Have you ever noticed how certain folk of African descent speak so eloquently? There’s a tendency, in ordinary conversations, to grammatically embellish speech with colourful, often exaggerated vocabulary in any language they have mastered, and to risk appearing elitist or out of touch (see the ‘traverse’ example). In this series of essays, I will explore the complexity of this phenomenon as it relates to the English language, highlighting its historical origins, cultural impact, and social perception. I will also examine the various ways this observation influences important technologies today, ultimately making the case for the social cost of this phenomenon in terms of how black folks are linguistically received.

Part I

Excess v Fluency: Colonial Parody or Linguistic Brilliance.

The ability to express oneself in any language is a feat that many overlook. Doing so in a way that garners admiration, amazes the listener, and elevates the speaker to prominence is something only a few individuals within a community can accomplish. However, speaking with such skill can also cause confusion, envy, and, in many cases, lead to alienation from one’s identity and sense of belonging. In the extreme, it can even bring one’s motives and reasons for speaking in such a manner under scrutiny.

I have noticed that the identities of articulate English-speaking Africans are being questioned, their character dismissed, and their intellectual integrity and editorial excellence undermined because of how they choose to express their thoughts. For example, a friend’s draft essay was flagged and scrutinised by their university professor for signs of AI assistance. Perhaps, to them, the essay seemed too well-crafted to be written by an African. Yes, racist, I know, but don’t worry; we will examine this in detail later.

The point is that the skilled use of English vocabulary and grammar by Black and other racialised-as-non-white individuals in specific spaces elicits various reactions: praise, admiration, envy, suspicion, ridicule, or comic relief.

On the final point, the late, legendary Nigerian actor, comedian, and wordsmith Sam Loco Efe demonstrated an encyclopaedic command of English vocabulary in many of his roles, often conjuring syllables and stretching them to a theatrical extent even when none were necessary. In many of his performances, his diction initially unsettled audiences, but people eventually warmed to his style. Many Nigerians have since come to appreciate his linguistic excesses, recognising him as a crafty genius comedian, which he undoubtedly was. However, did the humour lie in his craft or in the discomfort his characters provoked? A chicken-and-egg question, which doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of this piece, although it is worth pondering. What matters, and what I find fascinating, however, is how he — whether knowingly or unknowingly — deployed the extensive vocabulary at his disposal to serve a purpose beyond theatrical craft, namely, the use of comedic performances to subconsciously disrupt the English language’s perceived hierarchy in the minds of many Nigerians.

He basically made English ridiculous.

This is ultimately one of the many reasons I believe he was cemented as a legend in the Nigerian film industry (Nollywood), elevating him to the iconic status he enjoys today. The beloved actor left a distinguished filmography, with performances still studied and emulated by many of his successors. His body of work stands as a beacon of African cinema and entertainment, an irreplaceable theatrical legacy cherished by audiences and still missed in Nollywood.

However, when exploring the imagined hierarchy of dominant cultures in the minds of formerly colonised peoples, little attention is paid to the role of language, even though fluency in dominant languages (such as English) has seldom been neutral. These languages often come at the expense of mother tongues, oral epistemologies, embodied knowledge, and non-textual forms of intelligence.

Yet in post-colonial critique, cultural erasure is more often associated with religion, governance, or political economy, while linguistic displacement is viewed as incidental rather than structural. Ironically, this dismissal also enables the local population to repurpose their mastery of the dominant language for other uses, such as humour. This can only occur because comedians like Sam Loco Efe, whose disciplined mastery of English grammar and extensive vocabulary allow them to detach from the circumstances that shaped them, offering shared comedic relief. Therefore, what might seem like wit, excess, or performative flourish is seldom seen as the result of historical coercion.

This, in fact, also comes with a cost. In the context of British colonisation in Africa, this discounting further hides the politics embedded in fluency itself. English, for once, did not arrive in Africa as an altruistic or mutual medium of exchange, but rather as an instrument of governance, discipline, and selection. Let’s examine this idea further by questioning a straightforward view of colonial inheritance.

The Anglo-Saxon language reached African shores with force, conquest, and administration, spreading through missionary education, colonial bureaucracy, and the promise of proximity to power. The colonial education systems trained Africans to internalise English literature, grammar, accent, and rhetorical forms with precision, and those who complied were rewarded with significant benefits. However, this training did more than foster eloquence; it deliberately limited linguistic options, favoured written over oral knowledge, abstraction over relational meaning, and textual performance over communal intelligence, among other effects.

