Mocking an African Presidents fluency in English is not a joke
I came across a clip on social media of Kenyan journalist Larry Madowo, visibly puzzled that Donald Trump seemed surprised by President Joseph Boakai of Liberia speaking fluent English. Larry’s tone was dismissive—as if the real problem was Trump’s ignorance. But no, Trump doesn’t have a problem, in this linguistic instance. We all should be surprised when an African speaks good English—and nothing more. That surprise is not stupidity. It is a symptom of a world still held together by the logic of empire and linguistic imperialism.
Let’s talk about Liberia for context. A country on the West African coast, often ranked among the poorest in the world by UN metrics. But these rankings—like speaking English, or writing in English, or being praised for fluency in the languages of any of the former colonisers—are scaffolds of neo-colonialism. They uphold a global order that rewards proximity to whiteness while erasing the trauma and knowledge systems of those whose ancestors lie at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
Ironically, Liberia is often described as one of the two African countries that was never colonised. But that’s a half-truth dressed as liberation. Liberia was founded by freed African-American slaves—yes—but their freedom came at the cost of indigenous African land. The settlers, supported by the American Colonization Society, arrived with a mandate that mirrored every colonial project before and after: claim, govern, dominate.
The result was a deeply fractured society—one where the Americo-Liberians attempted to rule over the indigenous people with the same racialised hierarchies they had escaped in the United States. Years of civil war followed, as if history itself refused to remain buried. The juxtaposition is uncomfortable but necessary: a people returned “home” only to recreate a system of exclusion. It is not unlike the founding of Israel—where memory, displacement, and land ownership collided violently. The cost of this “return” was paid, once again, by those who never left – those who were ‘lucky’ enough not to be captured by the slaver traders.
The deeper question, perhaps, is this: Was Larry surprised that President Trump was surprised that an African American descendant could still speak English? or that they couldn’t speak anything else? If the enslaved lost their ancestral languages in the hold of slave ships, isn’t it remarkable that their descendants—those who returned to rule Liberia— did not lose their English prowess on the returned ship and instead continue to excel in the language of the captor? That surprises me too! Is English then, the language of eternity?
And here Liberia’s identity crisis deepens, much like the linguistic and cultural trauma many colonized nations inherited and have refused to address. You cannot build a lasting peace on cultural vessels that are fundamentally in conflict. A nation that speaks the language of its trauma but has forgotten the language of its healing cannot be whole. The wounds are not just political or economic—they are linguistic, spiritual, and ancestral. Liberia’s unrest may not only be about war, poverty, or corruption. It may also be about what happens when a people cannot remember who they were before the world renamed them.
President Boakai may feel offended and trampled on. But Presidents Trump’s condescension is not new—it’s a signature trait. He has routinely belittled leaders from countries he deems weak or chaotic. His treatment of Liberia’s President is not unlike his earlier treatment of Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelensky. The difference lies in what he chooses to attack. With Zelensky, it was his clothing—Trump mocked his lack of a suit, reducing a wartime leader to a fashion critique. But with Boakai, the target was far more insidious: language.
Mocking an African president’s fluency in English is not a joke—it’s cultural assault. It reinforces the idea that African legitimacy must be earned through mimicry of the coloniser’s tongue. It’s a form of violence wrapped in surprise. It says: “You can only be taken seriously if you speak our language.” That is not just ignorance—it is the empire rearing its ugly head.
So let me take a step back and speak directly to Larry. I understand the impulse—to defend, to correct, to be outraged on behalf of a fellow African leader. But we must be careful where we place our grief. I try, in my work and in my life, to draw an unsentimental line between language, memory, and identity—and the deep dissonance that arises when those threads are severed or replaced. Because weeh! this is a trigger for many Africans, especially those of us who have moved through international cultural spaces and felt the quiet violence of exclusion.
I am associated with the International Council of Museums (ICOM), an organisation that claims to be global. Yet its official languages are English, French, and Spanish—European, all of them. Every attempt to introduce a language from outside that small colonial circle is met with the same excuse: budgets. The subtext is clearer than they admit—African and Asian linguistic blocs don’t pay enough in membership fees to matter. Never mind that French-speaking countries don’t have the numbers to contribute much either; the organisation is hosted in France, and so the language remains sacred.
Meanwhile, the United Nations is hosted in Nairobi, yet Swahili is not required—or even respected—as a working language. The irony burns. Japanese, Arabic, Chinese, Russian, and yes, Swahili are among the most widely spoken languages in the world today. But it is only Africans who must show up dressed in borrowed tongues, with accents to match. Other cultures speak boldly in their own languages—what you understand is your business. Africans have made little attempt to use their own languages – with few exceptions – thank you Ngugi – linguistic interference is frowned upon, often ridiculed, as if our native tongues are a threat to international decorum. Now it turns out even fluency is ridiculed. And with that, the final nail is driven into the coffin of cultural liberty.
Larry, I feel your frustration. But I wonder if your grief is really about that single awkward moment between two presidents—men you do not know, and who have little bearing on your life. Or is it something deeper, shaped by your own long dance with linguistic performance in elite Western spaces like CNN?
Maybe what we are witnessing is a mirror! A mirror of the uncomfortable truth many of us carry in global spaces. The weight of exclusion, the nuances of discrimination that do not scream, but which persists. And the impossible decision—to step away entirely, or remain in the room, bruised, limping, but still showing up! It’s tough Larry – but then again so is survival!
Muthoni Thangwa 