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Linguistic and Civic Refinement in the N’ko Movement of Manding-Speaking West Africa

Abstract

“Register” has become an essential tool in analyzing languages as sociocultural artifacts. Used in tandem with the concept of language ideology, scholars have elucidated the central role of linguistic work in defining African language and dialect boundaries as we know them today. The role of such ideas in current activist efforts to remake languages and society, however, remains obscure. Here, I focus on the N’ko movement of West Africa, which promotes a non-Latin-, non-Arabic script invented in 1949 for mother-tongue education. Today, through a language register known as kángbɛ ‘clear language’, N’ko activists are altering conceptions of Manding varieties as distinct entities into a single language spoken by tens of millions across West Africa. Such a shift is in part made possible by the compelling sociohistorical linguistic analysis laid out pedagogically in N’ko grammar books and classrooms. Equally important, however, is kángbɛ as a means to discursively cultivate oneself into a new kind of citizen; one that is savvy, hard-working, and just—the opposite of West African elites, who are seen as failing their people. Register is therefore not just an analytic tool but also a resource for cultivating empowering language ideologies to forge new educational opportunities and societal possibilities.

During the summer of 2012, I encountered the writing system N’ko in Burkina Faso for the first time. As a Peace Corps volunteer in-country between 2009 and 2011, I was dedicated to learning Manding, known locally as Jula, or jùlakán ‘trader’s language’ in the language itself.1 At the same time, I was tied to its promotion; one of my major activities as part of a rural school district’s team was to offer trainings for local associations that had completed a cycle of adult Manding literacy classes. I rarely encountered people reading or writing in the language outside the confines of these subsidized trainings that were often coveted for their per diem stipends. As such, a year after my departure from Burkina, I was pleasantly surprised to discover people doing just that, even if it was in an alphabet that I had only recently been introduced to while taking classes as a Fulbright scholar in France.

N’ko was invented in 1949 by the Guinean “peasant intellectual” Sùlemáana Kántɛ (Feierman 1990).2 A non-Latin-, non-Arabic-based writing system designed primarily for Manding, N’ko is written right to left and is a perfect phonological analysis of Kantè’s native Manding variety, with a set of diacritics for marking tone (Vydrin 2001b, 128–29). Trained in the Quranic school of his father, Kantè used his script to write over 100 books spanning linguistics, history, traditional medicine, and Islam—including a translation of the Quran (Kántɛ n.d.)—that continue to be typeset, published, and taught by N’koïsants today.3

In 2012, I met the N’ko teacher Sáliya Tárawele in Burkina Faso’s second city of Bobo-Dioulasso. Over the course of a few intermittent weeks, I participated in a number of his regular lessons that he led after sundown in a dusty classroom at private Catholic high school. One day—surely in response to my interest in his book collection—he provided me with a small piece of notebook paper, which was covered in his own handwritten words. The document came from a radio segment that he had prepared and it was mine to keep, he said. Scrawled across the paper was the following:4

‏ߌ ߦߴߊ߬ ߟߐ߲߫ ߊ߲ ߓߍ߫ ߞߊ߬ ߞߎߡߊ ߘߏ߫ ߟߎ߬ ߝߐ߫ ߣߌ߫ ߝߌ߬ߟߌ ߦߋ߫ ߝߣߊ߫ ߊ߲ ߓߴߊ߬ ߝߐ߫ ߏ߬ ߟߎ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߡߊ߬ ߞߏ߫ ߝߙߏ߬ߓߊ߬ ߝߟߌ ، ߏ߬ ߕߍ߫ ߡߐ߱ ߞߋ߬ߟߋ߲߬ ߞߏ߫ ߘߌ߫ ، ߓߍ߯ ߟߋ߬ ߏ߬ ߝߐ߫ ߟߊ߫ ߣߴߊ߬ ߝߌ߬ߟߌ ߦߋ߫ ߕߋ߲߬، […] ߒ߬ߓߊ߬ ߊ߲ ߘߴߊ߬ ߝߊ߰ߡߎ߲߫ ߏ߬ ߘߐ߫ ߞߏ߫ ߊ߬ ߓߍ߫ ߕߋ߲߬ ߸ ߣߌ߫ ߞߊ߲ ߛߓߍ߫ ߘߊ߫ ߊ߬ ߢߊ ߖߘߍ߬ ߡߊ߬ ߸ ߊ߬ ߘߌ߫ ߛߓߍ߫ ߣߌ߫ ߛߊ߬ߙߌ߬ߦߊ ߟߎ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߦߋ߫ ߸ ߒ߬ߞߊ߬ ߡߍ ߝߐ߫ ߟߊ߫ ߓߐߟߐ߲ ߠߊ߫ ߛߊ ߸ ߏ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߊ߬ ߓߊ߯ ߣߐ߰ߦߊ߫ ߡߍ߲ ߡߊ߬ ߢߊ ߡߍ߲ ߸ ߏ߬ ߦߴߊ߬ ߝߐ߫ ߟߊ߫ ߕߋ߲߭ ߠߋ߬ ߖߐ߲߬ߛߊ ߢߐ߲߯ߝߊ߯ߡߎ߲ ߘߌ߫ ߞߍ߫، ߒߞߏ ߘߐߙߐ߲߫ ߕߍ߫ ߣߌ߲߬ ߘߌ߫ ߘߋ߬، ߞߊ߲߫ ߓߍ߯ ߟߋ߬ ߕߋ߲߬ ߸ ߌ ߓߊ߯ ߕߎ߬ߓߊ߬ߓߎ߬ߞߊ߲ ߕߊ߬ ߸ ߏ߰ ߕߋ߲߬، ߌ ߓߊ߯ ߊ߬ߙߊ߬ߓߎ߫ ߞߊ߲ ߕߊ߬ ߏ߬ ߝߣߊ߫ ߦߋ߫ ߕߋ߲߬ ߠߋ߬…ߊ߲ ߦߋ߫ ߓߍ߯ ߟߋ߬ ߞߟߌ߫ ߟߊ߫ ߊ߬ ߞߊ߬ߙߊ߲ ߡߊ߬ ߸ ߞߊ߬ߙߊ߲߬ߓߊ߮ ߣߌ߫ ߞߊ߬ߙߊ߲߬ ߓߊߟߌ ߓߍ߯‎ You know that we say certain things with mistakes. We call these “public mistakes” [fòroba fíli]. We’re not singling out one person; everyone speaks with some mistakes. … But this is how we understand things. If a language is written in its true form, then it is written with its rules. In the street though, one simply says that which makes mutual comprehension easier. It’s not just N’ko, all languages are this way. Take French, it’s like that. Take Arabic, it’s like that too. We [therefore] are calling all people—schooled or unschooled—to come study it.
Latent within this seemingly banal position about orthographic standards are two intertwined sociological interventions. First, Sáliya uses the term N’ko to refer to not an alphabet but rather a “language” (kán). This usage—N’ko as language—stems from Sulemaana Kantè; he applied the same name to both his alphabet and the language-dialect continuum that Western-trained linguists today refer to as Manding. In embracing this referential pairing, Sáliya recognizes a language that subsumes that which his government and fellow citizens recognize as Jula. He does not, however, imply that “N’ko” or Manding is a single, uniform linguistic code; just like professional linguists, he acknowledges that it has various forms, which, for him, result from a desire to facilitate mutual intelligibility. His second intervention instead is to claim that the language has rules that must be dutifully used and applied when writing. This register of Manding—unnamed, but tacit in his radio remarks, and which he strives to write and teach—is known as kángbɛ ‘clear language’.

N’ko, therefore, is not simply another way of naming the Manding continuum, nor is kángbɛ just another variety under the Manding umbrella. Together, they are ideas behind a transnational grassroots standardization project that aims to establish a single (primarily, but not exclusively, written) linguistic norm and thereby alter common conceptions of Manding varieties as distinct entities into a single language spoken by tens of millions across the subregion (Vydrin 2011). While the majority of speakers have not yet followed suit, thousands of people across West Africa today recognize and embrace these practices of Sáliya and N’ko’s founder Sulemaana Kantè. In doing so, they take part in a social movement that proposes models of personhood and ways of orienting to one’s fellow speakers that together serve as a means of resisting the region’s colonial past and reshaping its neocolonial present.

In what follows, I draw on approximately six months of transnational fieldwork conducted between 2012 and 2017 to take us into the writings, classrooms, and bookshops of N’ko students to offer an account of the spread of this metalinguistic framework, which, through the standard language register of kángbɛ, unites formerly disparate dialects under the banner of N’ko. First, I look at how both the script and register are linguistically compelling in the classroom for Manding speakers of diverse dialectal backgrounds. Second, I turn to the ways in which teachers’ talk about talk and wider discourse tie the learning and use of N’ko and its standard language register to their self-fashioning as “savvy, disciplined, and just citizens,” as enshrined in the common N’ko slogan kólɔn, báara, télen. Connecting such discourse with wider complaints about African postcolonial governments and society, I argue that N’ko’s kángbɛ register is compelling as a discursive means by which its students can shape themselves into the kinds of citizens that they believe their countries and continent currently lack but desperately need.