Under colonisation, Africans were forced to learn English out of necessity, as a means of survival, not as a form of cultural enrichment or inheritance. Each polished sentence bears the weight and traces of what was displaced to make it understandable. Thus, the fluency in English spoken by people of African descent today is a testament to that adaptation, as well as to African ingenuity in navigating and surviving the challenges and limitations of colonisation. It is not evidence of colonial generosity or refinement, nor of the success of colonial pedagogy, as some colonial apologists might suggest.

This distinction is important because it counters the growing argument that, since colonial English students demonstrated such mastery, the system now has merit and should be celebrated without question. The answer to that is straightforward: celebrating mastery as a desirable achievement, offered freely, without recognising what was sacrificed to obtain it, would be hypocritical and revisionist. It might also risk perpetuating the colonial mindset that devalues anything deemed unprofitable beyond the colonial framework. Anything that resists being tamed, tokenised, exoticised, romanticised, monetised and ‘civilised.’

It presents English-language mastery as the reward for closing the gap between coloniser and colonised, and as proof that the local population can, given the proper incentives, evolve and succeed. In fact, under colonisation, the proximity to colonial norms and standards was often equated with success, a welcome achievement. A desired outcome that some locals often aspired to. It is, after all, human nature to make calculated choices that we believe will improve our lives. For those people, the promised benefits within the chambers of colonial and postcolonial power structures were too tempting, too widespread, and too visible to resist.

In this context, all facets of life—ranging from politics and governance to beauty, fashion, architecture, social structures, cultural norms, principles, language, storytelling and speech—had to be evaluated against the infrastructure established by the British colonial system.

However, just as any connection with British colonial traits suggested the chance of success, so mimicking colonial eccentricities or foreign customs did attract ridicule, caricature, and comedy. In fact, locals often find it easier to see humour and entertainment in their oppressors’ foreign customs. When comedy targets an external force, it can serve as a form of resistance and a therapeutic outlet necessary for survival; a way to cope with the heavy hand of oppression. I believe the ridicule of foreigners is a social phenomenon that has occurred across cultures throughout history, perhaps welcomed by those who engage in it to preserve or strengthen certain indigenous traits. Yet, when perpetrated against minorities, it can be seen as insensitive. So, yeah, humans.

However, in colonial and postcolonial contexts, the same proximity to foreign habits that invites ridicule, spectacle, and caricature can also evoke admiration and praise, or serve as a status symbol. In this case, mastery of the English language can attract admiration from others because of its association with success and the sense of superiority it conveys. This is evident when people deliberately showcase literacy, diction, syntax, and vocabulary to signal qualities such as class, wealth, sophistication, intelligence, civility, and employability. As Pierre Bourdieu suggests, this performance reflects the accumulation and deployment of linguistic capital, where command of a ‘legitimate’ language becomes a resource that can be converted into social advantage within structured fields of power. It is ironic because, depending on how one sees it, resistance through comedic relief or compliance via proximity to the standards of colonisation, both serve as mechanisms of survival; one prioritises healing, while the other prioritises success.

To further exemplify this linguistic dichotomy, let’s examine the public persona of Nigerian politician Patrick Obahiagbon, which, when contrasted with the legacy of the late comedian Sam Loco Efe, provides a revealing comparison. The oratorical performances of both figures have taken Nigerians on memorable journeys, leaving a collection of sound bites characterised by excess, flair, and verbal dexterity. For this reason, Obahiagbon is also widely regarded as an outstanding wordsmith—a worthy rival for Sam Loco Efe in any imagined contest of ‘royal rambling.’ Both figures can hold audiences in a state of amusement and bewilderment, creating an entertaining linguistic carnival filled with scripted excess rather than clarity, akin to a wrestling match.

However, unlike the great Sam Loco Efe, whose verbal flamboyance was celebrated as comedic genius and protected by the licence granted to entertainers, Obahiagbon operates within the strict expectations of public office, where language is assumed to serve transparency rather than performance. Therefore, in this fictional wrestling analogy, the legend Sam Loco Efe would be regarded as the face, making Obahiagbon the heel, simply because he does not enjoy the same widespread support as the Nollywood icon.

In Obahiagbon’s defence, his supporters regard his acrobatic expressions as a deliberately exaggerated, unique personal style, often implying that critics secretly envy his mastery of English and confuse eloquence with affectation. However, detractors argue the opposite, describing his rhetoric as inaccessible, alienating, disingenuous, and strategically unclear. This is particularly the case in a political climate where many citizens do not have access to the literacy infrastructure, nor have the patience to interpret meaning from deliberately complex grammatical constructions that demand significant intellectual effort.

