What Does the "Chi" in Your Name Mean?

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When someone invites you to a masquerade festival or to an event at which a masquerade would perform, what picture comes to your mind? Ijele, Omaba, Ekpe, Inyi-agba-oku, Okonko, Iga, Okwomma, Odogwu-anya-mmee, Ulaga, Odo etc? How many categories of Masked spirits are you afamiliar with? Who qualifies to join the fraternity? What functions/roles in the community? Who does a masquerade know and know run from the masquerade?  Let me begin by saying that the English word “masquerade” does not do justice to this revered tradition that our ancestors held at the highest esteem. For the Europeans, a masquerade is merely a performative form of social activity that was done wearing a mask or some other form of face covering. What our ancestors had, which English people labeled masquerade was far more than a mere stuff of social entertainment. In fact, our ancestors called their … spirit Mmụọ. Ours was, and still is, much more than stuff of public entertainment. Ours is a brotherhood; a fraternity; it is sacred; it is exclusively for the initiated; it is esoteric! It is much more than some costume that you buy in the market and put up a show with. Just ask Collins. Have your heard the story about Collins? Well, Collins was a young Igbo teenager born in the United States, to an Igbo mother. He went to Nigeria as a teenager to visit with that part of his family. It was the time of year with lots of fun and festivities. Collins was taking a walk around the village one late afternoon when he came upon a masquerade. He liked the appearance of the masquerade and did not understand why everyone else was running away. He thought he ought to be polite and friendly enough to go and say 'hello' to the masquerade. So in his innocence and naivety, he walked up the masquerade and, extending his hand, said to the masquerade, "Hi, my name is Collins, and it’s nice to meet you!” Long story short; Collins got the 'whooping' of his life. Who's to blame? Collins had not been educated about the masquerade. It would have been his father's responsibility to do that. But his father was not an Igbo man. His mother is, but the masked spirits (Mmọnwụ) fraternity is not open to women. She couldn't have taught her son that which she didn’t/couldn’t know. What experiences, if any, have you had with a masquerade? Is anyone in your immediate or extended family a member of the brotherhood? Is there someone in your family who can educate you about this sacred tradition? This a fascinating tradition in Igbo culture that we see a lot of but many know very little about. There are three families or categories of Mmọnwụ: Is anyone in your immediate or extended family a member of the brotherhood? Is there someone in your family who can educate you about this sacred tradition? 1. Mmọnwụ Obodo or Mmọnwụ Ọha (Community Masked Spirits): The fraternity is organized and sponsored by the entire community. Any adult male in good standing with the community can be initiated if they fulfill the initiation requirements. There is a strict calendar for their outing; usually every other year. In their off-year, it would take an unprecedented event for the Spirit(s) to come out. *Achịwkụ is an esoteric and secret Spirit of the dusk that some communities organize. I can’t talk about it here. Ask an elder in your community if your people do Achịwkụ and see what they can share with you. 2. Mmọnwụ Otu Ogbo (Age Grade Masquerade): This is organized and sponsored exclusively by an Age Grade (an association of cohorts). It follows that only members of the association can participate in their activities. 3. Mmọnwụ Mmemme or Mmọnwụ Oriri (Ceremonial Masquerade): This is the one that operates independently, usually upon request, at social events. It can be organized and sponsored by an individual or a group. There is a freelance approach to ceremonial masked spirits. The organizers are usually compensated for their performance, and/or they are free to solicit their spectators for support. Masked spirits add color to the life of a community, especially during festivities. Children and uninitiated adults may be frightened at the initial and unexpected sighting of a masquerade but it is always a thing of joy to see them perform, entertain, and carry out other duties. Across precolonial Igbo land and up till recent decades, masked spirits were the primary arm of law enforcement in many communities. Yes, before there were police and sheriffs, there was the masquerade! It may surprise you to learn that masked spirits were built into the political structure of Igbo communities. But that