Conceptual Framework

From a linguistic perspective, Manding5 is a language-dialect continuum stretching across West Africa from Senegal to Burkina Faso (see fig. 1; Vydrine 1995–96). The word Manding is a Western adaptation of the word Màndén, the name of both a place and former West African polity, commonly referred to as the Mali Empire, that at its apogee encompassed much of modern-day Guinea and Mali, primarily between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries (Levtzion 1973; Kántɛ 2008; Simonis 2010, 41–54).6

Figure 1. 
Figure 1. 

Manding language continuum (author’s illustration, using data from Vydrin, Bergman, and Benjamin 2001).

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On the ground, speakers primarily label their speech with a range of distinct proper names (e.g., Maninka in Guinea, Mandinka in the Gambia, Bamanan in Mali, and Jula in Côte d’Ivoire and Burkina Faso), which are variably glossed in Western languages (see fig. 2).7 Nonetheless, mutual intelligibility is widely noted, in particular, between Maninka, Bamanan, and Jula (Dumestre and Retord 1981, 3).8 Despite both this and linguists’ clear acknowledgment of their connectedness and overlap (e.g., Dumestre 2003; Creissels 2009), national language policies and linguistic work typically treat Manding varieties largely as distinct, albeit related, varieties or even languages (Calvet 1987; see table 1).

Figure 2. 
Figure 2. 

Màhamúud Sánkare leads a lesson in N.Fa.Ya’s Wànkáran’ Kàrantá (photograph taken by the author).

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Table 1. 

Major Manding Varieties by Local Name, Etymology, and Foreign-Language Designations
Local Name Etymology French Name English Name Alternative Spellings
màndinkakán < ‘Language of the people of Manden’ mandingue, malinké Mandinka, Mandingo  
màninkakán < ‘Language of the people of Manden’ malinké Maninka  
bámanankan < ‘Language of those that refuse (Islam)’ bambara Bamanan Bamana
jùlakán < ‘Trader’s language’ dioula Jula Dyula, Diula, Dyoula
View Table Image

In such a situation, it is hardly surprising that both Sulemaana Kantè and Western academic linguists developed a single hypernym to refer to a range of interconnected and most often mutually intelligible phono-lexical grammatical systems: N’ko for the former, and Manding for the latter. For linguists, Manding is a convenience meant to gesture toward lexical and grammatical congruence of what they understand as freestanding varieties. The ambitions of N’ko’s inventor were far greater.

N’ko

Beyond a script and language, N’ko more broadly denotes a transnational social movement based on Manding-medium literacy and education. Following its invention in 1949, the script has continually spread from its original base in the highlands of Guinea via the historical networks of Manding-speaking Muslim traders and Quranic schools (Oyler 1995, 2005). In recent decades there has been increasing efforts by N’koïsants to move into the formal schooling sector (Wyrod 2003, 2008). Research and commerce related to traditional medicine has also been important vector of the movement’s spread (d’Avignon 2012; Hellweg 2013).

Western scholars have additionally highlighted the movement’s tendency to invoke the historical grandeur of the Màndén empire to promote Manding literacy in N’ko as part of a larger struggle to decolonize the francophone state and Arab-dominated Islam (e.g., Conrad 2001; Amselle 2003). None of the scholarship laid out above, however, ethnographically investigates one of the core features identified by Vydrin (2011), namely, the creation and dissemination of a standard language register that transcends dialectal variation.

Theoretical Framework

My research draws from a critical realist’s approach to language (Cameron et al. 1992; Corson 1997) and linguistic anthropological understandings of “the total linguistic fact” (Silverstein 1985; Wortham 2008) as elucidated through the notions of reflexivity (Lucy 1993) and register (Agha 2007a).

While acknowledging that language, as we know it, is in fact a social phenomenon, “departmentalized linguistics” (Agha 2007b) approaches the study of language as a study of an abstract system (French langue) detached from its use in the real world (French parole). Linguistics then necessarily delineates and studies idealized, pure forms of language that do not in fact conform to the “ways of speaking” of actual people (Hymes 1974). While this is arguably a valid approach for scientists interested in the cognitive side of language structure or creating grammars, it is of little use to those seeking to study language as it is actually used (Cameron et al. 1992). For languages, without a history of top-down standardization, this is especially true; the speech practices and perceptions of Manding speakers, for instance, rarely correspond with the distinct varieties proposed by linguists (Canut 1996, 2001; Donaldson 2016). My approach to language is therefore undergirded by the philosophical paradigm of “critical realism” (Corson 1997)—which combines ontological realism with epistemological constructivism (Maxwell 2012)— in light of the fact that “language is only ever produced or interpreted in a social context” (Cameron et al. 1992, 12).

My study is thus guided by the concept of “the total linguistic fact” (Silverstein 1985; Wortham 2008) stemming from the Boasian linguistic tradition (Boas 1911; Agha 2007b)—which calls for attending to form, use, ideology, and domain when assessing the meaning of any utterance. Form in this sense denotes the lexemes and grammar of language. Use captures the way that forms are often used in unexpected ways to create emergent meaning that befuddles any rule-based account of grammar or pragmatics (e.g., Searle 1975). Ideology and domain account for the fact that no matter how well one dissects the interaction at hand, one cannot ascertain the meaning of an utterance without also appealing to larger circulating models that are known to certain domains or segments of people. These “models of linguistic signs and the people who characteristically use them” (Wortham 2008, 40) are language ideologies (Silverstein 1979; Woolard 1998; Jaffe 1999; Kroskrity 2000).

While ideology conjures up the image of something existing in the head, I instead approach it through language’s fundamentally “reflexive” character (Lucy 1993; Agha 2007a), whereby people continually “remark on language, report utterances, index and describe aspects of the speech event, invoke conventional names, and guide listeners in the proper interpretation of their utterances” (Lucy 1993, 11). Language in this sense always has an inherently metalinguistic character. Whether overt or tacit, every interaction with language over a lifetime provides commentary that determines the stereotypical social values of forms and their uses. Language ideologies are therefore models mediating between the use of language and the social world that are empirically traceable through explicit “habits of evaluation” (Agha 2007a, 17) and implicit patterns of use, which individuals read as metapragmatic commentary.

Agha’s (2007a) notion of “register” inherently links form and use with the reflexive models (i.e., language ideologies) that give speech its social meaning and value. In folk terms and some traditional formulations, a dialect inherently points to the regional provenance of a person, while a register is understood as a situational deviance from a core of denotational forms (Halliday 1964, 1978; Biber and Finegan 1993). Agha’s sense subsumes the two concepts under a single sociologically relevant conceptualization of patterned “fashions of speaking” (Whorf 1956). Registers are not simply different ways of saying the same thing. They are rather “cultural models of action” identifiable by a repertoire (i.e., linguistic features), range (enactable pragmatic values) and domain (a set of users; see Agha 2007a, 55). This article uses the concept of register to advance a social theory of language that aims to account for “how particular systems of speech valorization come into existence in the first place” (Agha 2007a, 15–16). As such, I focus on linguistic forms but primarily in service of investigating how social processes and linguistic grammar are mutually intertwined.

Kángbɛ Grammar

Given Manding’s documented variation, how could Kantè’s N’ko, as an orthography, be all of the language at once? Amselle (1996, 825) suggests that through their so-called cultural fundamentalism, N’ko students aggressively take only the Guinean variety known as Maninka to be correct in spelling and pronunciation. Indeed, the forms metadiscursively prescribed in N’ko documents show evidence of being primarily congruent with Maninka (and more precisely the so-called màninkamóri variety of Kankan; see Vydrin [1996, 2010]; Davydov [2008, 2012]). But Kantè did not clumsily claim that only Maninka was appropriate for writing Manding; he sought to call into being a register that, through his pedagogical language works, would act as a mediating standard between the dialects.

