Olólùfẹ́
“Olólufẹ́, báwo ni?"
He replied instantly. You know what that means. Like a DM. Like a flirt.
📍 Mr and Mrs Àdìgún, London circa 2018
“Olúlufe, bawo ni?"
He replied instantly. You know what that means. Like a DM. Like a flirt.
And I felt it too. Like I loved him deeper in that moment.
We’ve always had our own little thing.
Me Kikuyu. Him Yorùbá.
But saying it in his language hit different. Like Love Me Jeje could play softly in the background and it would make complete sense.
I’ve been learning Yorùbá for exactly 30 days. Monday to Friday.
Ten minutes a day on YapTime. That's all.
The Minister of Enjoyment was appointed almost immediately. It turns out it is significantly easier to ask for owó in Yorùbá. Baba Pikin, papa of our fine fine daughters — owó fóònù tuntun, abeg. A softness. English doesn't do that.
In Yorùbá, words are ceremony.
You don’t just say I love you — you honour the person through naming.
Olólufẹ́ doesn’t mean lover. It means the one who owns my love.
Image from Nigerian visual artist, Sanjo Lawal.
But learning Yorùbá hasn’t been easy.
The tones.
The accent.
The musicality.
All of it has me tripping.
My pronunciations are wrong. Gbọ́ is still foreign and flat on my tongue. I’m still looking for a keyboard with accent marks.
But I can no longer be a spectator in my own heritage.
So here I am. Ten Toes down.
It isn’t just language I am unlocking. It’s culture and identity that I am unravelling. I found out that Yorùbá dùndún, talking drums, replicate the tonal patterns of spoken Yorùbá so precisely that fluent speakers can understand the message. It's how our ancestors speak back to us. The tones carry words all the way to Ilé-Ifẹ̀.
Language isn't just words. It's heritage.
What are you still waiting to reclaim?
2026 is the year we stop being spectators in our own heritage.
