Cracking Krio (or at least trying to)

I wrote this a while ago but completely failed to upload it. My pre-NY resolution is to jump back onto the blog bandwagon. Here’s a story of my trials of tribulations whilst trying to learn Krio. I’ll be back soon with a more up to date update. Xxx

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If it were possible for a language alone to represent the character of an entire country, then Krio does an excellent job of manifesting the many quirks of Sierra Leone. It’s wonderful and dreadful and impossible and simple and unbelievably difficult to learn.

For any of you reading this who had to sit through painful hours of watching me try and get my head around GCSE French and German (and let’s be honest, English) at school – you’d be forgiven for logging off now. You know what’s coming; you’ve had to witness it before. When natural talents were being dished out I must have made repeated visits to the ‘ball games zone’ at the expense of spending anytime at all in the ‘mastering linguistics area’. When it comes to learning a language I’m both surprisingly confident and alarmingly inept.

Thankfully the official language of Sierra Leone is English. On a day-to-day basis it’s perfectly possible to get by without speaking any Krio at all. Reports, meetings, and daily business activities all take place in English. So not being good at Krio is perfectly functional, but it’s not at all desirable. Office gossip, friendly conversations, shopping at the market, trying to get a poda to stop, and any meaningful social interaction of any sort, all happen in Krio.

My first attempts at learning Krio got off to a bad start when it was revealed that in an entire week of In Country Training, only three hours had been put aside for a session called ‘Krio in a Nutshell’. By the end of the three hours I wasn’t at all sure what kind of nut Krio was, and I was absolutely sure that I didn’t possess any of the tools to crack it. We all left the lesson with very little actual Krio in our minds, but with photocopies of ‘Krio in a Nutshell, Volume 1’ clutched hopefully in our hands. (Unfortunately the photocopies are terrible, and Volume 1 is the first part in a three volume set, and apparently no one has seen Volume 2 or 3 since the late 80s).

In our second week in Sierra Leone my housemates and I sit down determined to come up with a plan to help us master Krio.
“Why don’t we introduce Krio Monday?” I suggest. “Every Monday we only speak to each other in Krio. That way we’ll have to learn.” Banke nods in agreement. (It is after all a great idea). Jo’s nodding too, but slower, much slower. Then worryingly she shakes her head.
“If we do that, isn’t there a risk that we just create a whole new language that only the three of us understand?” It’s a very good point, but it’s also another very good idea. Pushing all thoughts of actually learning Krio aside I’m suddenly preoccupied by this new concept.
“How cool would that be? Maybe we should just…”
“No!” Banke and Jo both say quickly and in unison, rudely cutting me off before I even have a chance to present my plan. Unbelievably both of them feel that actually learning Krio is a better idea than creating a new language just for us. Reluctantly I concede the point.
“Fine – so how are we going to do this?” I ask – back on track.
“Let’s just read the introduction and see what happens.” Banke suggests. It seems like an excellent place to start so we all read quietly for a few minutes.

It’s the most bizarre textbook I’ve ever read. Written by someone who was clearly very angry, in a style that is both uncomfortable and insulting. Once we’ve battled through the introduction we all look at each other, a bit shocked.
“I think I just got told off by a text book.” I mutter.
“I’m not feeling very good about myself.” Banke replies.
“Maybe we should just look at the exercises.” Jo suggests. Less enthusiastically now, we all turn the pages. I don’t know whether you’ve ever tried to learn a language without listening to it – but it’s actually quite hard.

“Here you go.” Banke exclaims excitedly “page 25.” We all turn to the page and Banke reads aloud. “Krio is very simple. If you just master the sound shift rule, hundreds of Krio words will open up to you.”
“Brilliant – all we need is one rule. So…what is the sound shift rule?” We all stare at page 25 - nothing. We turn to page 26 - still nothing. We flick through the whole book. The sound shift rule is neither explained, nor in fact is it ever even mentioned again. Whatever the sound shift rule is, it’s clearly a very closely guarded secret. A few minutes later the textbook is abandoned forever.

Still determined to learn Krio I come up with another plan. I will take a notebook to work and ask my colleagues to teach me a Krio phrase a day. I start with my line manager Alhassan.
“What sort of thing do you need to say?” He asks.
“Anything that’s useful.” I answer, racking my brains for the phases I need to say most often. “How about ‘He was just here, but now he’s gone.’” I say, thinking of all the times Alhassan disappears without any explanation right at the moment that half of Freetown seems to be looking for him, and asking me where he is. Alhassan nods and writes: i bin de ya bot i don go.
“What else?” Alhassan asks, now clearly enjoying his teaching role.
“I don’t know – what do you think would be useful?”
“How about I teach you some Krio proverbs?”
“Brilliant!” If I’m honest, I’m not all that sure that proverbs are going to be hugely useful in my early Krio conversations, but I’ve always found proverbs interesting and decide knowing a few will give me an insight into Krio and Sierra Leone.

The insight it gives me is one that I already suspected. There’s an awful lot about Sierra Leone that makes very little sense to me – its proverbs are an excellent example of this. When Alhassan hands me back my little book it’s full of Krio proverbs and the direct English translations:

Push ye da pas emti bed (Better to share your bed with someone saying push push, than to have no bed at all.)

Na face e sababu mek nos was (Washing your face gives your nose the opportunity to get clean.)

If kresman tek yu klos, yu no for run afta-ram yu neked wan. If yu du am, den go tek una tu as kresman den. (If a madman takes your clothes you shouldn't run after him naked. If you do, people will think that both of you are crazy.)

Blak got we yu no ebul kech santem, yu no go ebul kech am na net. (If you can't catch a black goat during the day, you certainly can't catch it at night.)

Di tik we yu mit insai kenu, na-in yu go tek padul wit (The stick you meet inside a canoe is the one you use to paddle with.)

I stare at the page.
“Thank you.” Is all I can manage. “What er.. what context do you use these in?”
“I don’t really use them.” Alhassan admits.
“No – I guess you wouldn’t.” Is all I can say. Perhaps surprisingly I still haven’t managed to use any of these proverbs in conversation.

The phrase book is a partial success. It hasn’t really taught me any useful Krio, but it has been good fun so I decide to keep going. The next person I ask is Moses who heads up our drugs and hospital facilities monitoring unit.
“Moses.” I beam – I always enjoy chats with Moses, he’s a very warm and likeable guy. “Can you teach me a Krio phrase that you think I might find useful.” Moses thinks for a second and then says.
“Wetin yu de laf. – It means what are you laughing at?”
“Wetin yu de laf” I repeat liking the sound of it before suddenly realising the implication. “Moses – do you think people will laugh at me?”
“Only when you speak Krio.” He grins. “But when they do laugh now you can say Wetin yu de laf? And they won’t laugh any more.”
“What will they do instead?” I ask, willingly walking right into Moses’s mockery.
“They’ll say – Na yu a de laf – I’m laughing at you.”
“Brilliant – thanks Moses, that’s really useful.” I say through only slightly gritted teeth.

Depressingly, I’ve asked people what they’re laughing at, far more than I’ve told them that washing their face might give their nose an opportunity to get clean.