Acquiring N’ko-based literacy typically proceeds linearly.9 One of the most important subject matters is N’ko grammar, or what Kantè (2008b, 4–5) terms kángbɛ:

‏ߓߊߏ߬ ߸ ߞߊ߲ ߛߓߍߟߌ ߢߊߟߐ߲ ߜߍ߬ߟߍ߲߬ߡߊ߲߬ ߞߏߛߓߍ߫، ߟߐߠߌ߲ ߞߵߊ߬ ߦߋ߫ ߸ ߞߊ߲ ߓߍ߯ ߣߴߊ߬ ߛߊ߬ߙߌ߬ߦߊ ߟߋ߬ ߸ ߊ߬ ߛߊ߬ߙߌ߬ߦߊ ߏ߬ ߢߊߦߋ ߟߋ߬ ߞߊ߲ ߛߓߍߟߌ ߟߐ߲ ߣߐ߰ߦߊ߬ ߟߊ߫، ߏ߬ ߞߍ ߸ ߊ߬ߟߎ߫ ߞߵߏ߬ ߢߊߝߐ ߞߊ߬ߝߊ ߟߎ߬ ߟߊߘߊ߲߬، ߞߊ߬ߝߊ ߟߎ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߞߊ߲ ߜߍ߫ ߟߊ߫ ߔߚߋ ߞߊ߬ ߓߎ߬ߘߎ߲ ߓߍ߯ ߓߐ߫ ߊ߬ ߘߐ߫ ߞߊ߬ ߞߊ߲ ߟߐ߲ ߣߐ߰ߦߊ߬ ߕߐߟߍ߫߹ ߞߊ߲ ߛߊ߬ߙߌ߬ߦߊ ߟߊߘߊ߲ߠߍ߲ ߏ߬ ߟߎ߬ ߞߊ߬ߝߊ ߟߋ߬ ߕߐ߯ ߞߏ߫ ߞߊ߲ߜߍ‎ Because mastering a language in writing is very hard, experience has shown that every language has its rules. Grasping a language’s rules facilitates knowing its writing. As such, they [experts?] created explanatory books. These books clarify the language properly, remove blemishes from it, and make knowing the language much easier! The name of the book of established rules of a language is “kángbɛ.”
 
Here, Kantè is clearly developing a technical usage in which kángbɛ is best glossed as ‘grammar (book)’ in the prescriptive sense of the schoolmarm. More broadly, the term refers to the prescribed forms of language—that is, the register—found within Kantè’s grammar books. Etymologically, kángbɛ is a tonally compact compound noun made up of the noun kán ‘language’ and the polysemous adjective gbɛ́, which can variably be glossed as ‘white’, ‘clean’, ‘clear’ (Bailleul 2007). Through its contributing lexemes, therefore, kángbɛ is naturalized as something that serves to clarify and order language.

This perspective notwithstanding, for N’ko’s founder, the Manding language could never be reduced to a single isolatable phono-lexical grammatical code that a linguist elicits from an informant. For while he relies heavily on the idea that a language has a true or correct form that should be promoted for writing, he also embraced Manding as inevitably composed of distinct registers as made clear in his works in dialectology, language history, and lexicography (Kántɛ 1992, 2007, 2008a, 2008b, 2009). Indeed, the term kángbɛ does not seem to have been chosen randomly; it figures prominently in the preeminent French colonial dictionary and grammar: “These more or less localized dialects aside, a sort of “common Manding” has formed that the indigenous have given the name kangbe (white language, clear language, easy language) and which is understood and spoken by the great majority of the population in addition to the special dialect of each region” (Delafosse 1929, 1:22).10

Kantè’s selection then of the compound noun kángbɛ serves to tie his prescriptive grammar and its standard language register to an already circulating historically named lingua franca register. What counts then as kángbɛ in N’ko circles today may be largely congruent with a particular Manding dialect, but it is nowhere near a màninkamóri orthography. It is rather the basis for a written standard language register that Kantè sought to bring into being to hold together the named Manding varieties of Maninka, Bamanan, Jula, and Mandinka under a single baptismal hypernym: N’ko.

“We are going for the language, in its pure form”

The above interpretation of Kantè’s oeuvre shines in the N’ko circles of today. In what follows, I explore how this formulation of N’ko as a single language united by kángbɛ circulates among students and activists. Focusing on salient metadiscourse, I investigate two distinct dynamics fueling the N’ko movement and its kángbɛ register. First, it can be attributed, in part, to the compelling sociohistorical linguistic analysis of Manding phonemes and lexemes that is at the heart of the prescriptive grammar register’s teaching. What makes the metalinguistic framework of Sulemaana Kantè compelling, however, are not simply facts of semantics or etymology. Second, I elucidate kángbɛ’s role as the discursive component of an ethos of discipline, logic, and savviness through which students believe they can hone themselves into the kinds of people that so many of them feel their society is desperately lacking.

Learning Letters, Learning Kángbɛ

In practice, it is often difficult to separate the learning of N’ko as a script from that of learning the proper way to write and potentially speak Manding writ large. In the N’ko classroom, adult students right off the bat are given tools of “metalinguistic awareness” (Cummins 1978; Nagy and Anderson 1995). Their education however is not one of being shown how to perform structural linguistic analysis on their own speech. Instead, N’ko lessons introduce them to a metalinguistic framework—diachronically informed—that socializes them into ways of interpreting Manding sounds, sequences, and patterns as dialectal, kángbɛ, or foreign.

In the summer of 2016 I sat in on a class led by Sékù Jàkité, which took place in the morning, twice a week, beneath a tin-roof hangar, seemingly airdropped amidst a flood of outdoor mechanics’ workshops and vehicle carcasses. Poised in front of a long blackboard with a black Robin Hood–style hat, Sékù opened the lesson with the traditional penning of the date using the unique set of day and month names by which Kantè sought to replace the Arabic and French loanwords that one typically hears in Manding today. This, however, gave the students little pause. Instead, Sékù lectured at length about the various phonemes of Manding. According to him, all of the necessary Manding sound categories are captured in the letters of N’ko. This did not mean that speakers of Manding do not make or use other sounds. He picked out /v/ and /z/, two sounds stemming in large part from French loanwords. Vydrin (2016a, 11) analyzes them in Bamanan as follows:

z is a phoneme borrowed from French; French /ʒ/ > Bamanan /z/. zùlùyé ‘July’ [< juillet], zańdármú ‘police officer’ [< gendarme]. In addition, z optionally appears as a variant of ns: zòn ~ nsòn ‘thief’, nsíirin ~ zíirin ~ nzíirin ‘tale’

v is an extremely marginal phoneme that only appears in non-adapted borrowings: vɛ́rì ‘glass’ [< verre], vítri ‘pane’ [< vitre], etc.

Sékù was more blunt regarding the two phonemes, though he spoke in terms of letters: “Our language doesn’t need them” (Án ná kán’ màkó’ tɛ́ ù lá). Nonetheless, given that “we” might occasionally want them for writing other languages, he introduced the N’ko convention of adding superposed dots to consonants and vowels to represent the sounds or letters of other languages (e.g., ߝ߭ߍߙߌ vɛ́ri).

While /v/ and /z/ are clearly marginal phonemes emerging from French, Sékù also addressed the case of a nascent Bamanan phoneme, /ʃ/ that likely emerges not from a foreign source but rather from an in-progress phonemic split. Today, one can identify a number of minimal pairs between /s/ and /ʃ/ in Bamanan, but there are also cases of [ʃ] that are contextual realizations of /s/ (Vydrin 2016a, 11). Sékù provided clear instructions regarding the emergent sound: “This isn’t in N’ko” (Nìn tɛ́ Ń’ko lá). While seemingly harsh, such a statement usefully demonstrates how the very learning of N’ko is a first step both in introducing students to etymology and sound change and in opening the door to a disciplining of their written language into kángbɛ. To be clear, Sékù’s statement did not focus on rooting out the pronunciation but instead on introducing the written standard. Neither he nor other N’ko students, for instance, reject the Bamanan forms in example 1. Instead, they recognize them as dialectal deviations (1a, 1b) or loanwords (1c) that one should not attempt to represent directly in writing:

(1) a. ʃɔ̀ < sɔ̀sɔ ‘beans’
  b. ʃɛ̀ < sìsɛ ‘chicken’
  c. ʃù < French chou ‘cabbage’
Note that in the Bamanan examples, the etymologies are not blind folk accounts. Instead, they are viable linguistic reconstructions. The Bamanan forms of 1a and 1b, therefore, are not rejected simply because they are Bamanan but rather because they are transparently grasped as instances of linguistic change from forms that still predominate in Maninka and Jula today.

In this instance, it is clear that the very act of learning the (accepted) grapheme-phoneme pairings of N’ko is itself a step toward learning kángbɛ. From the perspective of his own native variety of Maninka, Kantè’s alphabet is regarded as a perfect phonological analysis (Vydrin 2001a). Kantè, however, like any good sociolinguist, recognized his language as replete with various “sub-codes” (Gumperz 1962). As such, even at the level of letters, Kantè engaged with etymology and variation across the sprawling Manding speech community. For instance, in a letter to French linguist and Manding specialist Maurice Houis he wrote, “It must be noted that the letter <g> no longer exists in Manding [mandé], it is only used by races—assimilated at the height of the Manding empire [empire mandé]—that can no longer pronounce the typically Manding [mandén] group <gb> and that they replace by <j> or <g>, for example: jɛman ‘white’, gon ‘gorilla’ which in Manding [mandé] are gbɛman and gbon” (Vydrin 2001a, 138). Not only did Kantè see phonemes (“letters” in his usage here) as historically constituted, but he also delved into accounting for the sociohistorical process that gave rise to such a divergence (i.e., the conquering of later assimilated races [i.e., ethnic groups] during the spread of the Manding/Mali empire).