was the case. Much more than the social and ceremonial roles they are now known for, most Igbo communities had masquerades performing the formal duty of law enforcement and the regulation of certain community activities. One example was the enforcement of fines and levies. It used to be that if members of the community goes against the laws of the land or had fines levied against them for whatever reasons, the elders set a date when the fines and levies must be enforced. On that day young men would accompany a masquerade to the homes of affected persons. Shielded by the power and authority of the spirits the young men would seize property or livestock that was adjudged equal or greater in value to what is owed the community. No one dares dares challenge or fight the spirits so whatever was seized from the home of the offender must be forfeited or redeemed when due settlement is made by the offender. When you see a masked spirit, be assured that they carry a lot of significance in Igbo culture. #Igboamaka

I have a friend in Atlanta whose last name is, ''Okpukpara." I also have a friend whose last name is, "Agbasi." What do the names, Okpukpara and Agbasi, have in common? They both contain unique phonetic sounds that challenge non-native Igbo speakers. I was once at a public event with a guy whose last name was Okpukpara. We showed up at the concierge to be checked in. The oyibo lady at the front desk asked what his last name was. Since I had never heard him pronounce his name to a non-Igbo speaker, I had not imagined what was in store. In a very smooth and sensual voice, he very succinctly dropped the "O" word (with every letter and sound so intentionally enunciated). As you would expect, the oyibo lady then asked him to please spell the name. Yet in another well-rehearsed art of "Igboness" he went: "OKP- UKP- ARA." They came out in a kind of, poetic rendition, so much so that, for a moment, l wished my name was as pliable. It is unlikely that he remembers the incident because my guess is that he probably goes through this routine regularly. But for me, it was a first, a gratifying moment! I was especially proud that, not only did he pronounce his name clearly, he did not adulterate or dilute any letter or sound in an attempt to make his name sound “oyibotic” (Americanized or Anglicized versions of our Igbo names)! I have also witnessed my other friend with the last name, Agbasi, do something equally refreshing. I once observed her trying to coach a non-Igbo friend by saying her last name. I noticed that she took the time to explain the unique "gb" sound to the individual. She explained it so that pronouncing the name as if it spelled "Abasi" was incorrect since the "g" in the spelling was not meant to be silent l. I was proud and delighted to have observed her make the effort to teach a friend something about our language. Igbo names, both our given names and family names, are very important to our identity as Ndị Igbo. We have had very interesting and informative discussions in the past about Igbo names. In most cases, though, we discussed the meaning of the names as well as the context in which most names are chosen by our parents. However, I have noticed that a good number of us do not correctly pronounce our own names in accordance with the Igbo language diction. Since it is known that Igbo itself is a tonal language, it is important to highlight that any word that is even slightly mispronounced runs the risk of having its meaning altered or completely lost. Even more disappointing is when someone intentionally alters the pronunciation of one's name in order to make it sound more like oyibo language, or more appealing to oyibo people! Chai! Why should our names be treated with such self-effacement? Enough has also been said about the deep thoughts these names carry –as opposed to most oyibo names whose origin and/or meaning we can hardly tell. Thankfully, Igbo names survived centuries of colonization and cultural erosion. What is not so fantastic, however, is that even today a lot of Igbo parents in the Diaspora give their children thoughtfully chosen Igbo names but never bother to make sure that those children grow up knowing how to properly pronounce their own or their family names. I do not know if there is any excuse for that! Not being able to speak a language that is considerably foreign to you is one thing, but your inability to properly pronounce your own name; your primary identity??? I don't know that excuses for that can be reasonably made. And if you dare think that any Igbo name is too difficult to pronounce biko go and try saying the names of your Indian, Nepali, or Bangladeshi friends. You will come back with a renewed appreciation for your Igbo name! I am glad that I am Igbo and I am in good company in Ụmụ Igbo Unite, Atlanta. We understand that our names are not mere identity tags. Each Igbo name is a cultural and historical marker. It is a commentary on the circumstances and the sentiments with which your family welcomed you to this world. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the challenges that non-native speakers face with letters and sounds that challenge the monolingual aptitude of adult non-native speakers. I hope that I don't sound as if I am trying to embarrass or shame anyone about the proper pronunciation of their names. But this is a subject that I believe we should begin to pay some serious attention to. The days of diffidence and of feeling culturally inferior to oyibo are long gone! It doesn't help our cause if we continue to devalue our names or any part of our identity. #Igbamaka

Igbo is the language of Igbo people, an ethnic group, or tribe, of the indigenous people of South Eastern Nigeria. The written form of the Igbo language as we now have it was developed by European missionaries, specifically, the "Linguistic Missionary Corps" whose primary aim was to develop the grammar as well as the written form of native languages of their colonies. Their primary motivation was to have the bible translated and made available in the native tongues of European colonies across Africa and South America. Igbo was one of the languages that benefited from the (worldwide) work of those specialized missionaries. And they did a commendable job giving us our language in a written form. However, our language contained many phonetic sounds that did not exist in European languages. These Igbo sounds were represented in special letters that we can call, "Compound Letters:" CH, GB, GH, GW, KP, KW, Ṅ, NW, NY, and SH. Each of the compound letters represents a sound that is specific (but not necessarily exclusive) to the Igbo language. As it turned out, many non native Igbo speakers do not want to be burdened with learning to properly make some of these phonetic sounds. When such people encountered words that contained these compound letters, they did their best, they sounded the closest they could. Most European colonial officials, missionaries, and explorers fell into that category. That was how we ended up with some people calling us or our language, "Ibo" instead of "Igbo." Historical records show that our tribe and language were also spelled as "Ebo," "Eboe" etc. Funny enough, I grew up hearing many Igbo people say that the language was Igbo but that the tribe was Ibo. There is no such thing as Ibo people or "Ndi Ibo." We are Igbo people! Anyị bụ ndị Igbo!!! Our language is also "Igbo." And it does not make a lot of sense to say that the tribe and the language can be different, one from the other. Rather, you could say that the language derives its name from the tribe, or vice versa. These Igbo sounds were represented in special letters that we can call, "Compound Letters:" CH, GB, GH, GW, KP, KW, Ṅ, NW, NY, and SH. There are also three special vowel sounds that are unique to Igbo. These are represented by the letter I O U with a dot mark under each letter as follows: Ị Ọ Ụ. So, if you are among those that have difficulty with the proper pronunciation of these compound letters, be comforted that it is nothing new and you have plenty of company. However, the fact that folks have difficulty with the proper pronunciation does not alter the phonetic sound by the represented letter(s). Every letter in the Igbo alphabet has its distinct and consistent phonetic sound! And because Igbo is a tonal language, the phonetic sound of any Igbo letter never changes, regardless of its location in a word/spelling. So again, for the umpteenth time, we are not Ibo people. We are Igbo people and our language is also Igbo, no more, no less. I'd like to also point out that the word Ibo is not even a noun in the Igbo vocabulary. A word that does not exist in the vocabulary as noun cannot possibly form the name of the people whose language we are talking about. The only "ibo" in Igbo vocabulary is a verb. It is also pronounced with a different tone, and its meaning has nothing to do with the name of our tribe or our language. Below is a breakdown of the verb "ibo." (Main verb - ibo; Active - bo; Present - na-ebo; Past - boro). This is one of my favourite words in Igbo vocabulary because it is a word, though common, yet so unique to the Igbo experience that the English language does not have an equivalent verb that translates "ibo." So I can only translate it descriptively: "ibo" means, "to