Power and nephewhood from the Ahaggar to Hombori

Throughout In most Tuareg varieties, the verb 'be able' is dub-ət (pf. yă-ddob-ăt, impf. ti-dubu-t). There are no compelling cognates for this in Berber outside Tuareg, as Naït-Zerrad's comparative dictionary confirms; at best, one might speculatively compare Siwi dabb "a lot" and Tarifit dab 'have an appetite', both within Macro-Zenati. The word can therefore not be reconstructed for proto-Berber. A better candidate for 'be able' in proto-Berber would seem to be *ăzmər; cf. Awjila, Kabyle əzmər "be able", Tamajeq əzmər "stand up to, endure", etc. The corresponding verbal noun a-dabu has, however, been borrowed from Tuareg into Standard Algerian Tamazight to provide the noun "power"; its widespread use in political discourse in reference to le pouvoir has made this one of the more successful neologisms.

The Tamahaq of the Ahaggar Mountains attests a second sense of dub-ət that seems to be isolated even within Tuareg. Foucauld glosses it (p. 153) as:

2. ("by extension") 'be able to succeed someone (to an office), by virtue of his being your maternal uncle'
3. ("by extension") 'have as maternal uncle'

It yields the equally Ahaggar-specific word tădabit "person(s) of either sex with the right to succeed to someone's suzerainty due to the latter being their maternal uncle", used in the Ahaggar instead of pan-Tuareg tegăze. Examples include (retranscribed, perhaps imperfectly):

Biska d Mənnək ăddoben Musa daɣ ăra n tăññaten.
Biska and Mennek are potential successors to Musa by virtue of being sisters' children.

Luki d Mikela ăddoben Musa kaskab.
Luki and Mikela are potential successors in suzerainty to Musa.

Barka wa-n ăkli yăddobăt akli hin Mămmădu kaskab.
Barka the slave has as maternal uncle my slave Mămmădu, in a maternal uncle-nephew relationship.

Note the very un-Berber-looking word kaskab, lacking even the characteristic Berber nominal prefix, in the latter two examples. In the not obviously related sense of "metallic part of a camel bridle", akăskabbu (Tamasheq kiskab) is attested throughout Tuareg; but kaskab, in the relevant sense, appears just as unique to the Ahaggar as this sense of dub-ət. Foucauld's entry on the term runs to three pages (pp. 918-920), with neat kinship diagrams, but starts "in the direct line of succession to suzerainty, from maternal uncle to nephew or niece (in a kinship relation of maternal uncle to child of full sister or maternal sister (when speaking of succession to suzerainty over vassals))". One might be tempted to link the first half to Tuareg kus "inherit", but the vowel and the absence of any good explanation for the second half militates against it.

Not to beat around the bush, both dub-ət and kaskab look like great candidates for non-Berber substratum vocabulary loaned into Tuareg, especially in the kinship sense. Considered from this perspective, a non-Berber comparison for the former immediately presents itself: Songhay *túbí "inherit (v.); inheritance (n.)", with its derivative *túbá "sister's child (of either sex)" (the latter may be absent in Zarma and Dendi; both are absent from Northern Songhay, which substitutes Tuareg loanwords). Reflexes of the former include Zarma, Gorwol, Hombori, Djougou túbú (in Hombori also "succeed as chief", just as in Tuareg), Gao and Timbuktu tubu (in Gao also "bequeath, leave (to)"), Kikara túbí ...; of the latter, Gorwol túbéy, Gao tubey / tuba, Hombori túbê, Kikara túbá, Timbuktu tuba. (For modern Timbuktu Heath instead documents kaaya for "inherit", but Dupuis-Yacouba recorded "toubou".)

To my mind, a borrowing from Songhay into Tuareg looks more appealing, as I would expect a high-low tone if it came from Tuareg to reflect Tuareg stress; but the opposite direction could also be defended. Either way, however, there can be no reasonable doubt, given the good formal match and perfect semantic correspondence, that the Ahaggar forms are related to the Songhay ones. (Oddly enough, Nicolaï appears to have missed this connection in his wide-ranging hunt for Berber matches, instead focusing on Kabyle (originally Arabic) ətbəʕ "follow".) Yet their distribution is almost the opposite of what one would expect: in both groups, they are attested only in the varieties least in contact with the other. This suggests that the contact situation they reflect happened quite early, rather than being recent.

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(References consulted include, for Tuareg, the dictionaries of Foucauld, Heath, and Alojaly; for Awjila, Paradisi; for cross-Berber comparison, Naït-Zerrad; for Songhay, Heath, White-Kaba, Ducroz and Charles, Zima, and Dupuis-Yacouba, not to mention Nicolaï's La force des choses.)

Siwi corpus

A small part of the Siwi corpus I gathered during PhD and postdoctoral fieldwork is now publicly accessible online, with more planned. Despite my best efforts, there will undoubtedly be some number of errors in transcription and translation; hopefully being able to listen to the audio will make these easier to correct in the long term. (Feel free to comment here or by email.) Some of these recordings may be of particular interest:

• Four facts about Siwa, short as it is, is a perfect starting point for understanding Siwa anthropologically; the speaker chooses four questions about Siwa, of his own devising, and answers them.
• The story of the Prophet Joseph is probably the best long narrative I was privileged to record during my fieldwork, retelling a well-known Islamic story with energy and eloquence, and giving numerous examples of grammatical features rarely attested in shorter texts.
• Paradigm of the Siwi verb əlməd "learn" - does what it says on the tin, and as such makes a great introduction to Siwi verb morphology. Pay particular attention to the position of stress. Not all forms of the verb are included in this recording, but the remainder can easily be derived from these ones.

The speaker recorded in these, Sherif Bougdoura, was a thoughtful and intelligent person, trying to find the right balance between local and national cultures, who made his living as a repairman for lack of opportunities to take his education further. He sadly died young in a work accident several years ago. I hope these recordings will serve to preserve his memory as well as to facilitate linguistic analysis.

Instrument nouns between Dholuo and Arabic

In Dholuo (a West Nilotic language of Kenya), instrument nouns are formed using ra-...-i (the final -i is dropped after sonorants and semivowels), as in the table below (Tucker 1993:111-112, retranscribed). Both English and Arabic have comparable formations. In English, instrument nouns are occasionally formed with the -er suffix, like agent nouns. In Arabic, instrument nouns are more systematically formed, but with a variety of different patterns, starting with mi-..., or in modern colloquials with a feminine agent noun CaCCaaC-a.

However, taking a look at the cases listed by Tucker, we may note a striking cross-linguistic difference in distribution. In Arabic, all but three of the translated nouns use an instrument noun pattern of some sort, and two of the others use a more general verbal noun pattern; only "ladder" appears completely underived. In English, "peg", "billhook", "pestle", "tongs", "lid" all seem to be underived and simplex, and for several cases with zero-derivation (notably "hoe", "rake", "drill", "sign"), intuition suggests that the verb derives from the noun, the opposite of what we see in Arabic or Dholuo.