As such, today, students of N’ko typically embrace and use Kantè’s grapheme ‏ߜ‎ <gb> in writing, even when in their own native variety one finds /g/, /j/, or /w/ in its place.11 A few examples using Bamanan illustrate this dynamic in table 2.

Table 2. 

Application of kángbɛ at the Phonemic Level to Bamanan Lexemes
Bamanan Example N’ko kángbɛ Form Transliteration Gloss
jɛ́ ‏ߜߍ߫‎ gbɛ́ ‘white’
gɛ̀lɛn ‏ߜߍ߬ߟߍ߲߬‎ gbɛ̀lɛn ‘hard’
wòló ‏ߜߏ߬ߟߏ‎ gbòló ‘skin’
View Table Image

Such examples, as well as Sékù Jàkité’s introductory lesson about letters and sounds, demonstrate how learning N’ko is inseparable from learning Manding (i.e., a standard register of it). Of course, no speaker of a Manding variety needs to learn to speak Manding per se. The N’ko classroom’s function in this sense is not to teach people how to speak Manding varieties but rather how to speak a specific register: kángbɛ. Critically, this, in turn, introduces students to a metalinguistic framework that allows them to explicitly understand their own variety of Bamanan, Jula, or Maninka as but component varieties of one single language—N’ko.

In addition to the proto-phonemic ‏ߜ‎ <gb>, Kantè also developed at least one logographic convention that serves as another means for his orthography to transcend the sociological limitations of a purely phonemic orthography.12 This convention revolves around the notation of intervocalic velars. As Vydrin (2016a, 11) notes regarding Bamanan, “in the intervocalic position, velar phonemes are not contrastive: [-g-], [-k-], [-ɣ-], [-x-] and even a zero consonant, -ø-, are allophones of a single phoneme.” To represent this, Latin-based orthographies vary widely in their preferred grapheme. One may often choose freely between <g>, <k>, or simply dropping the intervocalic velar (e.g., tága, táka versus táa ‘go’). In N’ko, however, Kantè (2011, 15) calls for the use of a single graphemic representation that allows for multiple dialectal realizations to be grouped logographically under one convention. This phenomenon is outlined in table 3.

Table 3. 

Intervocalic Velar Representation in N’ko Orthography
N’ko Graphic Representation Latin Transliteration Possible Realizations
‏ߕߊ߯‎ táa táa, táka, tága, táxa, táɣa
View Table Image

While this sort of convention may not seem to be very distinct from the de facto and proposed orthographic standard of always marking intervocalic velars with g in Malian Bamanan (see most recently Vydrin and Konta 2014, 24), it circulates as an important feature of N’ko’s pan-Manding iconicity. Take, for instance, this excerpt from an N’ko website that echoes similar comments that I often encountered (N’ko Institute of America 2013):

When Mandens from different sub-groups talk to each other, it is common practice for them to switch, consciously or sub-consciously, from one’s own dialect to a conventional dialect known as N’ko or Kangbe (the clear language). This is even true, sometimes, during conversations between the Bamanans of Mali, the Maninka-Moris of Guinea, and the Maninkos of Gambia or Senegal although pronunciations are practically the same. As an example, the word “Name” in Bamanan is “Toko” and in Maninka it is “Toh.” In written communications each will write it as Tô (‏ߕߐ߮‎) in N’Ko, and yet read and pronounce it differently.

Here we see that one of the central appeals of Kantè’s convention is how it allows for the N’ko orthography to ostensibly embrace cross-dialectal variation without neutralizing it or overtly regarding certain dialects as non-standard.13 Phonemic orthography is seemingly transcended in a way that allows for pan-Manding unity all while retaining the ability to locate yourself geographically through dialectal realization.

Finally, learning the N’ko script is a lesson in Manding phonology. This stems in part from the fact that it is, in many ways, a more “shallow” (Klima 1972) orthography than any of the official Latin-based ones. In table 4, I outline four different linguistic phenomena of Manding, which are typically marked by <n> in Latin-based orthographies.

Table 4. 

Phenomena Represented by <n> in Latin-Based Manding Orthography versus N’ko
Phenomenon Latin N’ko Example IPA Gloss
Syllabic nasal phoneme n ‏ߒ‎ n [n̩] ‘I’
Vowel nasalization n ‏߲‎ bon [bõ] ‘house’
Allophonic variation          
• /l/ following a nasal n ‏ߠ‎ bon na [bõ na] ‘in the house’
• /y/ following a nasal ny ‏ߧ‎ bonya [bõɲa] ‘respect’
Palatal nasal phoneme ny/ɲ ‏ߢ‎ nyi/ɲi [ɲi] ‘good’

Note. In general, the official orthographies promote the use of <ɲ> for the palatal nasal consonant but notable authors, such as Dumestre (2011), eschew this convention in favor of the digraph <ny>.

View Table Image

In the case of N’ko, it is more “shallow” because each one of these phenomena is represented by a distinct grapheme or diacritic, which reduces orthographic depth (Frost and Katz 1992) as measured by how many features a single convention represents. N’ko is thus semiotically iconic as an alphabet because it appears to be a diagram of Manding itself through its more transparent mapping of the language’s sound system. This interpretation is critically solidified by Kantè’s system of diacritics for marking the linguistic phenomena of vowel length, nasalization and most critically tone (Donaldson 2017, chap. 5). Coupling these markings with his unique and (seemingly proto-)phonemic (and logographic) alphabet, Kantè laid the groundwork for a perfect iconic link; N’ko is not just a diagram of Manding, it is Manding.

In sum, studying N’ko as script is itself a first step in learning N’ko as a proper name synonymous with Manding. By learning the letters and diacritics of N’ko, students take their first step toward not only developing synchronic metalinguistic awareness, but also, in the case of ‏ߜ‎ /gb/, a diachronic phonemic lens for understanding the interrelations and history between Manding varieties. This combined with Kantè’s logographic convention for marking non-contrastive intervocalic velars allows for the orthography to be powerfully perceived as capable of inclusively housing—without necessarily standardizing—distinct varieties of Manding. As a cross-dialectal photograph of Manding phonology, the study of N’ko is simply the study of the clear form of the Manding language itself: kángbɛ—a standard language register meant to serve and unite Manding speakers regardless of their own native variety.

Being socialized into the kángbɛ register, of course, also operates at the higher linguistic level of words. N’ko teachers today make compelling appeals to notions of “verbal hygiene” (Cameron 1995), which serve to both harness and solidify a positive metapragmatic stereotype for the kángbɛ register. Today, this most often proceeds through the tacit or overt idiom of “logic.”14 Let us explore this point by heading back to Bamako.

On a Tuesday in July 2016, I headed to a regularly scheduled one-hour adult language class offered by the N.Fa.Ya15 association in an outdoor classroom space. Inside, there were four rows of rickety bench-desk combos that students typically occupied according to their progress with the first three primer books. Students slowly filled in as I sat at my desk working on a translation of one of Kantè’s texts. “Áw ní jɔ́’!,”16 the instructor, Màhamúud Sánkare, greeted us. A prolific N’ko author and the head of N.Fa.Ya, he generally proceeds row by row or student by student, as need be, depending on their progress. Today, the front row was occupied by three men working on parts of speech (kúmaden’ súuya’) of Manding as elaborated in Kantè’s first book of N’ko grammar (2008b). Their lesson focused in particular on “tɔ́ɔnɔ̀dɔbíla,” which Màhamúud readily glossed in French as ‘(personal) pronouns’.

Drawing on their grammar book, the teacher presented pronouns as being sortable by singularity/plurality (kèlenyá ‘singular’ and jàmayá ‘plural’) and by person (kúmala ‘first person’, kúmaɲɔɔn ‘second person’ and gbɛ́dɛ ‘third person’). He did not hesitate to partially explain the terms using French for metalinguistic glosses. Following the book, Màhamúud then introduced the different paradigms of Manding pronouns that exist for Maninka, Jula, and Bamanan (the dominant variety of Bamako and Mali as a whole) as distinct dialects. None of them, however, was selected or upheld as “correct” (ɲúman); rather, they were all explained as “broken” (tíɲɛnen) forms of kángbɛ. The students remained attentive. To make his case, Màhamúud appealed to the plural marker <lu> (‏ߟߎ߬‎),17 a suffix that, he argued, one should simply be able to “attach” (nɔ́rɔ) to singular nouns. “That’s coherent” (Àle tílennen) or “logical” (sáriyama), he posited.

