Author: Peter Martey Agbeko || APR
The Bamako Breakdown
I stood in a bustling conference hall in Bamako, Mali, surrounded by the melodic hum of French—a language that has always danced just out of my grasp.
Thanks to the translator’s earpiece, I survived the West African College of Surgeons’ 65th Conference. But as I fumbled to exchange pleasantries with a Malian colleague, I couldn’t help but think: If only Monsieur Bienne had cut me some slack back in 1978.
Ah, Monsieur Bienne. My French teacher at St. Augustine’s College (Augusco)—a man whose stern demeanour could wilt a sunflower. Let me take you back.
The Great French Fiasco: A Classroom Comedy
Picture this: A teenage Peter, slouched in the back row of a stuffy Cape Coast classroom, daydreaming through French lessons. Our textbook, Pierre et Seydou, might as well have been written in hieroglyphics.
The characters—Pierre, Seydou, Amadou—felt like distant cousins I’d never meet. And our teachers? Let’s just say their charm rivaled a prickly pear cactus.
But everything changed one fateful Monday.
Role-play days were golden opportunities for “free marks,” and I’d finally mustered the courage to seize them.
After a weekend of cramming Pierre’s lines like my life depended on it (we called it “chewing” the book—no actual stationery was harmed), I marched into class early, heart pounding.
When Monsieur Bienne barked, “Qui veut jouer Pierre?” my hand shot up like a rocket. The room erupted. My classmates gaped—Peter Agbeko, the French-phobe, volunteering? Someone likely muttered, “Today be today!” But Monsieur Bienne, ever the antagonist, squinted at me and declared, “Non.* You will be Seydou.”
Cue the record scratch.
No amount of pleading—“But sir, my name is Peter! Pierre in French!”—could sway him. Seydou’s lines might as well have been Klingon.
I bombed spectacularly, while the “Datus boys” (French whiz-kids from the Datus International School in Accra and Tema) smirked. My grade? Let’s just say it wasn’t displayed proudly on the dining hall noticeboard.
Oh, that noticeboard. A merciless ledger of shame where our averages were paraded like trophies—or cautionary tales.
French became my academic kryptonite, dragging my scores closer to the dreaded 50% red line than I would have wished. To this day, I blame Monsieur Bienne’s stubbornness for my Franco-phonic floundering.
Ewe-regret: The Language of Lost Roots
My second regret is quieter but cuts deeper: Ewe, my father’s tongue. Growing up in Accra, surrounded by Ga and Akan speakers, Ewe never took root. Now, at 61, I crave conversations with relatives in Volta Region, to share proverbs and stories that slip through my English-speaking fingers. Last Christmas, my aunt joked, “You’re like a parrot—you mimic sounds but don’t know them.” Ouch.
Epilogue: Regrets, Redemption, and Roasted Plantains
At 62 (come July), fluency feels like a mountain. But here’s the twist: I’ve downloaded Duolingo. Bonjour! Miawoe zɔ! I whisper to my phone each morning. Progress? Let’s call it “très lent.”
Yet I’ve learned this: Regrets aren’t anchors—they’re compasses. So, to anyone dodging a language class: Grab that role-play! Be Pierre, Seydou, or even Amadou. And if all else fails, laugh. After all, life’s too short to sweat the subjunctives.
Next time: “Three Quirky Challenges Only Peter Agbeko Understands”—because yes, I still can’t dance well or singwell. Spoiler: The third one will get you thinking, how I’m never late to any event or meeting despite this serious handicap.
