Here’s a short piece titled — written as a reflective prose poem. Lingua Franca
Lingua franca is the language of strangers becoming temporary friends, of orders given and understood without loyalty, of survival dressed in a few hundred words. lingua franca
It is imperfect by design: verbs stripped of their subjunctive dreams, nouns abandoned in the wrong gender, accents smoothed down like stones in a river. Here’s a short piece titled — written as
It is not beautiful, not in the way Italian is beautiful, or the precise cruelty of German, or the musical lilt of Yoruba. It is not beautiful, not in the way
Lingua franca is the tongue of the in-between — the airport lounge, the trade route, the broken elevator, the help desk at three a.m., the peace treaty signed in a borrowed alphabet.
But here is its miracle — in that flattened, fractured, simplified speech, someone says I am afraid , and you understand not because the grammar is right but because the need is universal.
Its beauty is utility: a rope bridge over a gorge, a splint on a broken leg, a key that turns in a hundred different locks, none of them its own.