This suggests a typological difference in the structure of the lexicon: perhaps some languages "prefer" to mark instrument nouns as such and to form them from corresponding actions, while some prefer simple instrument nouns from which verbs may be formed indicating the corresponding actions. I wonder whether that holds up on a larger sample? What does your language tend to do, dear reader?

cut	toŋ-o	قطع	|	billhook, cutter	ra-tóŋ̂	منجل
slash	bẹt-ọ	مزّق	|	slasher	rạ-bẹ́t-ị̂	منجل طويل
hoe	pur-o	عزق	|	hoe	ra-púr̂	معزق
scratch	gwạr-ọ	خدش	|	forked rake	rạ-gwạ́r̂	مدمّة
see	ŋịy-ọ	رأى	|	mirror	rạ-ŋị́ị̂	مرآة
strain	dhịŋ-ọ	صفّى	|	strainer	rạ-dhị́ŋ̂	مصفاة
pound	yọk-ọ	دق	|	pestle	rạ-yọ́k-ị̂	مدقة
pierce	cwọw-ọ	ثقب	|	piercing instrument	ra-cwọ́p-î	مثقاب
hold	mạk-o	مسك	|	tongs	rạ-mạ́k-ị̂	ممساك
plug up	din-o	سد	|	stopper	ra-dín̂	سدّادة
hang	ŋạw-ọ	علّق	|	peg for hanging	ra-ŋạ́ŵ	علاّقة
cover	um-o	غطّى	|	lid, cover	ra-úm̂	غطاء
show	nyis-o	أظهر	|	sign	ra-nyís-î	علامة
climb	ịdh-ọ	صعد	|	ladder	rạ-ị́dh-ị̂	سلّم

Had Gadya in the Arabic dialect of Constantine Jews

Seeing as you can't turn on the news in France these days without hearing a certain more-French-than-thou provocateur fulminating against Arabs, I thought it might be interesting to have a look at the Arabic dialect his parents or grandparents must have grown up speaking. There are a couple of recordings of the "Judeo-Arabic" of Constantine; a nice easy one to transcribe is Michael Charvit's recording of the originally Aramaic children's song Had Gadya, as traditionally sung at the Passover (Pesah) festival (translation here):

حاد ڨاديا، حاد ڨاديا، اللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجات القطّوس، وكلات الجدي، اللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجات الكلبة، وڨدمت القطّوس، اللي كلات الجدي، اللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجات العصا، وضربت الكلبة، اللي ڨدمت القطّوس، اللي كلات الجدي، اللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجا النار، وحرق العصا، والدي لي ضربت الكلبة، والدي ڨدمت القطّوس، والدي لي كلات الجدي، لي الدي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجا الما، وطفّى النار، الدي حرق العصا، اللي ضربت الكلبة، اللي ڨدمت القطّوس، اللي كلات الجدي، الدي لي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجا التور، وشرب الما، اللي طفّى النار، اللي حرق العصا، الدي ضربت الكلبة، اللي ڨدمت القطّوس، اللي كلات الجدي، الدي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجا الدبّاح، دبّح التور، اللي شرب الما، اللي طفّى النار، اللي حرق العصا، اللي ضربت الكلبة، اللي ڨدمت القطّوس، اللي كلات الجدي، اللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجا ميلخ همّاڥات، ودبح الدبّاح، اللي دبح التور، اللي شرب الما، اللي طفّى النار، اللي حرق العصا، اللي ضربت الكلبة، اللي ڨدمت القطّوس، اللي كلات الجدي، اللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس
وجا اقّادوش باروخ هو، ودبح ميلخ همّاڥات، اللي دبح الدبّاح، واللي دبح التور، واللي شرب الما، واللي طفّى النار، واللي حرق العصا، واللي ضربت الكلبة، واللي ڨدمت القطّوس، واللي كلات الجدي، واللي شرالي بابا بزوج افلوس، زوج افلوس

ħ̣ad gadya, ħ̣ad gadya, li šrali baba bzuz əflus, zuz əflus
u ğat əlqəṭṭus, u klat əlždi, lli šrali baba bzuğ əflus, zuğ əflus
u ğat əlkəlba, u gədmət əlqəṭṭus, lli klat əlždi, lli šrali baba bzuğ əflus, zuğ əflus
u ğat əlʕṣa, u dŭṛbət əlkəlba, lli gədmət əlqəṭṭus, əldi klat əlždi, əlli šrali baba bzuğ əflus
u ğa ʔənnaṛ, u ħṛəq əlləʕṣa, u ddi li ḍəṛbət əlkəlba, u əldi gədmət əlqəṭṭus, u ldi li klat əžždi, li ldi šrali baba bzuğ əflus, zuğ əflus
u ğa ʔəlma, u ṭəffa ʔənnaṛ, əldi ħrəq əlləʕṣa, əlli ḍəṛbət əlkəlba, əlli gədmət əlqəṭṭus, əlli klat əlždi, əldi li šrali baba bzuğ əflus, zuğ əflus
u ğa əṭṭuṛ, u šṛŭb əlma, əlli ṭəffa nnaṛ, əlli ħrəq əlləʕṣa, əldi š ḍəṛbət əlkəlba, əlli gədmət əlqəṭṭus, əlli klat əlždi, əldi šrali baba bzuğ əflus, zuğ əflus
u ğa ʔəddəbbaħ, dəbbəħ əlṭuṛ, əlli šṛŭb əlma, əlli ṭəffa nnaṛ, əlli ħrəq əlʕṣa, əlli ḍəṛbət əlkəlba, əlli gədmət əlqəṭṭus, əlli klat əžždi, əlli šrali baba bzuğ əflus, bzuğ əflus
u ğa milax həmmạvat, u dbaħ əddəbbaħ, əlli dbaħ əttuṛ, əlli šṛəb əlma, əlli ṭəffa nnaṛ, əlli ħrəq əllʕṣa, əlli ḍəṛbət əlkəlba, əlli gədmət əlqəṭṭus, əlli klat əžždi, əlli šrali baba bzuğ əflus
u ğaaaaaaaaa qqaduš baṛux huuuuuuuu u dbaħ milax əmmạvat əlli dbaħ əldəbbaħ ulli dbaħ əttuuṛ ulli šṛəb əlmaaaa ulli ṭəffa nnaaaaaaaaṛ ulli ħrəq əlʕṣaaaaa ulli ḍəṛbət əlkəlbaaa ulli gədmət əlqəṭṭuuuuuus ulli klat əžždiiiii ulli šrali baba bzuğ əflus, zuğ əfluuuuuuuuuus

This recording should in itself be sufficient to dispel any misguided notion that "Judeo-Arabic" was a different language. All of it should be perfectly transparent to any Algerian Arabic speaker except a couple of phrases specific to Jewish culture: ħ̣ad gadya is Aramaic for "one kid goat" (the name of the song), milax həmmạvat is Hebrew for "the Angel of Death" (ملك الموت‍), and qqaduš baṛux hu is Hebrew for "the Holy One, Blessed be He" (referring to God). The word dəbbaħ ("slaughterer"), while obviously Arabic, might also be a religiously specific term for "shohet" (a kosher butcher) rather than the generic term for "butcher" - I'm not sure. Otherwise, every word in the rhyme is etymologically Arabic, although qəṭṭus "cat", zuğ "two", and flus "small coins" are ultimately from Latin or Greek. (Note the complete absence of Berber vocabulary.)

Nevertheless, we do see a few slightly unusual dialectal features. The most striking is the variation between different forms of the relative pronoun: normal əlli coexists with əldi, əddi, hesitant combinations of the two with li, and, oddly enough, ulli, as if this were coordination rather than subordination. The use of əldi, in particular, is reportedly characteristic of Jewish religious registers of Arabic; it looks as though the speaker was in the habit of using əlli in his normal speech, but aimed for əldi in this religious and formulaic context. We also find variation between (eastern) zuz and (central/conservative) zuğ for "two", and assimilation or non-assimilation of the article in əlždi or əžždi "the kid goat", probably a result of the deaffrication of ğīm before d. The loss of interdentals is fairly normal for old urban dialects.