This argument relied not only on the students’ familiarity with the Maninka form (lu pl) but also their implicit recognition of it as a “fuller” (as it were) and thereby older form from which Bamanan had deviated. In the moment, no students spoke up in this regard, but Màhamúud addressed the point directly nonetheless. Specifically, he drew on the example of pluralizing the word cɛ̌ ‘man’. Today the Bamanan plural marker is the clitic /-ù/ (though it is represented orthographically as a suffix-like word final -w):

(2) <cɛ̌-w> ‘men’
  /cɛ̌-ù/
  man-pl
Logically however, “if you respected the rules” (n’í táara ní sàriyá’ yé) one would use the form lù:
(3) cɛ̌lù ‘men’
  man pl  
Today, this proposed etymology seems evident in Bamanan’s emphatic form of the third person plural òlú, as well as in Jula’s variability between ánw and ánnù, the emphatic form of the third person plural. Regardless, the “fuller” form circulates as common knowledge thanks to Manding speakers from Maninka areas as well as popular songs and oratorical registers that I regularly encountered in Bamako. One student, a tantie (auntie)–like figure, for instance, spoke up at the end of the lesson and stated that cɛ̌w was simply a faster version of cɛ̌ lù. Màhamúud thus did not need to explain the etymological process that has led to lù being the Maninka equivalent of Bamanan -w today; he simply metapragmatically commented on one form as being in line with logic or the “rules” (sàriyá).

Màhamúud nonetheless conceded that in Bamako people often do not understand things unless they are Bamanan. Putting himself in that category, he acknowledged that “we” deem certain forms as “màninka gírin” (‘heavy Maninka’). Ultimately, however, the language (kán) they all speak is “màninkakán.” Switching to French, he elaborated, “C’est la langue mandingue” (It’s the Manding language) before adding that the language came from “there” (i.e., Màndén) to “here” (i.e., Bamako). In Bamako today, he carried on, people all come with their language. For some it is influenced by “Soninke” (Màrakakán), the language of another major ethnic group in Mali. For others it is influenced by something else. “À bɛ́ tílen cógo dì?,” he asked—how can this be correct or, more literally, straight? Màhamúud supported his implicit argument for written standards with international examples. Other languages are not spoken and written in the same way; take, for instance, the French of Paris and that of Marseille. Moreover, he continued, even the historic Bamanan high form emanating from the precolonial kingdom and modern-day town of Ségou is not one thing.

His takeaway for the students therefore was that they are going “after the language’s true logic” (kán yɛ̀rɛ logique nɔ̌fɛ̀).18 Applying this reasoning to the various dialectal forms of plural pronouns that Kantè listed, as well as to his own knowledge of Bamanan, Màhamúud came to the conclusion that the class’s own third person plural (òlú) and the second person plural emphatic (áw) were not sound. The presumed reasoning behind these points, outlined in table 5, is that neither form was a straightforward derivation from the base singular pronouns (ń, í, and à), as seen above.

Table 5. 

Màhamúud Sánkare’s Analysis of Bamanan Pronouns
    Bamanan Form Kángbɛ Form Analysis of Divergence
1 Third person plural emphatic; ‘they’ òlú àlú ò diverges from the 3SG base form à
2 First person plural emphatic; ‘we’ ánw ánnù w is the truncated form of the pluralizer lù/nù
View Table Image

Sánkare’s lesson was far from the only time that myself or others in N’ko circles engaged in a discussion of pronouns. Also in 2016, I interviewed author and bookshop owner Úsman Kùlúbàli (UK in the transcripts that follow), who is known for his fiery rhetoric and books about the history of anti-black racism and slavery (2008, n.d.). One of the striking features of his writings is the use of a particular pronoun form, ‏ߒ߬ߠߋ߬ߟߎ߬‎ (ǹnelu ‘we’), which I had never seen in print or encountered orally before reading one of his books. When I asked him about the usage, he told me that it is Màndenkó and said that he came to embrace it after having studied Kantè’s first grammar book where he lays out the pronouns systems of the major Manding varieties (2008b, 9). Missing from Kantè’s (2008a) analysis however are the Mandinka or “Mandenko” forms, which he simply does not discuss. For Kúlùbáli, they were key:

1349 UK n’í kó í b’à à à míiri tígitigiya bólo’ mà if you think about it logically
1350   í bɛ́n’à yé k’à fɔ́ màndenkó’ ká you will see that the Mandenko’s
1351   tɔ́gɔnɔrɔbila’ pronoun [system]
1352   ò cé’ ká ɲì is better looking
1353   ò bɛ̀nnen dòn tùɲá’ mà kà tɛ̀mɛ bámanan’ ní màninká’ [tá] kàn it agrees with truth more than those of the Bamanan and Maninka
1354   cógo’ jùmɛn? How so?
He methodically laid out the emphatic and plural pronoun paradigms of Maninka, Bamanan, and Jula before moving on to another variety:
1394 UK Mais màndenkó’ kó But Mandenko say
1395   kó nê nê
1396   íle íle
1397   àle àle
1398   ǹnelu ǹnelu
1399   ílù ílù
1400   àlu àlu
Seizing on the role of lù as the pluralizer (jàmayalán), he concluded as follows about the “Mandenko” system and his decision to adopt the form nelu:
1429 UK ò bɛ̀nnen dòn That is more proper
1430   né bólo in my mind
1431   ká tɛ̀mɛ màninká’ tá kàn than that of the Maninka
1432   kà tɛ̀mɛ ń yɛ̀rɛ, bámanan tɔ́gɔ tá fɛ́nɛ kàn, báwò than the form[s] of my own Bamanan, because
1433   báwò án bɛ́ kánbolon’ dè nɔ̀fɛ̌,a án bɛ́ kán’ dè nɔ̀fɛ̌, à píyɔpiyɔ’ we are[n’t] going for dialects, we are going for the language, in its pure form
1434   án tɛ́ kánbolon’ nɔ̀fɛ̌ We aren’t going for dialects
1435 CD á mais But
1436   ò lá ɔ̀nhɔn so, yeah
1437 UK í y’à fàamu? You understand?
1438 CD ón mais, mais kà fɛ́nkɛ Yeah, but whatchamacallit
1439 UK ò dè kósɔ̀n, né ká kán’ ná For that reason, in my speech
1440 CD ón Uh-huh
1441 UK ń ká sɛ́bɛli’ lù lá in my writings
1442 CD ón Yeah
1443 UK ní né bɛ́ if I
1444   kúmala pronounce a first person
1445   tɔ́gɔnɔrɔbali-tugunbali emphatic plural pronoun
1446   -jamaya’ fɔ́  
1447   ń b’à fɔ́ kó “ánnù” I say “ánnù”
1448   mais fɛ́n’ cáman lá ń b’à fɔ́ kó “ǹnelu” but in many instances I say “ǹnelu”

a Here UK clearly misspeaks, saying “we are going for dialects” instead of “we are not going for dialects.”

As he makes clear in lines 1429–34, he, along with others, is not interested in writing one single dialect Manding. They are working in pursuit of the language (kán)―in its “pure” (píyɔpiyɔ) form—not a dialect (kánbolon).

Sánkare’s lesson and Úsman Kúlùbáli’s reasoning about pronouns suggests that the concept of kángbɛ ‘grammar’, literally ‘clear language’—predicated on an ideal of logic and cleanliness—is explicitly not meant to be congruent with any one dialect (kánbolon). Rather, regardless of one’s own native variety of Manding, the language’s kángbɛ register must be cultivated and mastered through study, dedication, and perhaps most importantly sound reasoning.

Good Speech, Good Citizenship

Kángbɛ is also actively developed as a denotationally and etymologically logical register for reasons that go beyond compelling linguistic analysis. It is the discursive means by which N’ko students can hone themselves into the kinds of savvy, hard-working and just citizens they aspire to be—and that they believe their countries desperately lack.

