In Nigeria, English is often positioned as the language of love…and lust. Speaking your native language during sex? That’s still seen by many as razz. But what happens when someone unexpectedly switches to Yorùbá, Igbo, Hausa, or any of our other local languages mid-round? Does it hit harder? Feel more intimate?
For Folaranmi*, it wasn’t just a turn-on. It was a revelation. In this story, he shares how moaning and speaking in Yorùbá during sex helped him connect more deeply — to his partners, to himself, and to a language he was already thinking in. As far as he’s concerned, this is what it looks like to decolonise dirty talk.
This is Folaranmi’s story as told to Marv.
Long before the 1990s, when I was born, “fuck” had already become one of the most spoken words — in bedrooms, outdoors, or anywhere horny people could sneak one in. Loudly screamed or softly moaned, this universal shorthand for sexual pleasure rarely disappoints. I don’t know the etymology of “fuck,” but like millions around the world, I say it too, and have done so since the first day I put on a condom.
I’ve seen countless conversations online about whether people think in their native tongues or in the colonial language. I belong to the former. Odùduwà has my frontal lobe on lock. I process most of my thoughts in Yorùbá but write and speak them in English. Still, until sometime in late 2024, when Yorùbá started to feel most natural to me emotionally, I couldn’t recall a single moment of being complimented or flirted with in a local language. Even so, I consider myself fluent in using it to express desire.
It’s hard to forget how I got into it. It was the first time I had sex with my then-partner, and in the middle of things, she started speaking Yorùbá. It caught me off guard and cracked me up because, even though she’s a Yorùbá babe, she’s not exactly fluent. In a tender, almost concerned tone, she kept muttering, “O ti pa mí” (“You’ve killed me”).
It was my first time hearing Yorùbá in bed, and it was hot as hell. It also made total sense in hindsight. There’s no better language to instinctively voice your deepest feelings than your mother tongue.
In the moment, everything felt steamy, but I was more focused on making sure she was having the best time. We paused for a bit, talked it through, and found a position that felt even better for both of us. That small shift changed everything. The pleasure deepened, and so did the connection — especially in the way we spoke to each other. I tuned into her rhythm and started responding in Yorùbá too.
“Mi ò pa é,” I said (“I’m not killing you”).
“So, kí lò wá n ṣe?” she asked with a smile (“So, what are you doing then?”).
“Mo n dó e ni,” I replied (“I’m fucking you”).
That was all I could say — over and over again — until the round ended. Her grip got tighter, and all I could feel was warmth down there. It was incredible.
Still, she thought it was uncouth and a bit razz to express herself sexually in Yorùbá. But from that moment on, it became a turn-on for me, and eventually, a regular part of our sex life.
Whenever we did it, I’d ask her questions in Yorùbá and tell her to respond in kind. She never answered directly. Instead, she’d smile, a little shy, and dare me to “fuck it out of her.” That always made things more exciting.
Deep down, though, I knew our time was limited. Japa was calling her, and a long-distance relationship wasn’t really an option. We were only together for three months, but in that time, we tried to make the most of it — a lot of Yorùbá was moaned.
I’m in a new relationship now, having great sex, but the person I’m with isn’t a fan of Yorùbá dirty talk. I’ve only been able to get her to faintly moan it once, and she couldn’t even complete her sentence. Her hesitance is cool with me, anyway. But I really fail to understand why “razz” is associated with Yorùbá when it comes to sex. We speak the language for every other occasion, so why not in bed too?
I once asked some friends what they thought about it, and their responses made it clear: I might be the only person I know who’s into it. But I don’t think I’m weird. If anything, speaking your local language during sex feels like a small way to push back against colonialism and its lingering hold.
To hell with saying “Fuck me” when “Dó mi” is more direct, and just two syllables. I recommend it to anyone willing to try. Your ancestors will rise with pride, and maybe even applaud.
Note: The name of this interview subject has been changed for confidential reasons.