Cardinal points in Northern Songhay

Following a recent message from Mohomodou Houssouba, I was wondering where the names of cardinal points come from across Northern Songhay. The first step towards answering is to realize that "cardinal points" don't seem to be an emic category across Songhay in general. In mainstream Songhay, mostly spoken along the Niger River, the river itself provides a more useful coordinate system: upstream (daŋgey), downstream (dendi), left bank (hawsa), right bank (gurma). The sun provides a useful supplementary axis - east (wayna-hunay, "sunrise") vs. west (wayna-kaŋey, "sunset"). North vs. south, on the other hand, is less significant; these tend to be referred to by the names of countries or regions, rather than using absolute terms. In Niger, for example, Hamadou Soumana Souna gives Azawa (ie Azawagh) for "north"; the Azawagh Valley is indeed north of the Zarma region, but it would be east of Timbuktu or Gao, which accordingly use other expressions.

In the Sahara, the river-based system is naturally of little use. Korandje instead preserves the east-west axis, using the same structure as mainstream Songhay varieties: inə̣w n ṭʕạ-yu "east" ("sunrise"), inə̣w n yạṛaħ-yu "west" ("sunset"). This is not, however, accompanied by any fixed north-south axis; for "north", elicitation sometimes yields bəlhadi, properly "the North Star", but this term is not used to describe locations in the way that "east" and "west" are, and there seems to be no proper equivalent to "south". I'm tempted to suggest that this reflects the oasis' general reluctance to think about its historic southern ties, but in a way it maps on to another, better-established three-direction coordinate system used in Tabelbala. The latter is not perpendicular, and not in my limited experience ever used for describing locations; rather, it relates to the wind directions.

	Korandje winds
ENE	asərqi
NNE	tumiyya
SW	ssaħliyya

As near as I can make it out by comparing a wind rose for Tabelbala's climate, it consists of asərqi "east-northeast wind", tumiyya "north-northeast wind", ssaħliyya "southwest wind". (In an unpublished source, Champault lists a fourth, qʷəbliyya "east wind", which I did not encounter.) Asərqi comes via Berber from the Arabic for "east", šarq; ssaħliyya from sāħil "coast"; qʷəbliyya from qiblah "direction of prayer (towards Mecca)"; but the source of tumiyya is unclear to me. (Suggestions are welcome.)

In the rest of Northern Songhay, spoken in and around the Azawagh Valley - as far as I gather from secondary sources - the relevant vocabulary is largely Tuareg-derived, with no attested Songhay survivals. Tagdal, spoken by the largely nomadic Igdalen, has borrowed the system whole from (Tawellemmet) Tamajeq: "west" is ataram, "east" dinnik, "south" ággaala, "north" támmasna. (Among these, "north" is originally a toponym, "desert".) Tasawaq, spoken in the oasis of In-Gall, differs only in the name for "east": alkubla (from Arabic alqiblah "direction of prayer"). Emghedesie, the extinct variety of the town of Agades, agrees with Tasawaq on "east" and "west", but uses toponyms for "north" and south", respectively air (ie the Air Mountains) and asudán (Arabic as-sūdān "(land of the) Blacks"). (Note, however, that Tayart Tamajeq too uses ayəṛ for "north".) I have no data on Tadaksahak directions for the moment.

	Korandje	Emghedesie	Tasawaq	Tagdal
E	inə̣w n ṭʕạ-yu	elkúbla	alkúbla	dinnik
W	inə̣w n yạṛaħ-yu	atáram	átáram	ataram
N	(bəlhadi)	air	támasna	támmasna
S	-	asúdan	ágala	ággaala

Lemurian Arabic

In the western ports of the continent of Lemuria, on the old trade route to Uqbar and thence to Atlantis, a dialect of Arabic has been spoken since probably the 6th century AD or so. Its longstanding isolation from other Arabic dialects, and its speakers' bilingualism in neighbouring Lemurian languages, has allowed it to develop some rather unusual features. Like all Arabic dialects, it has lost the final short vowels preserved in Classical Arabic; but, unlike any other surviving dialect, it has largely preserved case and mood marking, thanks to extensive final-syllable ablaut.

For example, the noun "book" is conjugated as follows:

	SG	PL
NOM	kitoob	kitaaboot
ACC	kitaab	kitaabeet
GEN	kiteeb	kitaabeet

One thus says royt ilkitaab "I saw the book", sagatʼ ilkitoob "the book fell", deexil ilkiteeb "inside the book". The resulting system is rather reminiscent of Old Irish, among other languages of our own timeline.

Sadly, a full documentation of this fascinating dialect will forever be wanting, due to the difficulty of travelling to fictional destinations and of getting recording equipment to work properly in fantasy universes. However, I trust that the available data is sufficient to establish that phonetic changes such as the loss of final short vowels need not automatically imply the loss of morphological information that the lost phonemes had encoded.

A new Songhay alphabet

In 2019, a new alphabet was invented for Songhay, joining a long list of West African script creation efforts from the 19th century onwards. It may sink without a trace like Garay, or (less probably) it may enjoy a success comparable to that of N'Ko; even in the former case, however, it may be of interest as a case study in script creation. I will therefore summarize what little I know about it below.

According to this page, the script was invented by Ibn Achour Ousmane Touré in 2019, based on livestock marks used by Songhay villages, towns, and regions. He intended it to allow Songhay speakers to write in their own language rather than in French or Arabic, and thus to enable them to continue and progress, following in the footsteps of the Songhay Empire, which he supposes must have had its own writing system at some point. (Songhay is, of course, sometimes written - officially in a Latin-based orthography, unofficially also in Ajami Arabic - but is frequently not thought of as a written language; the primary target of education is literacy in French and/or Arabic, and most locally available printed materials are in one of these languages.) A volunteer committee was set up to promote the script, including the inventor himself, Dr. Imirana Seydou Maiga (secretary), M. Housseiny Ibrahima Maiga (expert advisor), and M. Faissal Kada Maiga (general coordinator and secretary of information). This group seems to use Arabic as their primary language of wider communication, and consists at least in part of Songhay diaspora in the Arab world; the secretary and coordinator seem to have spent time in Saudi Arabia, and the latter is reported to be based in Libya. One might speculate that the script offered them a "third way" to get past the French-Arabic binary.

The alphabet is as follows:

A series of YouTube videos, and posts on Afkaar.Online, clarify the orthography. The writing direction is right to left, and the alphabetic order is obviously inspired in large part by Arabic; there is no capitalization. The diacritics are explained here (titled Hantum maasayan "adding diacritics to writing"):

Vowel length is marked with a macron over the vowel, and vowel nasalization by a tilde (both betraying the influence of a Latin-based transcription); if placed over a consonant rather than a vowel, these respectively indicate that the consonant should be followed by aa or ã. (In this sense, if not in the more usual one, the script has a default vowel a.) In principle, all other vowels are marked plene (though short a occasionally seems to be omitted). Consonant gemination is indicated by a circle over the consonant. The dot under the letter n is dropped when it assimilates to a following consonant (Arabic ikhfā'), a feature inspired by Quranic orthography. (The text above gives an example of final dotless n with a tilde over it at the end of maasayan; this combination is not explained as far as I can see.) Besides this, dots distinguish affricates (dot above) from palatoalveolar sibilants (dot below), and d and g (no dot) from z and ŋ (dot above). The letter for ñ is close to being a graphic hybrid of ŋ and j, appropriately enough.

The system is completed by a set of numerals, using place notation (titled Soŋay-k(a)buyaŋo "Songhay counting"):

Punctuation evidently includes hyphens, used somewhat inconsistently at morpheme boundaries (thus the nominalizing suffix -yan/-yaŋ is not hyphenated in the two previous examples, but is hyphenated in denden-yaŋ "learning"), but fairly consistently in compounds (e.g., in the same post, Soŋay-senni m(a) duuma "may the Songhay language last"). Until examples of longer texts are available, little else can be said about punctuation.

If further data becomes available, I will update this post; if you know of any, comments are welcome! Particular thanks to "Oudi" for indispensable clarifications.