N’ko activists actively cultivate an ethos of personhood that is conveniently captured by a widely invoked three-part slogan or hendiatris19 that circulates in their circles today: kà kólɔn, kà báara, kà télen (‘to be savvy’, ‘to work’, ‘to be just’, respectively). This tripartite slogan is canonically attributed to the foundation of Màndén. See, for instance, the following typeset excerpt of a speech reproduced in an N’ko instructional textbook:

‏ߊ߲ ߓߋ߲ߓߊ߫ ߡߊ߲߰ ߛߏ߲߬ߖߘߊ߬ ߞߋߕߊ߬ ߞߊ߬ ߡߍ߲ ߝߐ߫ ߞߙߎ߬ߞߊ߲߬ߝߎߞߊ ߜߊ߬ߙߊ ߝߍ߬ ߞߊ߯ߓߌ߫ ߁߂߃߆ ߸ ߡߊ߲߰ ߛߏ߲߬ߖߘߊ߫ ߞߵߊ߬ ߦߌ߬ߘߊ߬ ߞߏ߫ : "ߘߊߞߎ߲ ߓߘߊ߫ ߛߋ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ ߞߏ ߡߍ߲ ߡߊ߬ ߣߌ߲߬، ߓߊ ߸ ߊ߲ ߓߍ߯ ߦߋ߫ ߡߍ߲ ߢߌߣߌ߲߫ ߠߊ ߘߎߢߊ߫ ߘߐߕߍ߮ ߘߐ߫ ߸ ߏ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߡߍ߲ߘߌߦߊ ߸ ߓߊߟߏ߫ ߢߌ߲ߡߊ ߣߴߊ߬ ߝߊߘߌߦߊߓߐ߫ ߢߌ߲ߡߊ ߣߌ߫ ߖߊ߲߬ߞߊߙߏ ߟߎ߬ ߓߊߛߌ߫ ߘߌߡߊ߲ ߘߌ߫ . ߏ߬ ߘߏ߲߬ ߛߌ߫ ߕߍ߫ ߛߐ߬ߘߐ߲߬ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ߫ ߛߓߍ߬ߡߊ ߞߐ߫ ، ߞߊ߬ߦߌ߯ ߞߘߐ߬ߡߊ߲ ߘߏ߲߬ ߸ ߡߊ߲߬ߘߋ߲߫ ߛߌ߰ߞߊ߲ ߓߊߖߎ ߦߋ߫ ߘߢߊ ߛߊ߬ߓߊ ߣߌ߲߬ ߠߋ߬ ߘߌ߫: ߞߊ߬ ߞߏߟߐ߲߫ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ߫ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߕߋߟߋ߲߫ . ߞߏ߬ߣߌ߲߬ ߐ߲߬ߤߐ߲߫߹ ߣߌ߫ ߞߏߟߐ߲ ߣߌ߫ ߞߎ߬ߛߊ߲߬ߧߊ ߕߍ߫ ߡߐ߱ ߡߍ߲ ߠߊ߫ ߸ ߏ߬ ߛߋߕߐ߫ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ߫ ߢߌ߲ߡߊ ߞߍ߫ ߟߊ߫ ߘߌ߬ ߸ ߣߝߊ߬ ߘߌ߫ ߛߐ߬ߘߐ߲߬ ߡߍ߲ ߠߊ߫؟ ߣߌ߫ ߡߍ߲ ߘߏ߲߬ ߕߋߟߋߣߍ߲߫ ߕߍ߫ ߸ ߡߐ߰ߦߊ ߞߏ ߟߎ߬ ߦߋ߫ ߓߎ߲ߓߎ߲߫ ߠߴߏ߬ ߡߊ߬ ߘߌ߬؟ ߣߌ߫ ߡߐ߰ߦߊ ߞߏ ߟߎ߬ ߕߴߛߋ߫ ߓߎ߲ߓߎ߲߫ ߠߊ߫ ߡߍ߲ ߡߊ߬ ߸ ߏ߬ ߓߊߟߏ߫ ߞߎ߲ ߞߍ߫ ߘߊ߫ ߡߎ߲߬ ߘߌ߫ ؟ ߒ߬ߓߊ߬߹ ߢߌ߬ߣߌ߲߬ߞߊ߬ߟߌ ߣߌ߲߬ ߠߎ߬ ߓߍ߯ ߖߋ߬ߓߌ ߦߴߊ߬ ߦߌ߬ߘߊ߬ ߟߊ߫ ߟߋ߬ ߸ ߞߏ߫ ߝߏ߫ ߊ߲ ߓߍ߯ ߦߴߊ߲߬ ߘߐߖߊ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߘߌߦߊߜߏ߬ߦߊ ߟߊ߫ ߞߊ߬ ߞߏߟߐ߲ ߢߊߢߌߣߌ߲߫ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ ߛߓߍ߬ߡߊ ߞߍ߫ ߞߎ߬ߛߊ߲߬ߧߊ ߟߊ߫ ߸ ߞߵߊ߲ ߕߋߟߋ߲߫ ߞߏ߫ ߓߍ߯ ߘߐ߫ ߦߏ߫ ߓߌ߬ߢߍ . ߏ߬ ߘߐ߫ ߸ ߊ߲ ߓߘߊ߫ ߕߐ߲ ߛߌ߰ ߖߊߝߏߦߊ ߟߊ߫ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߓߍ߯ ߞߘߊߡߊ߫ ߞߌ߬ߛߍ߬ߦߊ ߣߌ߫ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ ߟߊ߫ . ߊ߲ ߖߍ߬ߘߍ ߞߊߣߊ߬ ߝߊߥߏ߫‎ In 1236 at the Kùrukanfúka assembly our ancestor Màan Sònjada Kétà [Sunjata Keïta] attested that “Our obligation [now] is work, because that which we are all seeking in life—happiness [mɛ́ndiya], proper nourishment, clothes, and treatment of ailments—none of them can be had without hard work.[”] Since long ago, Màndén’s foundational slogan [sìikán’ báju] are the following three words: know-how, work, justice [kà kólɔn, kà báara, kà télen]. Indeed! If someone is not savvy and capable, how will they accomplish the kind of work that is beneficial? If someone isn’t just, how will civility [mɔ̀ɔyá] spread to them? If someone cannot be reached by the affairs of human decency [mɔ̀ɔyá’ kó], what is the point of them living? Well! The answer to all of these questions show that we all must necessarily strive to obtain know-how, to work hard and proficiently, and to be tried and true in all matters. As such, we have outlawed languishment and require dedication [kìsɛyá] and work from all. We mustn’t whither. (Màle n.d., 37)
For the purposes of this article, I will not investigate this slogan’s ties to the historical polity of Màndén or the mythical Manding figure of Sunjata Keïta. Instead, I will focus on the importance of the phrase as a means of understanding the N’ko movement of today and in particular their stance regarding N’ko’s kángbɛ register and the Manding language.

During my fieldwork, I encountered the N’ko hendiatris regularly. In the summer of 2016, the phrase figured prominently on a commissioned truck used to transport a delegation of Bamakois20 to the town of Banamba for a multiday conference and celebration dedicated to N’ko (see fig. 3). In this case, the aim of the slogan was seemingly clearer because it was preceded with an introductory clause:

‏ߖߡߊ߬ߣߊ ߢߍߕߍ߯ ߞߏ ߛߓߊ߬ ߟߋ߬ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߞߏߟߐ߲߫ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߓߊ߯ߙߊ߫ ߸ ߞߊ߬ ߕߋߟߋ߲߫‎

Jàmaná’ ɲɛ́taa, kó’ sàba lè, kà kólɔn, kà báara, kà télen

‘The advance of a country is [based on] three things: know-how, work, and justice’

In this article, I will leave aside the intriguing question of which actual or envisioned “country” this use of jàmaná refers to and instead focus on how the line transparently frames N’ko’s hendiatris as one designed to work in service of developing, advancing or moving forward a society or polity.
Figure 3. 
Figure 3. 

Truck emblazoned with kà kólɔn, kà báara, kà télen in Banamba (photograph taken by the author).

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The subtext behind this slogan is that N’ko activists regularly question the efficacy and work of those that currently staff and lead West African postcolonial states. Such discourse is of course common, but N’ko activists actively view themselves as offering an alternative work ethic. During the summer of 2013, for example, I visited a small Quranic school that operated in N’ko. After the lesson, during which students recited classical Arabic verses of the Quran transliterated into the N’ko script, we were visited by another N’ko activist whom I had been introduced to a few days prior, Yáyà Jàabí. Ethnically Soninke, he had spent eight years working in Angola. His good fortune during this time was manifested by the immaculate and air-conditioned vehicle that we eventually climbed into in order to run a few errands around town. Driving between his brother’s business compound and our next destination, I commented on the poor state of roads as we were jostled about. In response, he insisted that “the government doesn’t work” (tɛ́ báara’ kɛ́) and that the parliamentary representatives don’t do their jobs. From the back of the car, the Quranic school teacher chimed in that N’ko, “òle yé síra kura’ yé”—that’s the new path.

