One of the fun parts of speaking a different language than the one commonly spoken in your community is that it creates a special bond with those who understand it—in my case, family. We can all agree that some expressions don’t really hit until you say them in your native language. I live in Lagos State, Nigeria, with parents from Auchi, Edo State. Having studied in Osun State, I am fluent in English, Yoruba, and my native language, Yekhe. Since I typically speak Yekhe only with family, it was a pleasant surprise to overhear someone speaking Yekhe while riding a bus.

I turned around with a beaming smile, and my attention was drawn towards a middle-aged man engaged in a phone call. I couldn't wait to say hi. As soon as he ended the conversation, another woman, who happened to be from Auchi like me, turned and asked him, "Otoo ma lukila?" meaning, ‘Are you from our place?' My smile grew bigger and bigger as I observed them chatting animatedly for a brief moment before joining in with my enthusiastic "wa moo." Our smiles widened, and the conversation was punctuated with more exchanges of "ogboo?" and "wa moo!" Which all basically meant ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’

Another time, I was with my brother in a mall. We had just descended the stairs with baskets of stuff we had bought when we overheard a woman scolding her daughter in Yekhe—a scenario that felt all too familiar, just like our mother's reprimands. My brother and I exchanged looks and shared a chuckle. Now, how do we subtly let her know that we understand her?

We moved towards the cashier and started speaking Yekhe, hoping to get her attention. It was so ridiculous, and she remained oblivious the whole time. Eventually, I turned directly to her and uttered, "Moo." Instantly, her stern expression softened, and she responded with a broad smile, saying, "Ogboo, wa moo."

Once again, I found myself at the back of a BRT, seated adjacent to a guy engrossed in a phone conversation, presumably with his mother. I could tell that she was advising him and praying for him as the grown man consistently responded with a respectful "yes, mommy." After his call, I said "moo," and he responded excitedly, and we chatted for a while. It wasn't until later that it dawned on me that perhaps I shouldn't have initiated a conversation. His mother had been scolding him about excessive alcohol consumption, and his response had been, "E ge lulo danyo, Mommy isou," meaning ‘’I don’t drink like that anymore, mommy, I’ve heard’. In retrospect, my presence must have felt a bit intrusive.

It’s Saturday evening, and I find myself returning late from the mainland, seated in a bus at Obalende. A woman boards, headed to Ajah. Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly hear her speaking Yekhe; her voice is hushed and tinged with what seems like impending tears. She confides to the person on the other end about her dire circumstances—no food yesterday, no sales today. The entire conversation is just her expressing a sense of helplessness with no one to turn to. At this point, her voice suggests she's on the verge of tears as she asks, "Agbo o na?" meaning, ‘Is this life?’ It strikes me profoundly; it’s reminiscent of the way my mom has uttered it when she hears bad news, when she is drained, frustrated, or both. There's no room for cheerful conversation here. The bus stops at Lekki; this is my bus stop. I settle my transport fare and hers too, and as I alight from the bus, I whisper to her, "Moo."