The *Bugzu of Bagzan?

Mt. Băgzăn, at the heart of the predominantly Tuareg-speaking Air massif in Niger, bears a not very Tuareg-looking name. The only Berber meaning for the root BGZ found in Nait-Zerrad is a word used by the neighbouring Iwellemmedan, taken from Alojaly's dictionary: ebăgez, pl. ibəgzan "vessel for dogs or for rubbish"; this corresponds regularly to Tahaggart ebăǵăh, pl. ibəǵhan "crude vase or plate (used for giving dogs their food and for gathering rubbish)", with a feminine tebăǵăht, pl. tibəǵhin "flat, slightly concave instrument used as a dustpan" (Foucauld). Not a root one would want to reconstruct very far back in Berber, nor an obvious source for the name of a mountain.

Hausa provides a surely related form that may shed light on the term's history: the ethnonym būzu < *bugzu (by Klingenheben's Law, as shown by the pl. bugā̀jē) "serf of the Azben [Air] people" (Bargery). The term refers to ex-slaves, iklan, what in Mali would be called Bella. It presumably does not share an etymology with būzu pl. būzā̀yē "undressed skin mat, loin-cloth", with no *g, for which Skinner (1996) gathers plausible cognates elsewhere in Chadic.

Combining the two, we get what looks like a brief glimpse of morphology: the homeland of the *Bugzu is *Bagzan (perhaps their manufactures included crude plates). From a Tuareg perspective, -ăn looks like a masculine plural ending; but the specific vowel alternation would be hard to explain Tuareg-internally, though Tuareg has a-ablaut in other plural types. From a Chadic perspective, one is reminded of the -n plurals of Bade and Ngizim, e.g. Bade zawa-n pl. zawa-n-ən "stick" (Schuh ms), Ngizim gâzbə́r̃ pl. gázbàarín "tall" (Schuh ms, 1972); Ngizim even offers parallels for the vowel alternation, and a-ablaut plurals are widespread in Chadic more generally. The Bade-Ngizim subgroup includes geographically the closest Chadic varieties spoken to the Air besides Hausa, located almost due south of the Air, so it seems a promising point of comparison; could the *Bugzu have spoken a since lost West Chadic B.1 language? But of course, nothing guarantees that Bagzan should be an old plural; perhaps -ăn was a locative suffix, or something else entirely.

I wouldn't be surprised if some early 20th century work proposes this connection, but I haven't come across it in the literature so far; if you have, let me know.

Clitic doubling in Arabia: An update

Back in 2017, I published an article on "Clitic Doubling and Contact in Arabic" (ZAL 66, pp. 45-70), arguing that the various cases of clitic doubling reported across Arabic dialects in different regions - NW Africa, Malta, the Levant, Cyprus, Central Asia, Dhofar - differ in their behaviour, do not share a common origin, and in each case reflect substratum influence. The case of Dhofar turned out to be particularly tricky in that the only available evidence for clitic doubling in local Arabic and in its Modern South Arabian substratum came from the same speaker in each case - Mhammed bin Selim El-Kathiri, a bilingual speaker of Jibbali and Dhofari Arabic who worked with a team of Austrian linguists about a century ago. He used the same clitic doubling construction across both his languages (definite DO/IO/PrepO, no marker); but no such construction appears in more recent work on either language. I tentatively concluded that:

Only further data can determine whether this is a general feature of some particular Dhofari dialect (perhaps the second language dialect of Arabic spoken by Shihri speakers?) or just an unusual feature of El-Kathiri's idiolect. However, if this construction was not simply idiolectal, its origins seem more likely to lie in Jibbali than in Dhofari Arabic, since no parallels have been found in any Arabic dialect of the Arabian Peninsula.

A forthcoming article I recently came across, Pronominalization and Clitic Doubling in Syrian and Omani Arabic, changes the picture for this region. In a paper primarily focused on the generative syntax of clitic doubling rather than on its history, Peter Hallman and Rashid Al-Balushi demonstrate for the first time that the Arabic variety of al-Batinah in the north of Oman has productive clitic doubling, and that its distribution (definite/specific DO/IO/PrepO/Poss, no marker) largely matches El-Kathiri's usage a century earlier. Clitic doubling of this type thus a widespread Omani feature, not a Dhofar-specific one, and certainly not a merely idiolectal one.

Note that the dialect of Al-Batinah, like that of Dhofar, is a dialect with q for historic qāf, representing the earliest stratum of Arabic to reach the region. One hypothesis could be that clitic doubling of this type is a Modern South Arabian (MSA) substratum feature, calqued into the first Arabic varieties to reach Oman but never reaching the g-dialects that first come to mind when one thinks of Arabian dialects. On the other hand, no further evidence has yet come to light for clitic doubling in MSA; based purely on the available data, it seems equally or more plausible that this type of clitic doubling arose spontaneously in Omani Arabic and was calqued into Jibbali by bilinguals such as El-Kathiri. Much more dialectological data is needed to decide the question; available descriptions are evidently far from complete. In either case, independent origin appears far likelier than any kind of historic connection with the rather different types of clitic doubling observed in other parts of the Arabic-speaking world.

Review: "Inventing the Berbers"

I finally got a chance to read Ramzi Rouighi's Inventing the Berbers recently; much food for thought.

The book is primarily the history of a name: how did certain people in North Africa come to be called "Berbers", and how did the reference and connotations of this label change over time? Viewed as such, it has a good deal of useful material. He argues that, rather than being derived directly from Latin or Greek "barbari", the label was transferred from East Africa to Northwest Africa as the Arabs moved west; its original associations would be with slavery rather than with barbarism as such. (Traces of the original usage persist: in Nubia, as I first learned on a trip to Aswan, "Berber" is still understood to mean "Nubian"!) In the early medieval period, it was used primarily for rebels and enemies on the fringes; groups with a closer involvement tended to be referred to by more specific terms. Ibn Khaldun's usage is more complex, reflecting Andalusi practice as it emerged in the context of elite competition between Berber and Arab noble families, but shows clear traces of the older tendency to reserve it for "outsiders" to the ruling elite. The modern European usage of the term comes essentially from Ibn Khaldun as filtered through De Slane's essentialism (which turned Berbers into a "race") and subsequent academic and ideological debates, largely in the context of the French colonization of Algeria.

In the penultimate chapter, however, he lays his cards on the table, presenting the term Amazigh as a mere relabelling of the neo-Khaldunian concept of "Berber", constructed with insidious intent and making an already misleading discourse even more ahistorical:

In the early 1950s, a few specialists proposed to replace “Berber” with “Amazigh,” the name some people in northern Morocco had.... “Amazigh” could not fully conceal its colonial birthmark, however. Its rejection of Arab imperialism of centuries past, its search for an authentic indigenous category, and its reliance on the fruits of colonial historiography, epigraphy, and linguistics to do so are all telltale signs. Calling for name change could have led to the realization of the historicity of all names and from there to the historicity of Berberization. It did not... “Amazigh” (indigeneity) was the parting gift of a dying colonialism to the frail nationalisms it had never accepted. Pulling the rug from under “Algeria” and “Morocco,” which as the colons repeated were new and artificial, “Amazigh” dealt a blow to anticolonial nationalism.

The 2-page discussion of “Amazigh” is unacceptably simplistic, especially after multiple chapters of careful examination of the changing semantics of "Berber". The author would have been better off omitting the term entirely than giving it such a caricatural treatment, massively understating the geographic distribution of the term (not just northern Morocco but as far off as northwestern Libya...); his medieval focus cannot entirely excuse the omission, as this term is (less frequently) attested in the medieval period. A proper examination - and, yes, historicization - would have been all the more valuable given that the term was used as an endonym in many regions long before the emergence of the modern trans-national ideology, whereas "Berber" has not been adopted in ordinary Berber speech anywhere, remaining an exonym, and usually an exclusively learned one at that.