In other cases, though N’ko activists question the work ethic of not only their government but also their fellow compatriots both nationally and continentally. For instance, in an extended 2015 interview I conducted with Bàbá Màmádi Jàanɛ́ (BMJ), arguably Sulemaana Kantè’s primary intellectual heir, he recounted the following:

1 BMJ N’í táara Afrique, í yé só’ dɔ́ kɔ́nɔ You go to Africa and you are in some city
2   í b’à màfɛ́lɛ, í tɛ́- só sí tɛ́, japonais bólofɛn tɛ́ yɔ́rɔ’ mɛ́n’ You can’t find a town without a Japanese product
3   Í tɛ́ só sí yé, fó í y’à sɔ̀rɔ japonais bólofɛn’ dɔ́ bɛ́ yàn There is no town where you won’t find a Japanese product
4   ou bien chinois bólofɛn’ dɔ́ bɛ́ yàn. or there is a Chinese product
5   Hámantɛ français bólofɛn dɔ́ bɛ́ yàn. or there is French product
6   Ou bien américain bólofɛn’ dɔ́ bɛ́ yàn. or there’s an American product.
7   Í tɛ́ Laguinée bólofɛn yé. You don’t see any product of Guinea
8 CD Í t’à yé. You don’t see it.
9 BMJ Í tɛ́ Màlí bólofɛn yé, k’à sɔ̀rɔ í yé Laguinée àní Màlí lè kɔ́nɔ. You don’t see any product of Mali even though you are in Guinea and Mali!
10   Í tɛ́ fóyi-fóyi yé! Mùnna? You don’t see anything at all? Why?
11 CD Í t’à yé You don’t see it.
12 BMJ Kà mǎsɔ̀dɔn Because
13 CD Á! Ah!
14 BMJ Ɔn? Mm?
15   Ça fait àlé yɛ̀rɛ́ lè lájafoya’ lè It’s languishment of the self.
16   k’àlú yɛ̀rɛ láfagoya It’s languor.
In lines 1–9, Bàbá paints the picture of the African continent devoid of its own products or consumer goods. His critique of this in lines 10–16, however, is not one of government or international trade policy; instead, he sees it as a problem of self-imposed African “languor.” Thus the problem with African postcolonial society lies not only in the hands of politicians and bureaucrats, but in those of the general populace as well.

A few minutes later in the interview, Bàbá applied this same logic to language practices.

42 BMJ Í kánà tó í yɛ̀rɛ́ mà. Don’t rest on your laurels.
43 CD Ͻ̀nhɔn Yeah
44 BMJ Mais n’án tóra kélen mà, à kɔ́rɔ’ lè k’à fɔ́ kó If we rest on them, that means that
45   Án bɛ́ án yɛ̀rɛ paralyser we paralyze ourselves
46   À kɔ̀nin, án mɔ̀ɔ́’ mɛ́nnu bɛ́ Our people that
47   wálikan’ nù kàn do foreign languages
48   sɛ̀bɛyá’ bólo’ mà, comme à ká kán ɲá’ mɛ́n’ kàn seriously in the way that it must be done
49   n’í bɛ́ français fɔ́, français fɔ́ ká ɲà If you speak French, speak it well.
50   ní í bɛ́ anglais fɔ́, anglais fɔ́ kà ɲà If you speak English, speak it well.
51   Wà í d’à fɛ́lɛ, án ná kán’ sísàn But look at it, our language now
52   à kɛ́ra uh it’s become
53   uh uh
54   tùbabukán’ dialecte lè dí a dialect of French
In line 42 Bàbá uses an imperative, “Don’t rest on your laurels”, which presupposes an interlocutor who deserves such an admonishment. Given the earlier remarks about African society, it is clear that this refers to the kinds of lazy citizens who have become so numerous that Africa does not even produce its own goods for its own markets. In lines 46–54, we get some information on who these kinds of people might be; they are people, presumably Manding speakers, who wield languages willy-nilly. They do not speak French correctly (line 49). They do not speak English correctly (line 50). In fact, they speak Manding with such little care that they essentially have made it “a dialect of French” (line 54). The converse to this kind of practice, of course, would be the use of kángbɛ, even if not made explicit here.

Thus far, Bàbá has painted a picture of two potentially distinct situations and groups of people: discursive misfits that mix French, English and Manding, and Africans that carelessly do not contribute to their society. A bit later, however, he made the link between them more explicit:

71 BMJ Í y’à lɔ́n, à mán kán! You know, that’s not right!
72   N’í bɛ́ français-kan fɔ́ If you speak French
73   Í y’à ɲɛ́nama’ lè fɔ́la Speak it well
74   N’í bɛ́ anglais-kan fɔ́, í b’à ɲɛ́nama’ fɔ́ If you speak English, speak it well
75   Kɔ́nɔ, à yé cógo’ mɛ́n’ ná But as things are now
76   í bɛ́ kɛ́, ê tɛ́ français dí You aren’t French
77   ê tɛ́ fàrafin dí You aren’t African
78   Ò cɛ̀ ká ɲì? Is that good?
79 CD <Laughs> <Laughs>
80 BMJ On? Hmm
81 CD Á! À kɔ̀ni, ń má Ah! Well, you know
82 BMJ Ò kósɔ̀n, án bɛ́ jáfoya- án bɛ́kà jáfoya lè. For this reason, we are languishing
83   Mùn kósɔ̀n? Án yɛ̀rɛ bɛ́ kɛ́, án bɛ́ dòní’ tùbabú’ yɛ̀rɛ́ kàn. Why? We, we’ve become a burden for the White man
84 CD Mm Mm
85 BMJ K’án kɛ́ dòní’ dí tùbabú’ yɛ̀rɛ [kàn], est-ce qu’ò ká dí tùbabú’ ɲɛ́? To be a burden for the White man, does he like that?
[…a]      
94 CD <Laughs> <Laughs>
95   Á! À kòní mɔ̀gɔ sí tɛ́ dòni fɛ́ dɛ́! Ah! Nobody wants an extra load [dòní]
96 BMJ Ͻ́ bon! Tùbabú’ tɛ́ dòni fɛ̀, ò kósɔ̀n fó án yé án jíjà Ah OK! So the White man doesn’t want a charge. For this reason, we need to make an effort
97   án yé tùbabú’ fána kǔn’ dɔ́fɛ́ɛya Let’s take a load off the White man
98 CD Mmm Mmm
99 BMJ Tùbabú’ lè bɛ́ báara’ kɛ́, mùn kósɔ̀n ê tɛ́ báara kɛ́? The White man does all the work, why don’t you work?

a I have skipped lines 86–93 for clarity’s sake since they were entirely metasemantic regarding my misunderstanding of the expression dòní ‘charge, burden’.

In line 82, Bàbá directly links together the two situations that he has presented: “for this reason, we are languishing”. Those that are careless in speech are equally so in life in general. Finally, in line 99, he makes it clear that his critique of his fellow West Africans is similar to that which other N’ko activists made of their government leaders above; they don’t work (kà báara’ kɛ́). In this interview segment therefore Bàbá implicitly elucidates how the kángbɛ register, beyond compelling etymology, functions as a potential discursive index of a different kind of West African citizen.

Curious how in practice the promotion of a special register instead one’s so-called natural way of speaking functioned, I often asked N’ko teachers why people should write kángbɛ and not their own dialect. One shopkeeper (SK in the transcript that follows) replied with a metaphor while also drawing in my notebook that I handed him (see fig. 4).

Figure 4. 
Figure 4. 

Shopkeeper’s drawing of the Manding language tree in the author’s notebook

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Making a case similar to those of historical and genetic linguists, he stated that he envisions language as being like a tree in the ways that it starts as a single entity and then develops individual diverging branches as it moves forward through time. His argument for writing in the language—that is, Manding (or N’ko as Sulemaana Kantè would put it)―was one that went beyond etymology. Gesturing toward his sketched tree, he explained,

2088 SK Ní í yé yírisun’ bìla kà táa bólon mìnɛ, n’ò fárala [í lá]- í yé If you abandon the trunk and you grab the branch, if it breaks
2089   í màkó’ sàra you’ve put yourself at a disadvantage
2090   Kánko’ lá. in affairs of languages.
2091   Í y’à fàamuya? You understand?
2092   Donc So
2093   N’í bɛ́ fɛ́n barikaman’ fɛ̀ If you want something powerful
2094   fɛ́n fangamán’ fɛ̀, í bɛ́ nìn nè mìnɛ something strong, you grab this
2095   ní í yé nìn mìnɛ If you grab this <points to branch>
2096   ní  
2097   nìn bɛ́kà táa síra’ mín’ fɛ̀, nìn bɛ́kà táa síra’ mín’ fɛ̀, nìn bɛ́kà táa síra’ mín’ fɛ̀, nìn bɛ́kà táa síra’ mín’ fɛ̀ the direction this one goes, the direction this one goes, the direction this one goes, the direction this one goes <drawing branches rapidly>
2098   ní í y’ù ká síra dá ɲɔ́gɔn mà, ní mín’ sániyara, í b’ò tà! if you compare them with one another, that which is cleanest, you take that one!
2099   ní í y’ò tà, í b’í bólo kɛ́ ò lá, í bɛ́ kán ɲɛnama’ sɔ̀rɔ. Ɲɛ́nama! If you take it, you put your arm upon it, you get proper language! Proper [language]!
2100   Mɔ̀gɔ tɛ́ sé kà mín’ sɔ̀sɔ, kán’ mín’ tɛ́ sé kà dɛ́sɛ kó’ lá Language which can’t be contested, language which can’t fail in endeavors
2101   Í yɛ̀rɛ b’à dɔ́n, anglais bɛ́ dɛ́sɛ You yourself know, English can fail
2102 CD français bɛ́ dɛ́sɛ French can fail
2103 SK uh chinois bɛ́ dɛ́sɛ Uh Chinese can fail
2104   mais N’ko tɛ́ dɛ́sɛ! But, N’ko does not fail!
In these lines, he paints a picture of the true forms of a language being the strongest. Language is comparable to a material good that is available in different grades of quality. While he does not specify the activities for which it is ideal to have the highest one, his publications, books and N’ko activism in general suggest that this form is particularly important when it comes to writing. In other situations, N’ko activists emphasize the kángbɛ register as a means of unifying Manding speakers across state and dialectal boundaries. Here though, SK paints a picture of it as serving in a different capacity. The study of the N’ko orthography and its body of knowledge allows one to pursue a more pure form of the Manding language that if wielded correctly cannot be “contested” or “fail” (lines 2099–2100). In the lines that follow, SK outlines other major world languages like French and Chinese and suggests that, while they may fail, N’ko (Manding) does not. This “narrated event” (Wortham and Reyes 2015) is interesting because it powerfully shows the stakes of reading and writing in kángbɛ—it is the linguistic means by which West Africans can put themselves on equal footing and work to match the accomplishments (and development levels) of other major countries or even civilizations of the world. From this perspective, N’ko and kángbɛ together become a tool to discipline the various earthly forms of Manding that have—like all dialects—deviated from the proper and powerful form that one cultivates in a continual pursuit of kángbɛ.

