Why You’ll Laugh at My Struggle to Learn French at University

Editor’s note: Dan O Patrick was admitted to the university to study journalism. It soon dawned on him that he was required to learn French, among other course units. This is what he found out.

“You’ll be required to learn French, heh. The unit is not easy,” a second-year journalism student remarked when she heard that I had joined campus to undertake a journalism course.

I did not take her seriously, but I would later learn that she might have been right in many respects.

Kiswahili and English are Kenya’s official languages.

This is to say that many kids who did not study French or German in high school face a huge challenge in their quest to master foreign languages, including French.

What’s more, the situation aggravates for comrades whose love for skiving classes comes second only to partaking of frothy waters.

An account of events during the first semester of learning French at university will illustrate this perspective.

A few weeks after starting my French unit, I was looking forward to the French lecturer canceling parler (French oral exams), but that did not materialize.

On the material day, Mademoiselle divided us into two groups; one group was to take the exams that Friday, while the second bunch took them the following Monday.

I found myself in the first bunch.

In the afternoon, I found myself seated in a class with at least 40 comrades, some of them itching to show Mademoiselle that they could actually communicate fluently using the language.

Mademoiselle had entered the class with her eyes trained toward the back row of the room.

I had my fingers crossed and was praying that Mademoiselle wouldn’t pick on me. Fortunately or unfortunately, she picked on my pal Washington to start off the parler.

My pal Washington strutted to the front and sat facing the madam. Pin-drop silence ensued as comrades waited to hear Washington communicate in flawless French.

According to what I learned later from those proficient with the language, Washington was supposed to introduce himself, detail his academic journey, and list all the institutions he had attended. Then, assuming he was a prominent journalist, state what he would do to improve the profession in the future.

“Je mappelle Washington. Je suis etudient de journalism a l’universite…….” and there he had gone blank.

A moment of quirky shrieks ensued, which of course spurred Washington to soldier on.

“Je mange l’ougali avec poisson (I love eating ugali and fish.)

I saw a good number of comrades erupt into laughter given that they could not find the connection between eating fish and the future of journalism.

Asked to mention the food he did not like, Washington mentioned the same ugali and fish he had expressed love for, thanks to his scanty vocabulary.

“Je ne mange pas L’ougali avec poisson,” said Washington. (I don’t like Ugali and fish).

Comrades laughed all the more, with some accusing him of morphing into a “food politician” in reference to the speed with which he’d accepted then denied his favourite food.

“You mean after all the lectures, this is all you can do?” C’est bizarre!”  Mademoiselle had remarked, shaking her head in pity.

I also remember how another comrade called Omosh mentioned l’alcool (alcohol) as his favourite drink.

The lecturer, knowing Omosh to be a staunch Christian Union (CU) member and praise and worship leader, was not amused.

But Omosh was doing all he could to save himself from a retake or a supplementary, also commonly known as a “supp”.

The mademoiselle’s attempts to prod Washington and Omosh to speak the little French they knew yielded no fruits, as the two kept saying “oui” (yes), much to the amusement of the class.

I will never forget my first day in a French class.

At one time, I remember the thrill I got when the lecturer taught us how to ask the name of an item of choice through the question tag: quest que cest? (Pronounced Kes Kwe Ze).

I remember one of my classmates removing his shirt and then thumping his chest in pursuit of knowing the French word for chest.

I also vividly recall the first French C.A.T. (sit-in) in the first year of the first semester.

Few of us had attended the few classes preceding the C.A.T., and the truth be told, we could barely understand the language.

I arrived in the examination hall late, and that’s how I found myself sitting at the front, in a place where I could not perform the act of “kufunguka” (meaning employing short notes that are tucked) from the roving eyes of the invigilator.

But that was not all.

Madmoiselle had entered the class; she looked around, and she came and sat next to me in the front row.

I understood nothing in the paper. That’s how I ended up writing, “Je mange professeur”

In my foolish innocence, I meant to say that I would like to earn a living teaching journalism later in life.

I remember how Mademoiselle, who had been casting furtive glances at me, sprung to her feet and seized my paper, cleared her throat, followed by, “attencion.”

“Someone is writing, “Je mange le professeur? , surely?” she told the class.

A few comrades who had encountered French in high school were amused and erupted in laughter.

In the meantime, in between the comrades’ laughter and Mademoiselle’s silence, Washington, Omosh, and other back benchers, not wanting to be left out, kept saying, “Tres bien, tres bien… Cest la vie!” (That’s good; that’s good; that’s life!)

“Now you can hear others congratulating someone who has written he will eat his teacher! That’s not life,” Madmoiselle explained. (tres bien and C’est la vie mean that’s good and that’s life, respectively.)

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There were no dry tears in the class. Even Mademoiselle could not help but laugh, adding that she had never encountered such drama in her 20 years of teaching le francais.

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