Code-switching
My accent tells only part of my story. Beneath the British cadence lie Ugandan roots, Ghanaian influences, and decades spent navigating life between cultures.
You reveal who you are once you speak. There is a version of me that emerged over time. It arrived the day a colleague told me my English was “impressive”. They meant it as a compliment, but I received it as a measurement. The compliment suggested that my voice had exceeded an expectation of theirs. It was a small moment, but it revealed how often identity is assessed before a conversation has even begun.
I was born in Uganda. My formative years unfolded in Ghana, first at a Ghanaian primary school, then at an international school where a hybrid British American accent began to take shape, and later at boarding school where conversations moved effortlessly between English, pidgin English and local languages. Adaptation became an early lesson in belonging. I learnt to navigate conversations I did not always fully understand and social cues that were not entirely my own. What I did not realise then was that I was learning the foundations of code-switching long before I knew the term. Those experiences continued throughout my international career. They were not disruptions. They were an education.
Then came the United Kingdom, and everything I understood about adaptation was quietly recalibrated. I noticed it first on the telephone when I made a call to a government office in London. I heard the tone on the other end, and something shifted in my voice before I was fully aware of it. The cadence changed. The vowels flattened. The traces of Uganda and Ghana that still surface in certain conversations receded, and a more recognisable British voice came forward. It happened in seconds, but it had been happening for years, at university and then in my professional life.
That is what code-switching sounds like from the inside. It is not dramatic, and not always deliberate. It is just a quiet recalibration. Code-switching is often framed as performance, as though one is concealing something true beneath something strategic. I have never found that explanation adequate. What I do when I move between environments is the result of years spent navigating different cultures and institutions, learning when to adapt, when to translate, and when to remain firmly myself.
I have been told by some Africans that I sound British. I have been told by non-Africans that I sound British but still pronounce certain words like an African. Neither observation is wrong.
What interests me is the assumption behind them: that one identity must somehow sit above the others. Age and experience have taught me otherwise. The different versions are not competing. They are simply part of the same story.
Uganda gave me an origin. Ghana gave me adaptability and an introduction to what a layered identity is. The UK and the world gave me professional rigour, institutional literacy and an accent that surprises people when they learn where I am from. And then I ring home.
A familiar voice answers. My speech softens. Expressions I have not used for months appear effortlessly. In those moments, I know that nothing was ever lost. Some parts of identity simply wait for the right conversation to reappear. These are not competing versions of myself. They are different registers of the same instrument.
Identity is not a place you arrive at. It is an ongoing negotiation between memory, belonging and adaptation. The work is not choosing which voice is most authentic but recognising that they all are.
Does my accent tell a story? Let’s talk.
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