Conclusion

For both N’ko’s founder and many students today, N’ko often refers first and foremost to the Manding language in its entirety. Today, this conceptualization of Manding as one single language (under the name N’ko)—united by the primarily written register of kángbɛ—continues to spread across areas where people have postcolonially understood themselves as speakers of distinct, albeit related, varieties such as Bamanan, Maninka or Jula. This can be attributed to at least two factors. First, the kángbɛ register—in part, codified into the N’ko orthography itself—is a linguistically compelling analysis of Manding phonology and etymology, as demonstrated by the current words of N’ko teachers and students. Second, the kángbɛ register—independent of linguistic facts—is upheld and embraced as a component of a larger N’ko ethos of know-how, work and discipline (kólɔn, báara, télen). Cultivating themselves to be able to read, write and potentially speak the clear form of Manding is the means by which students and activists can hone themselves discursively into the opposite of people they see as responsible for the disorganized and poorly developed state of the countries and region in which they reside. Unsurprisingly then, even kángbɛ is not a fixed entity or permanent set of linguistic features. It too is subject to scrutiny, improvements and repair. As one N’ko teacher commented following a heated disagreement about some of the conventions of written N’ko or kángbɛ: “fɛ́n bɛ́ɛ bɛ́ dílan”—all things can be fixed. Indeed, in the eyes of N’ko activists in postcolonial West Africa, they must be.

Notes

Contact Coleman Donaldson at Universität Hamburg, SFB 950, Manuskript kulturen in Asien, Afrika und Europa, Warburgstraße 26, D-20354 Hamburg, Germany ().

‏ ߒ ߓߍ߫ ߒߞߏ ߞߊ߬ߙߊ߲߬ߘߋ߲ ߠߎ߬ ߓߍ߯ ߝߏ߬ ߸ ߘߊ߲߬ ߕߍ߫ ߝߏ߬ߟߌ ߡߍ߲ ߠߊ߫، ߊߟߊ ߦߋ߫ ߒ ߞߊ߬ߙߊ߲߬ߡߐ߮ ߟߎ߬ ߓߍ߯ ߛߙߊ߬، ߊߟߊ ߦߋ߫ ߒߞߏ ߛߓߊ߬ߕߌ߬،‎

1. For Latin-based representation of Manding, I follow the de facto official phonemic orthography synthesizing the various national standards that linguists use while also marking tone. Grave diacritics mark low tones and acute diacritics mark high tones. An unmarked vowel carries the same tone as the last marked vowel before it. The tonal article on nouns is noted by an apostrophe but not in citation form.

2. Henceforth <Sulemaana Kantè>, ignoring tonal diacritics and using <è> in place of <ɛ>, except in citations (e.g., Kántɛ 2008a) where I note his name using the Latin-based Manding transliteration system. I have opted to write Kantè’s first name as Sulemaana given that it is written as such by Kantè himself in the majority of his works that I have in my personal archive (Vydrin 2012, 63)

3. For stylistic purposes, I refer to people involved in N’ko circles in a range of ways that are not mutually exclusive or necessarily distinct (e.g., students, teachers, or activists). Within N’ko circles anyone that (a) is studying or can read N’ko and (b) supports the script’s promotion may be called an N’ko ‘teacher’ (kàramɔ́ɔ ‏ߞߙߊ߬ߡߐ߮‎) or ‘student’ (kàrandén ‏ߞߊ߬ߙߊ߲߬ߘߋ߲‎). One common hypernym in N’ko circles is that of Ń’ko-mɔɔ (‏ߒߞߏߡߐ߮‎ ‘N’ko person’) (Fófana 2008, 2–5). In its place, I often use the French term N’koïsant.

4. See Kantè’s writings (2009, 26) on the issue of linguistic “public shortcomings” (‏ߝߘߏ߬ߓߊ߬ ߕߊ߲ߓߏ߲ ߠߎ߬‎ Fòdoba tánbon’ nù).

5. In American anthropological and historical circles, one often encounters the term Mande or mandekan in place of Manding (e.g., Bird 1981). The major issue with this usage is that it coincides with the European and disciplinary linguistics convention of using Mande to refer to a broader language family that is more than 5,000 years old (Vydrin 2009, 2016b).

6. Depending on language or discipline, one can encounter a range of toponyms such as Mande, Manden, Manding, or Mali in place of Màndén (Creissels, forthcoming, 2).

7. As is customary, I will refer to these different varieties by removing their shared second element -kán.

8. This stems primarily from their common classification as Eastern varieties (as distinguished from Western Manding by their seven instead of five vowel system).

9. In my fieldwork, most frequently (1) Hátɛ (Kántɛ 2011); (2) Bála’ ní bàlá’ (Jàanɛ́ 1998); (3) Kángbɛ’ kùnfɔ́lɔ’ (Kántɛ 2008b).

10. It also appears as a metapragmatic label, albeit with a slightly different value, in Sanogo’s (2003, 373) account of the genesis of Jula as an ethnic category.

11. See Creissels (2004) for a discussion of the voiced velar (g), labiovelar stops and related Manding sounds today (i.e., w, gw, kw, gb, kp).

12. Not all of Manding phonological variation can be conveniently or easily captured within theorized proto-phonemes or “diaphonemes” (Weinreich [1954]; see Galtier [1980] for attempt). The question of whether /gb/ is in fact a phoneme of proto-Manding is still an open one. My point is to suggest that the ‏ߜ‎ is understood proto-phonemically by some users. /gb/ is a full-fledged phoneme in certain Manding varieties such as Guinean Maninka and vehicular Jula of Côte d’Ivoire.

13. The reality is of course more complex, see the earlier passage regarding Sékù’s position on /ʃ/.

14. The source of this is traceable to the original writings of Kantè. In his dialectology treatise, “The Language’s Rules: or the Rules of N’ko” (Sùlemáana Kántɛ 2009, 26), he dedicates a series of pages to what he calls “public shortcomings”; in a table of 51 common expressions he lays out what he labels as “improper speech” (fɔ́kojuu) alongside what he prescribes as their “proper speech” (fɔ́koɲiman) equivalent, which he hold as more appropriate for this “age of writing”.

15. Ń’kó’ ní Fàsokán nù Yíriwa (The strengthening of N’ko and fatherland languages).

16. Literally ‘You and peace’, this phrase is a Manding-ized version of “Jɔ́’ yé í mà,” a calque of the traditional Arabic al-salām ʿalaykum. Both are widely used as in-group greetings in N’ko circles.

17. Strictly speaking, the plural suffix lu does not carry its own lexical tone. Since the absence of a tonal diacritic in N’ko carries meaning, I represent it as ‏ߟߎ߬‎ <lù> since that is its most typical realization.

18. In the case of transparent French loanwords or nonce borrowings that are not significantly phonologically assimilated into Manding such as mais, direction, and so on, I preserve their French orthography. This diverges from common transcription practice (e.g., Derive 1978; Giray 1996), but it increases readability and mirrors orthographic practice used for loanwords in languages such as English, French, and so on.

19. For example, “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” Liberté, égalité, fraternité, or the Incan Ama suwa, ama llulla, ama qilla, and so on.

20. Bamakois is the French language demonym for ‘resident of Bamako’.

References

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