The silence between generations

We live in a world that worships the new. We chase innovation and digital updates. We often overlook our most valuable resource. Our elders represent a living library. They hold practical skills and hard-won wisdom. They carry our cultural history in their memories. This library has no digital backup. When an elder passes, a unique collection of knowledge disappears forever. We must learn to access this wisdom while we still can.

My late mother and uncle shared a close bond. During my mother's final illness, my uncle posed a poignant question. He asked why she had not learnt from their mother the cure for her disease. Our grandmother possessed vast knowledge of herbal medicine. She helped women give birth during emergencies. She knew which plants treated specific ailments. She offered remedies for menstrual pain and asthma. She could soothe swollen feet after long journeys. Her knowledge addressed both major crises and daily discomforts. This conversation revealed a broken chain of wisdom transmission.

Recently, I worked on a programme about organic agricultural value chains. I asked farmers to document traditional practices. They described methods we now call climate-smart agriculture. One farmer used clay pots covered with manure to store seeds. This technique preserved seeds for the next planting season. Another kept meat fresh by hanging it in a smoke-filled kitchen. Some preserved meat in cow ghee for extended periods. These methods required no electricity or modern technology.

The same farmers shared healthcare knowledge passed through generations. Aloe vera and honey treated burns and skin infections. Crushed onions promoted hair growth and covered grey hair. A simple banana could ease a stomachache. These solutions were readily available and required no pharmacy. Each remedy represented generations of observation and refinement. Our ancestors solved daily problems using resources around them.

When was the last time you learnt something practical from an elder in your family?

Our living library

Modern life has disrupted natural knowledge transfer. Families live scattered across cities and countries. Children attend schools that prioritise global curricula over local wisdom. The informal spaces where learning once occurred have vanished. The evening fire where stories were shared. The kitchen where recipes were demonstrated. The garden where plants were identified. These learning environments have been replaced by screens and schedules.

The consequences extend beyond lost recipes or remedies. We lose our cultural compass when we lose our elders. We forget how to resolve conflicts through community dialogue. We misplace the art of reading natural signs for coming weather. We no longer know how to build homes suited to our climate. We abandon sustainable farming methods for quick yields. Each piece of forgotten wisdom represents a step toward deeper dependency on external systems. We trade self-reliance for convenience at great cost.

Consider our heritage through family trees. Imagine those taken into slavery who cannot trace their origins. They ask if they come from Ghana or Liberia or Sierra Leone. They seek roots that were violently severed. Yet many of us who can trace our roots do not acknowledge them. We cut ourselves from these roots. What happens when you separate a tree from its roots? It cannot survive, let alone thrive.

My brother in the diaspora has spent over a decade researching our family history. He shares this message about his journey. "For over a decade now, I have been researching our family and wider clan history. I keep photos of my parents in our living room. One day, one of my sons asked me about our family tree. That is when I realised that beyond my father's father, I knew nothing about our ancestors or our origins. A friend once challenged me to create our family tree using genealogy software. For the Western world, this is easy because their history is well documented. I tried using the Legacy Family Tree software, but it was challenging. With our unwritten history, you must do everything manually, and it is tedious work. I have interviewed many relatives and travelled to many places to extend our family tree. Unfortunately, many relatives who were knowledgeable about our family have passed away. Still, my efforts have borne fruit—through my research, I have traced our lineage back to the 16th century. The work continues."

This experience stands in stark contrast to the reality for many in the diaspora. What we can often learn from a simple conversation with a living elder, others spend years and sophisticated technology trying to uncover. The celebrated documentary series African American Lives, which first aired in 2006, dedicated entire episodes to tracing the ancestral roots of prominent figures like Quincy Jones, Mae Jemison, and Oprah Winfrey. They used DNA analysis and historical records in a painstaking, and sometimes inconclusive, quest for a connection that many of us hold in the unwritten stories of our own families. Their profound search for identity highlights a deep human need to belong, a need that underscores the incredible value of the living libraries we have at our fingertips.