help lift a load/object and balance it on one's head." For example, "I nwere ike ibo m ite mmiri a?" translates: Can you help me lift this pot of water to balance it on my head? Outside of this, the word "ibo" does not exist or occur in any other way or fomr in Igbo vocabulary. I have also encountered many Igbo learners who have been told that the "g" in Igbo or the "g" in their name like "Chigbo," is silent. Such people end up calling themselves "Chibo." That too is not correct. No letter in any Igbo word is ever silent. It is that simple! If you have difficulty pronouncing the "gb" in Igbo or any other word, it is understandable. It is also understandable that some may never master certain pronunciations enough to sound like native speakers. Just keep working at it. More strength to you! #Igboamaka

At a recent Umu Igbo Unite (U.I.U) Atlanta cooking event. An unfamiliar face was walking around with a power camera snapping away at everyone. I vaguely remembered she got my shot somewhere during the 'meet-and-greet' phase of the gathering. But a little afterward, as I sat and chatted with friends, this sister came around, again, snapping and flaunting her flashy camera. Not quite sure who she was, I inquired of the guy next to me; "biko onye bụkwa asa a?'' I did lower my voice, and asked in Igbo, for a reason. But to my surprise, not only did the girl with the camera hear me but she also understood Igbo and knew I was talking about her. As I took my first dip of jollof rice, she came charging toward me; ''did you just call me 'Akata?'" "No, no, no, no, no," I said apologetically, "I said 'Asa,' not 'Akata!'" I had to clarify, and reassured her that I said, 'Asa,' (chic) not 'Akata.' She had 'misheard' me (if that's a word). I did all I could to defuse the tension and as she mentioned her name we found out we were friends! She's my Friend, Ugo. (Yes, we had been friends on this website that has redefined friendship). "Hello Ugo, I'm Obie." "We're friends on Facebook." "Oh yes, that's you...!" Trouble averted, hugs and more smiles :) So, what does 'Akata' really mean and why it such an offensive word? The first time I heard the word here in the U.S. was in 2006, from a Gambian. I was confused because I wasn't expecting an Igbo word from him. I couldn't make any connection whatsoever. With the passage of time, I realized that this Igbo word had other connotations. Yes, Akata is an Igbo word but it has a different meaning here in America because Akata, as used here, was introduced from another language –and the meanings are not even close. I cannot speak to the etymology of the word, any shades of meanings it might have, or what part of the Igbo dialect it came from. But growing up in Enugwu, this was a word I remember me and my teenage friends using. In general, it's not a bad word. It denotes something/someone tough. For all I know, it's an abbreviation of the word, “Atakata,” which derives from the phrase, “a takata a gboo” (you keep chewing until you have to spit it - because it's too tough to grind). To call someone Akata in Igbo was to suggest that he/she is someone you don't want to mess with –a tough guy! Its pidgin equivalent was “tear head.” Akata was not a derogatory word. If anything, it was a compliment. I can guarantee that the Igbo meaning has nothing to do with “craziness” and other American interpretations. In Igbo, Akata doesn’t mean crazy! I have since come to understand that Akata, as used in America, comes from the Yoruba language and refers to a “fox,” “wild dog,” " I stand to be corrected. As for that derogatory term, I am vehemently opposed to the use, and to the underlying idea of that terminology on anyone! In Igbo, however, “Akata,” “Atakata,” and “a takata a gboo” are compliments. As I remember it, the last person I called Akata was Vincent Enyama. In his prime as the goalkeeper of Nigeria's national football team, no one could get a ball past him! Not even Messi. Enyama was impervious. He's my type of Akata! But here in the United States, there's another use of the word that is not of Igbo origin. In America, "Akata" is a disparaging term, generally used by African immigrants to deride Foundational Black Americans. I find it counterintuitive that some of us who migrated from Africa find it quite convenient to apply such a negative term to our people that were here before us; that built up this country under the most inhumane treatments; and who through the Civil Rights Movement earned the rights and privileges that we have come here to benefit from. I'm not sure if the late Civil Rights icon, John Lewis is also "Akata" in the books of those who use that label. But remember