Sorry for My English

What accents, survival, and power taught me while house hunting in London

The Apology That Stopped Me

I went house hunting today.

Nothing dramatic; just viewings, calls, logistics. The usual small stresses of a city that never pauses for you.

The agent on the phone wasn’t a native English speaker. Clear, understandable, slightly accented.

When we met in person, the first thing he said was:

“I’m so sorry for my English.”

He said it again later. And again.

Each time, it landed in me like a punch I wasn’t expecting.

Why are you apologising?

I told him he didn’t need to. And I meant it.

Something in me ached because I knew that instinct so well. The reflex to shrink. To pre-empt judgment. To apologise for taking up space in a language that isn’t “yours.”

The Cost of Fitting In

He spoke multiple languages. He was doing his job. Navigating a country that isn’t his own.

And yet, that apology; so familiar.

Because once upon a time, I was him.

I grew up in Nigeria. English was everywhere; school, work, social life. But globally, it didn’t count the same way. Not on paper. Not in power.

Later, in China, I tried to get a job as an ESL teacher. Time and again, I was told I needed to be a “native English speaker.”

American. British. Sometimes South African.
Not Nigerian.

I understood it. But understanding didn’t make it hurt less.

Flattening to Survive

I lied. I said I was South African.

I watched American films obsessively. I studied accents. I practiced changing how I sounded. I flattened parts of myself to survive.

Over time, my accent changed. Environment does that. Survival does that.

But I also internalised shame. That my natural voice was wrong. That I needed to apologise for simply being.

Unlearning Shame

Now, I’m gentler with myself.

My accent is still mine, even if softened. I’m more comfortable with it.

Not because the world became kind. But because I’m unlearning what I was taught about worth.

That’s why the agent’s apology stayed with me.

I wanted to say:

You’re doing fine. You’re not behind. You don’t owe anyone linguistic perfection.

Accents are not flaws. They are evidence.
Of movement.
Of courage.
Of a life lived across borders.

And yet, so many of us walk around apologising for them.

When Survival Becomes Smallness

Power disguises itself as “standards.”
Survival asks us to shrink.
To be quieter. To be smaller.

But living like that isn’t protection.
It’s imprisonment.

Some of us were never bad speakers.
We were just taught to doubt the sound of our own voices.

A Question for You

What in your life have you been silently apologising for?

Your accent? Your ideas? Your presence?

Notice it. Name it. And decide: is it time to stop shrinking?

Because you don’t need permission to exist fully.

Love,
Busayo