Reading as a linguist, I can appreciate the attention given to semantic shifts and to the arbitrariness not only of the sign but of the signified. But as a historical linguist, it feels rather at cross-purposes to the questions of interest to me. Fundamentally, I don't much care which ethnic label people identify or are identified with: for me, "Berber", like "Arabic", is primarily useful as a linguistic category. And its referent has a history starting far earlier than the earliest attestation of "Berber", "Tamazight", or any other label one might choose to apply to it. It is necessary and appropriate to historicize such labels - to be aware that Masinissa or Dihya or Fatma n'Soumer were not acting in the name of some kind of Amazigh nationalism, and may not even have been familiar with "Amazigh" as a name, let alone as an identity. But how this relatively close-knit language family spread, and retreated, remains a historical question, of interest to archeologists and population geneticists as well as linguists, which an exclusive focus on ethnic labels erases.

It should, however, help to provoke reflection on the appropriate choice of label for this language family. "Berber", neutral though it undoubtedly is in English or French, does have a problematic history; the derivation from "barbarian" may be inaccurate, but this book really underscores the extent to which its usage in Arabic has been overwhelmingly negative and "othering" for most of the region's history. "Amazigh" does not have this problem, but is strongly associated with a projection of shared ethnicity into the past which risks distorting our picture of language spread. In an ideal world, one might prefer a purely geographical label ("Northwest African"?), or, better yet, a purely linguistic one (iles-languages, after the usual word for "tongue"?) In practice, however - here as elsewhere - it seems preferable to live with the occasional misunderstandings caused by the use of a well-known "ethnic" term than to confuse the public with a completely novel one.

A fable written in Korandje

Yesterday, H. Yahiaoui posted what might be the first continuous story written down in Korandje by a 1st-language speaker (translated from a cynical little fable in Arabic): The Donkey, the Lion, and the Tiger. In this text, we clearly see the "consecutive aorist" used after imperatives but not after perfectives: contrast n-as abəqqạ nə-m-t-as "give_imperative him a slap and tell_irrealis him" with a-hh-ana a-tt-asi lit. "he asked_perfective and said to him_perfective". More crucial among this text's points of interest, however, is the placement of spaces. Word boundaries are surprisingly tricky to determine in Korandje. Plenty of elements could be analysed as bound forms or just as free forms with a somewhat restricted syntactic distribution, and it's hard to decide which is which. A text like this provides suggestive (though certainly not conclusive) data on where speakers perceive them. A few generalizations quickly emerge. In the verb word:

• Subject markers are written as prefixes to the verb or MAN marker (2Sg n, 3Sg a, etc.)
• The aspectual auxiliary ba, which turns perfective into perfect and imperfective into progressive, is written as a separate word - but only in contexts where the b is preserved; contrast ənnmər ba bə-kkạ-γ "the tiger is hitting me" with a-(a)-b-kkạ-γəy "he is hitting me".
• Otherwise, mood, aspect, and negation (MAN) markers are written as prefixes to the verb (Neg s, Prosp (b)aʕam, etc.)
• Directionals (ti "hither" are written as suffixes to the verb.
• Object pronouns (2Sg ni, 3Sg ana, etc.) are written as suffixes to the verb.
• Oblique pronouns (2SgDat nisi, 3SgDat asi, etc.) are usually written as suffixes to the verb word, but in one case (kəs γəys "leave to me") as an independent word, plausibly reflecting its less closely bound status.

In the noun phrase:

• Genitive n is written as a prefix to the head noun.
• Possessive pronouns are written as prefixes to the head noun (1Sg ʕan, etc.)
• The indefinite article (or numeral) fu "a, one" is written as a suffix to the noun it quantifies.
• "Other" (fyạṭən), despite historically containing "one", is written as a separate word.
• Demonstratives are written as suffixes to the noun phrase (γu "this", etc.)
• Dative si and locative ka are written as suffixes to their objects.
• The focus marker a is written as a suffix to its noun phrase.
• The identificational copula (aγu "this is", etc.) is written as an independent word, despite historically incorporating the focus marker.

Pending more data, the following cases seem sui generis:

• səndza-n-a (Neg.Cop-2Sg-Foc) "it's not you who..."
• mu-kunna-ni (what.Rhet-find-2Sg) "what's wrong with you?"
• ku-xəd (each-when) "whenever"

For those who can't read the original, here's a transcription of the fable:

1. Fəṛka a-ddər izmmi-s a-yzʕəf a-hh-ana, a-tt-asi: "Maγạ səndza-n-a lγabət n-uγ bya?"
2. Izmmi a-tt-asi: "Iyyah… mu-kunna-ni, tuγ ba yzra?"
3. Fəṛka a-tt-asi: "Nnmər ba bə-kkạ-γ ʕam-mu-ka ku-xəd a-ggwa-γəy, a-m-ti 'Maγạ nə-ss-aʕam-ḍəb taššəyt?', maγạ a-(a)-b-kkạ-γəy kʷəl ana?? Aha tuγa taššəyt-γ ʕamḍəb kʷəl aγəy?"
4. Izəmmi attasi: "Kəs γəys ləxbạ-γu, nə-s-bə-zzu lhəmm haya."
5. Aywa ləxʷəddzi(d) izəmmi a-kbʷəy ənnmər a-hh-ana "Tuγ-a taššəyt-γ n-ləxbạ?"
6. Nnmər a-tt-asi: "ʕa-b-talla γar əssəbbət ndzuγ ʕa-b-kkạṛ-ana wəxḷaṣ.."
7. Izəmmi a-t ənnmər-si: "Təlla ssəbbət fyạṭən-ka, a-a-ybən… T-as a-m-zu-t-nis əttəffaħ-fu ndzuγ, ndza a-zzu-t-a-nis yạṛạ, n-as abəqqạ nə-m-t-as 'Maγạ nə-ss-aʕam-zu-t-ana tirəy?' Ndza a-zzu-t-a-nis tirəy, n-as abəqqạ nə-m-t-as 'Maγạ nə-ss-aʕam-zu-t-ana yạṛạ?'"
8. Nnmər a-žžawb-ana a-tt-asi "Lfikrət-f hannu aγu."
9. Am-bibya ənnmər a-kbʷəy fəṛka a-tt-asi: "Zu-t-γis əttəffaħ-fu."
10. Fəṛka a-nnəg-aka mliħ a-hh-ana a-tt-asi "Waš ʕa-m-zu-t-ana tirəy wəlla yạṛạ???"
11. Nnmər a-ttəmtəm an-nin n-tiri a-tti "Tirəy yạṛạ…"
12. A-ħħərrəm an-kambi ạ-kkạ fəṛka ndza abqa-fu, a-tt-as "Maγạ nə-ss-aʕam-ḍəb taššəyt???"
13. *** Uγ ba b-iḍləm a-ss-a-bə-ttəlla əssəbbət ndzuγ a-b-yəḍləm.

In English:

1. The donkey went to the lion angry and asked him: "Hey, aren't you the chief of the forest?"
2. The lion told him "Yes... what's wrong with you, what has happened?"
3. The donkey told him "The tiger is hitting me on my face every time he sees me, saying 'Why won't you wear a cap?' Why is he hitting me?? And what cap would I wear anyhow?"
4. The lion told him "Leave this affair to me, don't worry about it at all."
5. So when the lion met the tiger, he asked him "What's the issue of this cap?"
6. The tiger told him "I'm just looking for an excuse to hit him, that's all."
7. The lion told the tiger: "Look for another excuse, it's (too) obvious... Tell him to bring you an apple so that, if he brings it to you yellow, give him a slap and tell him 'Why won't you bring it red?' If he brings it to you red, give him a slap and tell him 'Why won't you bring it yellow?'"
8. The tiger replied "This is a good idea".
9. The next day the tiger met the donkey and told him "Bring me an apple."
10. The donkey looked hard at him and asked him "Should I bring it red or yellow?"
11. The tiger mumbled under his breath "Red, yellow..."
12. He lifted up his hand and slapped the donkey and said "Why won't you wear a cap?"
13. *** An oppressor doesn't need an excuse to oppress.