that in the 1960s and 70s, it was not our parents, uncles, and aunties marching and risking their lives to bring about the changes in American society that make our presence possible. Without the likes of John Lewis shedding his blood for us, without the likes of the four little black girls being bombed to death while in a Sunday School bible study, without many "Akata" boys and girls letting themselves be beaten by the police, bitten by police dogs, water-hosed; without the John Lewises of this world getting in good trouble, you and I might never dream of the few concessions granted to Blacks. It does not look like Blacks are having a rosy life in America. But it used to be a whole lot worse before some "Akatas" decided to challenge the status quo. As the great John Lewis put it, "When people tell me nothing has changed, I say come walk in my shoes and I will show you change." It is fair to imagine that some of us who call our brothers and sisters "Akata" cannot muster the courage to fight half the fights that "Akatas" have fought and won for humanity's sake. Granted, there are cultural differences between peoples based on socialization and enculturation. Regardless of how deep those differences might be, we must never forget that we who migrate from Africa are not all saints and that every society has its share of good and not-so-good people. Rather than label our brothers and sisters as "Akata," we should appreciate the road they have passed through to get us all to where we are in today's America. We owe them a debt of gratitude! Even if you choose to disagree with me, just sit back and imagine walking in their shoes. #Igboamaka

As a child, I dreamed of carrying a mountain above my shoulders. Not like the Greek Sisyphus hauling a boulder uphill for eternity or Atlas, the ankle of the universe - that is not true strength. They, perpetually bowed and strained, were aching and ashamed. My mountain would sit higher, prideful angles and edges, a crown atop my head. I asked my mother to tie my headdress before we left for church. I didn’t want to bother her and had considered trying it myself, but this would be my first and it needed to be perfect. I picked the cloth, obsidian black and smooth on one side. The other was lightly etched with flowers and Baroque motifs glinting reddish gold like lava. She took the cloth from me as I sat on the floor with my shoulders tucked into the vise of her thighs. I crossed my legs, she raised her arms, whipping wind through the fabric. The rumbling as it unraveled marked the beginning of my initiation, and once she lowered the length to my forehead, thunder clapped and the gale began. I squeezed my eyes shut, disappearing into the noise. Lightning pinned my ears back, and my skull swelled with the sound of a bud breaking into bloom. My neck turned sharply to meet each tuck and tie; my head like a ship flung wildly at the whim of waves - violent with the promise of an imminent shore - anxious to claim the privileges of survival. My anchor was the land I longed for: the poise, the grace, to be beautiful, regal like my mother, and her mother, and my aunts, and great-grands and all others before me. I wanted to feel close to them, to the wealth of color and culture in which they had flourished, though I was more than an ocean away. And this was a bridge – a legacy, an inheritance. All that I had dreamed, I was becoming. I could not wait to be seen. The world was now still and silent, tender with newness. Resting her hands on her knees, my mother released me and I swayed under the weight of my mountain. I slowly unclenched every inch of my body, uncurling my toes, extending my legs, unravelling my cocoon and rising unsteadily. Knowing, now, that I had transformed, I breathed deeply, gently, terrified of shattering the gift my mother had given me. I walked carefully to the bathroom, eyes glued to the carpet, grounding myself with each step. As my toes met the bathroom tile, I pivoted before the sink and lifted my eyes slowly to meet my reflection in the mirror. Tochukwu Awachie is an artist and scholar who is intent on cultivating abundance in all aspects of life. Their work prioritizes wellness, which they pursue through creativity, psychology, and spirituality. Tochukwu’s art carries Black bodies, culture, and philosophy into realms of imagination and sensitivity. Believing that Blackness is dynamic and indomitable, they strive to create representations that remind those who have forgotten and teach those who are unaware. Tochukwu insists that the mind and spirit eat the same food and need the same medicine, and they hope that their work nourishes you in some way.

