There’s a Village in Nigeria Where Men and Women Don’t Speak the Same Language

Hidden among the lush hills of Cross River State in southeastern Nigeria lies Ubang, an otherwise ordinary farming community with an extraordinary linguistic twist: Boys and girls grow up speaking different vocabularies.

By adulthood, every man and woman can understand each other perfectly, yet they rarely use the same words for everyday objects.A dress is “kaket” to a woman but “nki” to a man; a shoe is “abuo” for her, “okpok” for him. In Ubang, language itself wears gender.

Children spend their first few years with their mothers, so toddlers, regardless of sex, initially pick up the female word set. Around age five or six, boys undergo what locals call the “language shift.” Fathers, uncles, and older brothers begin correcting any “female” terms that slip out. Within months, the boys have switched almost entirely to the men’s lexicon. Girls, meanwhile, stay with the vocabulary they already know.By adolescence, the divergence is complete: Two speech codes, mutually intelligible but distinct, live side by side in each household.

Ubang linguist Chi Chi Dee Ndifon has catalogued roughly 400 core vocabulary items with gender-specific variants, roughly one in four everyday words.

Grammar and syntax remain the same, so sentences are structured identically; it’s the nouns and some verbs that flip. For example, women say “onggim” for tree, men say “okyin”. Women fetch water from the “lili”, men from the “bala.” Both could form the sentence “I cut the tree,” but each would insert their own gendered noun. Because intonation, pronouns, and verb endings align, conversation flows smoothly despite the lexical rift.

In oral tradition, God originally gave Ubang three languages, one for men, one for women, and a spare that has long since vanished. Elders tell how the Almighty judged that males and females would quarrel if forced to share every word, so different tongues would promote harmony. Another legend says the split avoided confusion in wartime: enemy eavesdroppers could not decipher half of what was said. While historians doubt these tales’ literal truth, they illuminate how deeply the phenomenon is woven into communal identity.

No single explanation has proven definitive, but most linguists agree the split is home-grown, not imposed by colonial rule or recent migration.

Far from causing rifts, the dual vocabulary is treated as a playful marker of status. Husbands tease wives for using “baby words,” while wives retort that men’s speech sounds “harsh.” In mixed company, speakers rarely code-switch; instead, each uses their own set while effortlessly decoding the other. Outsiders attempting to learn Ubang quickly discover they must choose whose guidance to follow: learn the men’s words with your hunting buddies, and old women at the market will giggle at your “rough talk.”

Ubang’s unique heritage is fragile. Young adults migrate to Calabar and Lagos for school, where English and Nigerian Pidgin dominate. When they return for holidays, their speech mixes urban slang with a shrinking stock of gendered terms. Primary schools now teach in English first, local language second, reducing opportunities for the formative “language shift” among boys. Community leaders have begun informal evening classes and recording projects to document both lexicons before erosion sets in.

Around the world, thousands of minority languages face extinction, but Ubang’s story shows that even tiny speech communities can harbor astonishing complexity. Gendered dialects challenge linguists’ assumptions about how vocabulary evolves and how children acquire multiple codes. For cultural anthropologists, the practice reveals a society where difference does not hinder understanding but enriches it, proving that diversity can thrive within a single village square.As elders gather under the mango tree at dusk, men’s and women’s words mingle in lively debate, distinct yet harmonious. Should Ubang’s two tongues one day fall silent, a singular chapter in humanity’s linguistic imagination would fall silent with them. For now, at least, the village where men and women speak different languages continues to remind us that the boundaries of language are limited only by the creativity of its speakers.