Nəskibən: "You don't appear any more"

"Nə-s-k-ibən" (2SG-NEG-anymore-appear) "You don't appear any more!"

I heard this sentence several times during my fieldwork in the Saharan oasis of Tabelbala. Parsing it was easy enough, but making sense of it took more flexibility: at first I thought I must have misheard. I've never heard anyone in England or America or France say anything like "You don't appear any more!"; yet there it turned out to be a stock phrase.

It makes sense once you unpack the presuppositions. A man should appear in public regularly - in town, at the market, at the mosque, en route to other places. But, in that slow-paced small town, doing so is an act of socializing, not just a stage in an errand: you don't just pass someone you know by without at least stopping a minute to say hi and share news. Not appearing in public for some time is an event noteworthy in itself, and people can and will criticize you for it if you don't have a valid excuse like illness.

That's not really how it works in Paris or London. You might be obliged to "appear" at your office, but not for strictly social reasons. They might notice your absence at your regular pub or your clubhouse or something, but certainly not on the street. Even in such cities, though, we normally spend much of our day before the gaze of others - if not exchanging greetings and gossip, at least seeing and being seen.

But now things have changed. On Facebook, a friend in Tabelbala recently made a post to urge social distancing, translating the message "Stay at home!" into Korandje: gwạ nən gạ ka! The first response was chaffing from a more frivolous friend, telling him that he's been social distancing so much that "nə-s-k-ibən"!

I imagine the lockdown in Tabelbala is less rigidly enforced than it could be - surrounded by 100 km or more of empty desert in every direction, it is impressively isolated without it. But otherwise, we're all in the same boat now: we don't appear any more. Except online.

What kind of expectations and presuppositions will that create, over weeks that may stretch into months? When we all emerge from our hideouts, will we find it worthy of comment if people don't appear in their usual social media sites or chat forums?

W-deletion in Arabic

In Arabic, triliteral verbs starting with w- often drop the w- in the imperfect ("present"), and in a few related forms like the verbal noun: وجد wajada "he found" vs. يجد yajidu "he finds", وزن wazana "he weighed" vs. يزن yazinu "he weighs"... But not always: contrast وسن wasina "he fell asleep" vs. يوسن yawsanu "he falls asleep", وجز wajuza "it was brief" vs. يوجز yawjuzu "it becomes brief". Going through a dictionary, it becomes obvious that the primary determining factor is the vowel: verbs with an imperfect in -i- drop the w, while others keep it. (Proviso: verbs which originally had -i- turn it into -a- if the third consonant is "guttural", ie pharyngeal or glottal: thus وقع waqa3a "it happened" vs. يقع yaqa3u "it happens" from *yaqi3u, contrasting with وجع waja3a "it hurt" vs. يوجع yawja3u "it hurts" with original -a-.)

Empirically, this seems to work fine. But it doesn't make sense to me historically. Why should an i in the second syllable correlate with the absence of a w in the first syllable? Any ideas how such a sound change could plausibly have taken place?

Unifying Mubi -oo- plurals

NB: Sorry, no tone marking today – might throw it in later.

We’ve seen two productive plural allomorphs characterized by round vowels: BVCV > BuCooC vs. BVVCV [-front] > BooCuC. Let’s see where -oo- shows up in the plurals of longer nouns.

Nouns of the form BVCVD(V) [-front] tend to take a plural in BuCooDu (the reduplicative plural horoɗyo > horoɗyuc, discussed last time, seems to be isolated):

• jorol “fox” > juroolu
• ɗoloso “lynx” > ɗuloosu
• kabada “red fig” > kuboodu
• jubugo “arrow” > juboogu
• wasaga “thread” > wusoogu

In two cases, a suffix -k is added, with what seems to be dissimilation of *-guk > -yuk:

• fidak “mat” > fudooyuk
• cagada “hut” > cugooduk

Formally, despite the shape and the front vowel (which may lead us to rethink the conditioning), the following cases fit this pattern as well:

• kurri “chicken” (assimilated from *kurɗi) > kurooɗuk
• urde “granary” > urooduk

In another two cases, both ending in -k, the expected final vowel is omitted:

• tamak “sheep” > tumook
• koɗogo “toe-ring” > kuɗook

And, as we saw last time, in one case the final consonant is irregularly reduplicated:

• bodol “road” > budoolul

If a long vowel is present and this plural type is used, vowel length is normally preserved; thus BVCVVDV yields BuCooDu – sometimes, as above, the final vowel is omitted to end in -k:

• ɗyubaago “blind” > ɗyuboogu
• sinyaaro “cat” > sinyooru (the i in the first syllable is probably caused by the following palatal)
• duwaago “dorcas gazelle” > duwok (with unexpected shortening of the last vowel)

but BVVCVDV yields BooCuD(u):

• gaayimo “wildcat” > gooyumu
• kaarumo “fingernail” > koorum

On the other hand, we also find the variant plural gaayimo > guyoomu, suggesting that BuCooDu is starting to be generalized.

What about longer nouns? In those, frontness is irrelevant...

A nasal followed by a voiced stop (except in the Arabic borrowing (a)ngumbul "calabash" > (a)ngunoobul) behaves like vowel length, so BVNDVF(V) > Bo(o)CDuF:

• tengil “calf” > tongul
• minjilo “Mubi person” > monjul
• humbuk “hedgehog” > hoombuk

In the few relevant examples available, BVCVDFV(GV) > BuCoDFu(G), whether D is nasal or not:

• gomorko “basket” > gumorku
• suwangot “Arab” > suwongu
• aranjala “kidney” > uronjul

Otherwise, four-consonant nouns BVCDVF(V), BVCV(V)DVF(V) overwhelmingly (15 out of 24 examples) map to BuCooDuF:

• ɗurgul “donkey” > ɗuroogul
• kalman “in-law” > kuloomun
• sunsuna “tale” > sunoosun
• kasagar “sword” > kusoogur
• kodoguno “sorcerer” > kudoogun
• giraakumo “molar” > gurookum

Now we can finally start to put things together: all of these seem to be mapping to subsets of a notional template CuCo(o/C)CuCu, in a predictable fashion.

If the first syllable is long or includes the first half of a prenasalized stop, you drop the initial Cu:

BVVC >	Cu[BooCuC]u
BVVCV >	Cu[BooCuC]u
BVVCVD(V) >	Cu[BooCuDu]
BVNDVF(V) >	Cu[BoCDuF]u

If the first syllable is open and the second one is closed, you get oC instead of oo:

BVCVDFV >	[BuCoDFu]Cu
BVCVDFVG >	[BuCoDFuG]u

Otherwise, you just proceed from left to right, always respecting the requirement that the output have at least 2 syllables:

BVCV >	[BuCooC]uCu
BVCDV >	[BuCooDuk]u
BVCVC(V) >	[BuCooDu]Cu
BVCVVD(V) >	[BuCooDu]Cu
BVCDVF(V) >	[BuCooDuF]u
BVCV(V)DVF(V) >	[BuCooDuF]u

So we’re starting to get somewhere. But this opens up a new can of worms: do some geminate-internal plurals belong here too? And where do those BaaCaC plurals fit into the system now? Those questions will have to wait for another time.