What stories could you recover from your elders before it is too late?

When words fail us

This is perhaps our greatest, most silent loss. When a child cannot speak their mother tongue, and a grandparent cannot speak the colonial language, a profound silence falls between them. This is not merely a failure to exchange words. It is the systematic severing of our most vital link to history and identity. The grandmother who holds the stories of our clan, the recipes for our healing herbs, the songs of our ancestors—she becomes a closed book. The grandchild who thirsts for this knowledge finds the pages locked, the key thrown away by forces beyond their control.

This language barrier is not a natural divide. It is the direct consequence of a system that taught us to devalue our own tongues. It is the legacy of classrooms where children were punished for speaking the language of their mothers. We were taught that English, French, and Portuguese were the languages of progress and intellect, while our mother tongues were relegated to the village, to the past, to something backward. In embracing this lie, we actively participated in dismantling our own intergenerational communication. We built the very walls that now separate us from our elders.

The consequence is a robbery of identity. The stories of our resistance, our migrations, our innovations remain untold. The specific knowledge of which plant heals a fever or how to read the coming rains from the sky dies with each elder who passes. We are left with a hollowed-out version of ourselves, disconnected from the wisdom that could guide us. We become like trees that have been cut from their roots, appearing whole on the surface but lacking the deep, sustaining connection to the soil of our being.

This loss is a double pain. For the elder, it is the agony of being a living library that no one can read. It is to hold the treasure map to your people's soul and watch the next generation walk past, unable to understand the symbols. For the young, it is the quiet, persistent ache of knowing a profound resource is sitting metres away, yet completely inaccessible. It is a ghost limb of culture—you feel its presence, its vital importance, but you cannot grasp it.

To reclaim our history, we must first reclaim our language. It is the vessel. It is the key. Every word learnt in a mother tongue is a crack in the wall of silence. Every phrase spoken to an elder in the language of their heart is a bridge rebuilt over a chasm of colonial disruption. This is not just about linguistic preservation; it is about re-establishing the circulatory system of our culture. When we revive our languages, we do not just learn to speak—we learn to listen to the whispers of our ancestors, and we ensure our children can finally hear them too.

We can rebuild these connections with conscious effort. The process begins with shifting our perspective. We must see our elders not as dependents but as mentors. We must approach them not with pity but with curiosity. We must create regular opportunities for interaction and learning. Simple questions can unlock vast stores of knowledge. Ask about their childhood games. Inquire about traditional celebrations. Request stories about their parents and grandparents.

Practical projects provide excellent learning frameworks. Start a small garden with an elder's guidance. Cook a traditional meal together using their recipes. Document family stories through audio recordings. These shared activities create natural teaching moments. The knowledge transfer happens through doing rather than lecturing. The learning becomes embedded in relationship building. This approach honours both the knowledge and the knowledge keeper.

Formal literature and documented history have often robbed us of our heritage. As a feminist, I have argued against HIStory that largely excludes women. The same is true for African history. It is nearly absent from documented records. This is why we must collect stories firsthand from those who lived through the times. Unfortunately, many have died with those stories. This denies us our history and our dignity.

Our children learn European stories and watch foreign cartoons. They know more about Snow White than Anansi the spider. They can name European kings but not African queens. This cultural displacement starts early. It creates a disconnect from their own heritage. It tells them their stories are less valuable.

What African stories and heroes can you share with the children in your life?

Start with one older person this week. Ask about one traditional remedy. Inquire about one forgotten custom. Request one family story. This simple act begins the vital work of preservation. It honours the knowledge keeper while enriching your own understanding. The wisdom of our elders represents our cultural inheritance. It is our responsibility to receive this gift before it is lost. We must become diligent students of our living libraries. Our future resilience may depend on the lessons they hold.

What one question will you ask an older person today?