How Language and Familiarity Shape the Way We Think and Interact

I’ve been paying attention to how my mind works, and something keeps standing out: the way I switch language depending on who I'm speaking to and how close I feel to them. It’s not something I consciously learned; it’s something that simply happens, almost like my brain has emotional shortcuts rooted in language.

For example, when I want to banter with someone I’m familiar with, my mind immediately reaches for Yoruba. It comes out effortlessly. Saying “lemme joor” flows more naturally from me than “lemme biko” ever will, even though “biko” is also part of my linguistic identity. I grew up in Lagos, my parents spoke pidgin to communicate with my siblings and me, and when you step outside, the whole neighborhood is swimming in Yoruba conversations. English was for school and formality, but Yoruba and pidgin were the textures of everyday life.

It wasn’t until I left home for university that Igbo began to sit more confidently on my tongue. Being surrounded by fellow Igbo students, hearing the language every day, and slowly absorbing expressions and intonations, my accent started shifting. I began sounding more like “my people.” The Igbo inside me woke up from hibernation.

But here’s the interesting part: I’ve noticed that depending on my level of familiarity with someone, my brain chooses its default language in the moment. When I meet you for the first time, my initial thoughts often process in Igbo. If our interaction is formal, my brain remains in that mode, structured, intentional, and almost cautious. But the moment we become comfortable with each other, something changes. My mental “operating system” switches. Suddenly, the Yoruba part of me starts leading our conversations. I begin to joke more. I start using lighter, warmer expressions that come from childhood memories, neighborhood rhythms, and all the small languages of comfort I grew up soaking in.

It’s fascinating to observe this shift. I’ve caught myself being very professional around some people for months, maintaining a certain tone. But the moment a deeper familiarity develops, maybe after shared jokes, consistent conversations, or a new sense of safety, I notice myself throwing in “simple but funny jabs.” And those jabs almost always come in Yoruba. That’s when I know: Ah. I’ve finally relaxed with this person. My brain has allowed them into the inner circle where Yoruba lives. 

I've caught myself stay very professional with some people and overtime when I become relaxed and try to figure out, when I  started feeling chill enough to let my guard down, I've seen a common pattern, the periods when I throw simple but funny jabs at the person, are most often in Yoruba. When I've used Biko, it usually carry a more serious tone, but when I say joor, it's more playful and open to banting. I'm not exactly sure why this is a thing, but it's a thread I'm noticing and paying attention to.. maybe, it's because it's the language of my childhood.. the cradle where I most felt safe without the world's interference : when I say “biko,” it often carries a serious undertone. It’s not playful; it’s direct. But “joor” is laced with softness and mischief. It’s teasing, tender, and unserious. It opens the door to laughter and banter. So maybe this is why my brain uses them differently. “Biko” belongs to the side of me that is measured and cautious. “Joor” belongs to the part of me that feels free.

I’m still trying to understand why this happens, but I’m certain it’s connected to the emotional history tied to each language. Yoruba is the language of my childhood, the one wrapped in the sound of neighbors gossiping outside, mothers scolding kids, friends teasing one another at the gate, and the entire environment that raised me. It carries memories, safety, familiarity, and a sense of belonging. Pidgin adds humor and rawness. English brings structure. Igbo adds identity and grounding. But Yoruba? Yoruba is where my guard goes to rest.

So perhaps language isn’t just communication, it’s emotional geography. It maps out where we feel safe, where we feel tense, where we feel playful, and where we feel fully ourselves. Our tongues expose our comfort zones, our fears, and the relationships where we can finally take a deep breath and stop performing.

Maybe the real story isn’t just about language. Maybe it’s about the places inside us where love, childhood, identity, and memory overlap. And maybe that’s why when I finally feel at home with you, my brain switches to Yoruba, because that’s the first home I ever knew.

Adaeze C Nwankwo