Reduplicative plurals in Mubi

Yesterday we saw that the dominant plural type for CVC / CVVCV stems, CVVDvD, can be given a unified analysis. How does this generalize to other stem types?

Plurals with final reduplication, dominant for CVC / CVVCV stems, are much less common for other stem shapes. For CV(C)CV stems, however, we do find a reasonable number of reduplicative plurals, this time in -o(o)C:

• sùwá "calabash" > sùwòw
• tògò "skin" > tùgók
• rìwwí "song" > rèwòw
• màbò "old" > mùbóop
• cóɓɓì "lance" > cúɓóop
• lánjá "friend" > lúnjóoc

(There is also one reduplicative plural in -eC - kúrɗyí "buttock" > kòrɗyèc - which seems difficult to reduce to the same pattern. It suggests that height harmony may apply to short vowels too, in which case we might blame sùwòw above on the influence of the semivowel.)

In Mubi, final VVC seems to be rare in simplex words. In monosyllables, it occurs only in loans, while elsewhere, it mainly shows up in imperfectives (cf. Jungraithmayr 2013:31). We may very tentatively suppose that in some common plurals it has been reduced to VC. Reduction of vowel length in final VVC also allows us to revise our analysis from yesterday to take into account bàŋ "mouth" > bòŋúŋ; a surface CVC stem may be underlying *CVC or *CVVC, and the vowel length in the plural reflects that rather than changing the stem.

Apart from the issue of vowel length, the rules outlined so far would yield the following (or, if we assumed that height harmony applies to short vowels too, the forms in brackets):

• sùwòw (*sòwòw)
• *tògók
• *rìwwòw (*rèwwòw)
• *màbóop (*mòbóop)
• *cóɓɓóop
• *lánjóoc (*lónjóoc)

A rule spreading roundness along the lines of a,o > u / _Coo seems feasible, judging by the lexicon, and fixes some of the problems above (not sure what's going on with "song"):

• sùwòw
• *tògók
• *rìwwòw
• mùbóop
• *cùɓɓóop
• lúnjóoc

But that can't be the whole story here. If bòdòl (see below) is a possible word, then so is *tògók; and there's no general ban on geminates in these positions, cp. wíccáak "to jump about while dancing (impf.)". Instead, there seems to be a templatic element here, whereby the vowel before the plural o/oo has been generalized to be u irrespective of the input, and the consonant before it must not be geminate. Insofar as these involve fixed vowels inside the stem, that strengthens the case for a comparable analysis of the previous data, which is feasible for CooDuD plurals. Integrating the -oC plurals seen above, we can thus reformulate the reduplicative plural as follows:

sg. BV(C/D)DV => pl. Bu(C)DooD (with sporadic reduction to -oD)
sg. BVVD(v) [-front] => pl. BooDuD
sg. BVVD(v) [+front] => pl. BVVDaD

Note that the internal vowel lengths and positions of the singular are preserved in the plural in all three of these; only stem-final vowels are affected.

For other stem shapes, reduplicative plurals seem to be sporadic, mostly involving words whose last consonant is a liquid. I can only find 3 clear instances of -uC in Jungraithmayr's lexicon for them, and 1 of -aC:

• bòdòl "road" > bùdòolúl
• kòròojó "small calabash" > kòròojúc
• ɗíngírí "branch" > ɗìngéerúr
• gúrlí "testicle" > gòrlàl

Once again, the internal vowel positions of the singular are preserved in the plural, if not necessarily the lengths. However, the predictions of our previous hypothesis are thus slightly off in two cases; we would have expected:

• *bòdòolúl
• kòròojúc
• *ɗìngéerár (or, if we force a -uD plural despite the front vowels, *ɗìngúurúr)
• gòrlàl

For ɗìngéerúr, no explanation for the -uC comes to mind; it is tempting to hope that this one is a typo. For bùdòolúl, however, a templatic explanation for the irregularity is at hand: CuCooCuC is, as we will hopefully see in a later post, the dominant plural template in Mubi for four-consonant nouns, which behave rather differently from what we've seen so far.

Now we've covered final reduplication plurals (glossing over a couple of irregulars, notably gìn "face" > gèenín / gànàn). This leads on naturally into another set of plurals, likewise featuring long vowels but without reduplication; if everything goes well, we can look at those next time.

Pluralizing Mubi biradical nouns

(Attention conservation notice: Kind of technical...)
NB: Updated with important corrections shortly after posting, following discussion with Marijn van Putten.

To better understand the Mubi plural system (following up on last time), let's start with two-consonant nouns of the form CVVCV and CVC (not CVCV, which has different default plural templates). Most of these take a CVVDvD plural with reduplication of the final consonant, with the vowels accounted for by the following correspondences:

• CeeDi > CaaDaD, e.g. gèébí "horn" > gàabàp (final consonants automatically devoice)
• CiiDi > CeeDaD, e.g. lìísí "tongue" > lèesàs
• CooDi, CuuDi, CuD > CooDaD, e.g. fùúdí "thigh" > fòodàt
• CooDo > either CooDaD or CooDuD, e.g. góoró "throat" > gòoràr; zòoró "tributary river" > zòorúr
• CaD, CaaD, CeD, CoD, CaaDo > CooDuD, e.g. fáaɓó "breast" > fòoɓúp

(No such nouns end in -a, -e, or -u.)

There seem to be no instances in the lexicon of *iiCa or *uuCa (the only case of iiCaa is in an Arabic loanword); nor are there cases of *aaCi or *aaCu, except in manifest loans like áarìt pl. àwáarìt "devil" (Arabic ʕifriit), with the odd exceptions of gíráakúmò "molar" and káarúmo "fingernail". We may thus assume that there is backwards spread of height from the short vowel to the long vowel preceding it. The latter may be mid but must not be the opposite height to the short one, with conflicts resolved by changing to mid and harmonising for frontness and roundness:

• ii > ee / _a
• uu > oo / _a
• aa > ee / _i
• aa > oo / _u

Generalizing the latter point, it also looks like roundness spreads backwards to a long vowel in a preceding syllable, i.e.:

• ee > oo / _o, u
• ii > uu / _o, u

On a quick glance through the lexicon, the only exceptions I can see to this are vocalised semivowels as in hàaɗáw, pf. héeɗû "knead". This allows us to reinterpret CeeDi above as /CaaDi/, and CooDo as either /CeeDo/ or /CooDo/. We thus get a nice distribution of allomorphs: -aD if the singular contains an underlying front vowel, -uD if not:

• *CaaDi > CaaDaD
• CiiDi > *CiiDaD
• CooDi > CooDaD
• CuuDi, CuD > *CuuDaD
• *CeeDo > CooDaD
• CooDo, CoD > CooDuD
• CaD, CaaD, CaaDo > *CaaDuD
• CeD > *CeeDuD

Now we can almost rewrite the rule rather simply to unite all these cases:

sg. CVD, CVVDv [+front] => pl. CVVDaD
sg. CVD, CVVDv [-front] => pl. CVVDuD

The problem with this reformulation is that CooDo < *CeeDo nouns take a plural in CooDaD, not *CeeDaD. Perhaps this is best understood as an effect of the deleted final vowel: the delinked /o/ relinks to the previous vowel. But if so, this only applies for rounding, not for fronting...

This information, missing from the published grammar, gives us some of the necessary background to understand where those pesky CuCooDuC plurals might come from... But that's a story that still needs work, to be continued later perhaps.

Mubi plurals from Arabic

Mubi, an East Chadic language spoken in the Guera Mountains of eastern Chad, stands out even in Chadic for the sheer complexity of its plural system, and all the more so for its extensive use of internal vowel changes. This seems likely to give it particular relevance for the reconstruction of Afroasiatic. However, Mubi is also profoundly influenced by Chadian Arabic, to a greater degree than even an Arabic-speaker might suppose at first sight. How much of Mubi's plural system reflects Arabic influence?