At a glance, asking whether a people have a religion might sound like a very simple question. But it is really not. We form questions like this with the assumption that “religion” is a thing. Well, maybe it is. But for those that study religion, it is such a scattered set of things for anyone to wrap their arms around. Religion is, kind of, like what you may encounter in web dating when people make statements like: “I can’t tell you what things I’m looking for in a mate but I recognize them when I see them.” We are all aware of beliefs and practices that we recognize as “religious.” But scholars who study “religion” have yet to find a working definition for their field of study because “religion” is too complex, just too convoluted to gather in one concise and all-encompassing definition. When we hear or think of “religion,” we imagine organized, hierarchical institutions, like the Catholic Church, for example. But that is because, “religion” as commonly conceived, comes from a Eurocentric Christian perspective. The word “religion” comes from the Latin word, “religio.” As ancient Romans used it, “religio” referred to cultural norms, such as the set of duties and obligations owed to the Emperor and to the gods (yes, Romans were polytheists). On the other hand, beliefs and practices that were foreign to them were designated as “pagan.” Funny enough, when the earliest Christian proselytes showed up in Rome, they were dubbed, “pagans.” By the fourth century, however, almost the entire Roman empire had been “Christianized” so that Christian beliefs and practices became normalized as “religio.” As Christianity spread across Europe and with a push from the Holy Roman Empire, its new status as the state religion of the Roman Empire absorbed the Roman word “religio” to define the movement. Subsequently, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and institutions in other cultures that looked and functioned like them were thus understood as “religions.” When Europeans encountered our ancestors, they reported the absence of any religion because they did not find a system of structures that fit the mold of European ideas of what "religion" looks and feels like. By the time when Europeans colonized much of the world, the idea of “religion” was well established. When they made contacts with cultures and found institutions with structures that seemed recognizable, such an institution was recognized as a religion. When they made contact with our ancestors, however, they did not find anything that looked like the “religions” in Europe. There were no large buildings or designated centers where people gathered for daily or weekly rituals; there were no written texts that codified and/or canonized designated beliefs and practices; there was not a separate class of "clergy" versus "laity" etc. When they documented their experience with our ancestors, they reported that Africans had no “religion.” That was because they did not find a system of structures that fit the mold of what Europeans called "religion." In a sense, they were right. Our ancestors had their own types of beliefs and practices, but nothing like the hierarchical systems of the Christian “religion.” But if you looked back and compared our ancestral practices to what the Romans originally called “religio,” you might conclude that the colonizers were wrong because there were shrines and sacred sites everywhere you looked. There were also numerous customs and traditions that would look and feel like the practices that ancient Romans called "religio." As facts can bear out even till date, some of these practices were/are rich with rituals -an essential feature of all religions. It could be argued that the colonizers were clearly playing double standards because they eventually recognized what our ancestors did as “pagan” practices even as they denied the existence of religion. It could also be viewed from the lens that the understanding of what qualifies as religion in the eyes of fifteenth-century Europeans had evolved from what second-century Romans termed "religio." Either way, our ancestors and the colonizers were worlds apart. So, do Igbo people have a “religion” or “religions?” It might well depend on how you choose to interpret the term “religion.” Again, the modern conception of “religion” has a very Eurocentric undertone: If you have an organized and hierarchical system, and you have texts called “Scripture,” then we see a religion. If, on the other hand, the landscape is dotted with temples and shrines dedicated to deities that you give devotion to, the Romans would call that “religio.” So, I am careful to not give an answer to the leading question about whether or not Igbo people have always had a “religion.” It may still be a challenge to even agree on what qualifies as “religion,” to begin with. But at least, we know what the etymology and the history of the word, “religio/religion” tell us about how to formulate an answer -whether you approach it from the original Roman perspective or from the European Christian angle. We know that meanings and interpretations may have shifted over generations and across geographies. Given what we have discussed, are you comfortable framing an answer to the leading question or do you have more questions of your own? #Igboamaka

