?
What are the chances of meeting someone who speaks your language on a random summer day strolling around the streets of a city like Berlin or Frankfurt? Very close to zero.
And yet, when you do, when you unexpectedly meet someone who speaks your mother tongue in a foreign land, something magical happens. You feel instantly at home. That person becomes, for a moment, everything you’ve been missing.
And the cherry on top? When you meet someone who doesn’t share your origin but speaks your language fluently. That joy hits differently, whether abroad or back home. It’s pride, warmth, and gratitude all at once. Because language touches the heart.
My Story
I grew up in Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon, a lively, multilingual city where people from every corner of the country come together. Cameroon has more than 200 languages, each tied to an ethnic group, each carrying its own rhythm and wisdom.
But in Yaoundé, French reigns as the unifying tongue. It’s the language of the classroom, the market, the street. Some say that’s a good thing, it helps people from different origins communicate more easily, in a country with more than 200 ethnic groups. Others see it as a quiet loss, because when one language dominates, the others slowly begin to fade.
There have even been debates about choosing one local language to make it “national.” But that dream feels distant, tangled in politics and tribal divisions.
For me, growing up in Yaoundé, French was the daily language, more than my mother tongue, Ghomala’. It was the language of my childhood, my jokes, my schooling. But then English entered my life, and suddenly, the world expanded.
Through English, I discovered a wider internet, global ideas, new friendships. I met people from Angola, Kenya, Sudan —even from Iran, China, Bangladesh. I studied abroad because of English. I built bridges with it.
That’s what learning a second language, even a colonial one, has done for me. Because the purpose of language is, after all, to communicate.
A Story That Stayed With Me
Three days ago, I read a blog post by a young Nigerian woman living in Europe. She confessed that she had become more fluent in French than in Yoruba, her own mother tongue.
Her story stayed with me, and actually inspired this blog post (read her story here). I remember my own small “language shock” when I first arrived in Europe. Once, an African woman from Zambia asked me to translate something I had just said in English into my mother tongue, and I struggled. I laughed it off, but inside, I felt a sting of embarrassment.
For some time, I tried to catch up online, to learn bits and pieces of Ghomala’. But that phase didn’t last long. German was calling my name, I needed to go beyond the “Mit Karte, bitte” level, and I was still improving my English while studying. At that time, learning my mother tongue couldn’t be a priority.
So instead of using language as my anchor, I learned to define myself simply as me. I realised that with every language I learned, a new world opened, and I grew. I became more excited about the future than nostalgic about the past. I understood that I am already “Black”, already carrying my community in my skin, my story, and my actions. I don’t need extra labels to prove it. And anyway, my success in this new land will shine back on those who share my roots, regardless of how well I master my mother tongue. My failure, on the other hand, might be far more damaging for my community.
So, was it actually a good reason not to learn my mother tongue at the time? Honestly, I don’t know. But what I do know is that these reflections helped me come out of a feeling of lack with a positive mindset. And yes, sometimes there’s guilt in not understanding your “village people.” I get it. And if that’s you, you can gladly borrow any of the excuses listed in the paragraph above, they work really well, especially if you live in the diaspora.
Should One Learn Their Mother Language If They Missed It as a Child?
Yes, definitely, if you can!
Not because you must, but because it reconnects you to a part of your heritage. It’s not about achieving perfect fluency; it’s about remembering your people, the music, the laughter, the words your grandparents used when they blessed or teased you. Even learning a few words is a good beginning.
Is It Really Necessary?
To be honest, not really. You can live, work, and succeed entirely in English, French, or German. But learning or keeping your mother tongue is still deeply meaningful. It’s about having a place inside you that belongs only to you and your people, like the small joy of being able to talk about something sensitive in public with your mum or auntie, and knowing nobody else understands.
Is It Relevant in a Global World?
Completely, yes.
Because diversity is a kind of wealth. Every language you speak adds another layer to who you are. It allows you to move through the world with both openness and grounding.