The sentiment observed here may be perceived as unfair toward Obahiagbon or those who speak like him. However, it is not irrational when considered in a historical context. English in Nigeria is not a neutral medium. At times, it arouses suspicion because it bears the traumatic remnants of colonial administration and postcolonial elite rule—both of which employed bureaucratic language to conceal exploitation, justify dispossession, and detach power from the governed, thereby fostering distrust.

In fact, the distrust directed at Obahiagbon’s communication style reflects a deeper social conditioning: one in which fluency in English and a posh, Western-sounding foreign accent (British or American) often signal hidden agendas rather than intellectual range. Nigerians have been socialised, through historical precedence and daily experience, to listen for trickery when language becomes excessively polished.

This collective suspicion is perhaps most succinctly articulated by Fela Kuti in I.T.T. (International Thief Thief), where English appears as a language of entitlement that the successful elites deploy to camouflage ulterior motives. That is, to bamboozle and loot unsuspecting people of their valuables: ‘…Dem go write big English for newspaper, dabaru we Africans….’

In this framing, Obahiagbon’s reception, then, is no longer about personality or style; it becomes instead a question of how mastery of English is less a marker of intelligence or enlightenment than a warning sign—a linguistic smoke screen behind which power and authority choose to rearrange itself. It highlights how colonial languages continue to mediate trust, authority, and legitimacy in postcolonial public life. With that comprehensive lens, how is it still the case that certain black folks like Obahiagbon choose to express themselves in this fashion, risking ridicule, suspicion and more?

Whose English Sounds ‘British’ and Whose Sounds ‘Black’?:

Well, despite the two dichotomies introduced and explained above, there are those who genuinely enjoy speaking in such an expressive manner; whose identity, personality, style, and skill in the English language have been cultivated through dedicated study and poetic practice. An example of such a character is the American rapper, Clifford Joseph Harris Jr. (also known as T.I.), best known for the songs: Whatever You Want, Live Your Life Ft Rhianna, What You Know and Big Things Poppin (Do It). T.I. clearly fits into this category, and his oratory habits have amassed a cult following both in person and online, with dedicated YouTube compilations of his speaking appearances (Part I and Part II). Thus, he is ceremoniously identified as a celebrated member and quirky ambassador of the American vernacular subculture.

There is no doubt in people’s minds that when T.I. speaks, he is neither willfully exaggerating nor intentionally entertaining the audience by providing comic relief. Conversely, T.I.’s thesaurus-like expressions often encourage people to consult the dictionary and broaden their vocabulary in ways that the characters previously mentioned, or the U.S. education system, may have failed to inspire.

Nevertheless, the grace and celebration accorded to T.I. and the impressive impact he has on people, do not extend to every black person who speaks English fluently or aspires to do so. In fact, those who attempt such endeavours (especially as an adult) often invite pathetic schoolyard mockery instead of encouragement, as seen in the case of popular internet streamer Kai Cenat. In a widely circulated video, he appears struggling to pronounce the word ‘spontaneity’.

Ever since British colonial education systems trained Africans to master the English language with precision, more often than not, when the same African speakers surpass set expectations, disbelief and suspicion follow. Many African speakers, regardless of social status, have at some point experienced this treatment, usually through condescending and patronising comments about their manner of expression and linguistic choices. Testimonies often stem from the countless times one has had to endure statements such as: ‘You speak so well’, ‘Your English is so good,’ ‘Where did you learn to speak like that?’ ‘Why do you sound so proper?’ ‘Who taught you English?’ etc.

These backhanded remarks, disguised as compliments, often reduce the speaker’s identity to their ‘vocabulary’ rather than recognising their ability. No other example illustrates this more clearly than the exchange at the White House between the U.S. President and the President of Liberia. In fact, if ever you find yourself in need of highlighting someone’s competence or lack thereof, grammatical or otherwise, do your best to focus on the ability and agency behind it.

For instance, ‘I like/dislike your choice of vocabulary in articulating your thoughts [opinions and ideas], etc.’

The reality is that a double standard exists at the expense of Black people (mainly continental Africans or Caribbeans, especially rural and/or impoverished Black communities) who tend to attract more scrutiny than any other native English-speaking group over their mastery of the same language. Questions like those above are rarely, if ever, levelled at white and/or Western speakers. Can you imagine a scenario where a white British academic, for example, would receive compliments, mockery, ridicule, or attention for their use of English? That almost never happens, does it? Yet, similar remarks circulate easily around Black individuals, undermining their intelligence, victimising their agency, and recolonising their ability. This double standard clearly shows that language alone does not speak; bodies are present when it is spoken. It also points to a subtler tension of permission — who has the right to achieve linguistic range, and who is allowed to do so?

Part II

Part III

The original version of this series first appeared as a long read on Substack. Follow Anthony for more insights.