One of the gains of colonization was the inheritance of a language that enables us to share our ideas with a much wider audience. A language that bridges tribal and national barriers. Sadly, this is also an inheritance that gradually and relentlessly chips away at our ability to fully and effectively communicate in our own native tongues. As I hit these keys and craft a message in the English language, I acknowledge that I, too, am a victim. In his 1997 essay, The African Writer and the English Language, Chinua Achebe spoke to the complexities of this strange gift; the gift of “a language with which to talk to one another” across the African continent. Achebe and his cohorts as well as all those that have done serious writing between then and now have grappled with these complexities in various ways. Yet, as we yield to the comfort of writing in English, I can’t help but ask; what are we losing and what have we been losing in the process of translating our thoughts from one language to another? In case you missed it, yes, I still think in Igbo, for the most part! A few evenings ago, I was in conversation with a friend and partner in the Igbo language preservation project, Uche. We reminisced about favorite native dishes that marked our childhood experiences, especially those that cannot be found here in the United States. I mentioned that my childhood favorite which I have not tasted for decades was “achịcha.” Not surprisingly, she had no idea what I meant and readily quipped, “Is achịcha not bread?” To her surprise, I replied that “achịcha” was not bread! Well, what is achịcha? What was the food item that Igbo people called achicha before bread was introduced to them? To provide some context, I hail from Mgbaneze, Isu in Ebonyi state. In my area, as with most Igbo communities, the period between May and August is a time of very limited food choices. The period called “ụnwụ” (the English translation for ụnwụ is famine) is the interval between the planting season and the harvest season. It is the season when families subsisted mainly on corn, vegetables, legumes, and other meager remnants from the previous year. In my locale, Achịcha, made from sun-dried “ede” (cocoyam), is one of those lifesavers that sustained families through oge ụnwụ . May is the time that most communities completed their planting. Consequently, there was limited choice of what to eat while you waited for the year’s crops to mature for harvest. Achịcha is made from ede (cocoyam) preserved from the previous year. Between August and December, cocoyams are harvested, boiled, and their backs peeled off. They are cut in small chunks and sun-dried. Afterward, the dry ede, ready to be made into achịcha, is stored in the kitchen, usually over the (open-fire) cooking spot, to prevent insects and worms from attacking it. During the time of ụnwụ, this dry food is ground up, boiled, and prepared with your choice of vegetable like afụfa, aṅara, awa leaves, akịdị, or a combination of your choice of vegetables. Some may add maize to boost the quantity of the food. Achịcha is, by far, the food that I miss the most. achịcha makes for a very tasty dish after the ede acquires its own unique taste from months of being sun-dried and smoked. For me, the best part is the sediments that settle and crunch up at the bottom of the pot as it is cooked. Scraping the bottom of my mother’s pot for the crunchy remains of her achịcha is as good as a trip to the moon and back! I can also imagine that other communities in Igboland may have other food items called achịcha that may not necessarily be a product of dried and preserved ede. Achịcha is neither bread, biscuits, crackers, wafers, nor the entire family of baked goods we now translate as achịcha. Prior to colonization, what our ancestors called achịcha was sun-dried ede (cocoyam). The best way to translate that to English would be "cocoyam flakes" or any similar thought... And we can just keep what europeans calls bread as bread (breedi). The suggestion to write this blog post came from a food-based nostalgic conversation as well as a reminder of the limitations of bridging two languages. Whenever it was that Europeans set out to translate between their languages and those of the colonized communities, I imagine that when pressed with a word that tasked their translation skills, one was out would be to use native terms to embrace non-native ones as best as they could, and vice versa. In elementary school, the word used to translate bread was achịcha. Achịcha was also used to translate the whole family of baked goods, so that, cake, biscuits (crackers), wafers and so forth were all called achịcha. This is a fitting illustration of the concept of “lost in translation.” What our ancestors called achịcha before they made contact with Europeans was not a baked food. And to my knowledge, no Igbo community heated their food in any type of oven as of the time that Europeans arrived. Things were either cooked in a pot or smoked over open fire. The achịcha that I know was neither made of dough nor was it baked. If not for convenience, it’s hard to explain why they called bread achịcha when our own achịcha was a world apart in consistency, taste, primary ingredient, and mode of preparation. In fact, thinking of achịcha as bread or biscuits makes achịcha not a thing but a category, a family name for all baked goods. This is a translation problem, a language problem which can also be understood in terms of the inherent limitations of all human languages.  As linguist and philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote, “The limit of my language is the limit of my mind; everything I know are things that I have words for.” Every tribe has a word for all things they interacted with; but the farther they ventured from their enclave, the more different place the world became. Our world is a place filled with things that no single language can have names for! Using one word, like achịcha, to embrace an entire family of baked goods is an approach to translation that begs the question. From what part of Igbo land do you hail? Can you find out if there is a thing that your community calls achịcha? #IgboAmaka