Looking through Jungraithmayr's (2013) La Langue Mubi^review, I find 14 plurals of the form BaCaaDi(i)F (e.g. àbàlány "patas monkey", pl. àbàalîny) and 5 of the form BaCaaDo/u (e.g. móngò "monkey sp." > mánáagò). Of these, 9 and 4 respectively are found in Jullien de Pommerol's (1999) Dictionnaire arabe tchadien-français (including, to my surprise, both the previous examples), and many of the remainder seem semantically likely to be features of some more localized Arabic variety (e.g. mánjàk "village chief" pl. mànáajìk, various ethnonyms). It seems rather clear that these two plural types are borrowed from Arabic; but there is no strong evidence that they have been extended to inherited vocabulary.

For the closely related plural form BaCaaDiFe, we find 3 examples, of which only one is definitely of Arabic origin: shàddáarì "shaman" (i.e. "herbalist", based on Chadian Arabic šadar < šajar), pl. shàdáadìrè. Suffixation of -e is not otherwise typical of Mubi plurals, and matches perfectly with the Arabic plural in BaCāDiF-ah; it thus seems reasonable to consider this plural type as a borrowing from Arabic as well. If so, it provides us with one good candidate for an extension to inherited vocabulary. Mubi érìny "scorpion", pl. àráarínyè is comparable to other East Chadic forms in its singular, eg Dangaleat ɛ́rîndílɛ̀ pl. ɛ́ríndílnà, Toram irindeeɗà pl. irindeɗ, Kajakse ʔàràari pl. ʔàràaràk (Fedry 1971, Alio 2004), but disagrees strikingly with them in its plural.

At first sight, one is tempted to go further and conclude that the plural types BuCooDuF and BiCeeDiF are also adaptations of the Arabic iambic plural. But the evidence in those cases is not so clearcut. BiCeeDiF is only attested for a single word with no Arabic counterpart that I've been able to find (dólgúm "a type of basket", pl. díléegìm.) BuCooDuF is far more frequent than BaCaaDi(i)F and seems to contain a much greater proportion of inherited vocabulary, although some Chadian Arabic loans are found as well (e.g. àngúmbùl "calabash", pl. àngùnóobùl, corresponding to Chadian Arabic amgunbul pl. amganâbil). Moreover, it can plausibly be unified with another plural schema with no possible Arabic counterpart, BuCoDFuG, e.g. áránjálà "kidney", pl. ùrònjúl. For the time being, it seems prudent to withhold judgement on the explanation for why these two plural types are so strikingly reminiscent of the Arabic iambic plural.

Other Arabic plurals borrowed only for the corresponding Arabic nouns include BuCuuD (e.g. tês "billy-goat", pl. túyúùs), BiCiDaan (e.g. jédì "dorcas fawn", pl. jídíyáàn), and the sound masculine plural suffix -iin (e.g. máanì "strong", pl. màanìʔíìn). In the case of the sound feminine plural suffix -a(a)t, only two of the four examples in Jungraithmayr are clearly of Arabic origin (àntàháarà "mantis", pl. àntàhàarât; ràbàʔíyè "young woman", pl. ràbàʔìyáàt.) The other two look suggestively Arabic, however (ìrèedíyè "small granary", pl. ìrèedìyât; ròomìyè "crushing-stone", pl. ròomìyáàt), and this plural type too probably consists entirely of Arabic loans.

So far, it looks like in Mubi, as in Berber, Arabic influence has had the effect of further complicating an already very complex plural system. But Mubi is spoken in a far more multilingual context than most Berber varieties; one wonders whether some of the complexity here might be due to contact with regional languages other than Arabic as well...

Animal speech in the Songhay world: from orality to manuscript

Whether animals can talk is, above all, a question of definition. There are obviously important differences between human language and animal vocalizations; modern linguists and biologists find it useful to emphasise these by reserving words like "talk" for humans. There are, however, also important similarities which can be used to justify a common term for both - above all the fact that both often seem to be used for communication.

In traditional Songhay discourse, as in many other places, it's perfectly reasonable to say that animals talk. A "Kaado" text by Adama Seydou, recorded at the heart of the Songhay world in northwestern Niger near Dolbel by Ducroz and Charles (1982:55), expresses this attitude concisely:

Dábbèy, ì gó ǹd ŋ̀gêy wón héenó kâŋ ì ǵ té, kâŋ sénní nô, sénníyóŋ mó nô kâŋ, mán t́ bórà kúl nàŋ ǵ má r à. Amá bòryóŋ gò nô kâŋ ǵ nê, ŋ̀gêy ǵ má, wó kâŋ círôw fìláanà gó k̀ nê, wàl wó kâŋ háw fíláan gó k̀ hẽ́ k̀ nê, wàl wó kâŋ bèrì fìláanà, à gó k̀ hẽ́ k̀ nê.
Animals, they have their own cries that they do, which are speech/language; those too are speech/language, which no one can understand. But some people say they understand, what a certain bird is saying, or what a certain cow is saying with its cry, or what a certain horse is saying with its cry.

Some years ago in Tabelbala, the northernmost (Korandje) Songhay-speaking settlement, I recorded a similar attitude towards animal vocalizations, by Mr. Mohamed Larbi Ayachi (tabelbala2010-1-035). After he explained the idea, implicit in animal tales across North Africa, that long ago all the animals used to talk, I asked him why that stopped; he replied:

Aṛṛə̣yyəd, ala wạlu. Ala əytsa lħəywan ba təndzi abdzyəy. Lħəywan. Mħal išənyu, mħal ə ɣuna. Išənyu ndza nbạṛṛaḅḅạna gạka, uɣudz abnnas nɣayu, gundz ə iššəmm an ərriħəts amgẉa anna tsiwktsyu, maʕ maʕ. Itsa abdzyəy.
Did it stop? No, no way. No; look, animals still talk. Animals. Like goats, like uh whatsit. Goats, if you've raised them in the house, the one who gives them food, when they smell his smell they start crying out, maa! maa! So they talk!

How did the precolonial spread of literacy combine with these attitudes? An unpublished Arabic manuscript recently posted by Endangered Libraries In Timbuktu - Kitāb fīhi Kalām al-Bahā’im wa al-Ṭuyūr [A Book Containing the Speech of the Animals and the Birds] (from the Essayouti Library, early 19th c.) - strikingly mirrors Adama Seydou's discourse above, while integrating a specifically religious spin. This apocryphal text, probably composed locally to judge by the occasional gender agreement errors, portrays ten Jewish religious scholars challenging the Caliph Umar with a bunch of difficult questions, including:

وأخبرنا عن الفرس وما يقول في صهيله وعن الإبل وما يقول في رخائه وعن البقر وما يقول في نهاره وعن الحمار وما يقول في نهاقه وعن الريح وما يقول في هبوبه وعن العصفور ما يقول في صرصرته وعن الشاة وما يقول في صياحها وعن الكلب وما يقول في نباحه وعن الثعلب وما يقول في ترنيه

"Tell us about the horse and what it says in its neighing, and the camel and what it says in its grunting, and the cow and what it says in its mooing, and the donkey and what it says in its braying, and the wind and what it says in in its blowing, and the sparrow and what it says in its chirping, and the sheep and what it says in its bleating, and the dog and what it says in its barking, and the fox and what it says in its crying..."

Umar forwards the questions to (his future successor) Ali ibn Abi Talib, who replies:

وأما كلام البهائم والطيور فإن الفرس يقول في صهيله اللهم اغفر للمؤمنين واحزن الكافرين واما الابل فانه يقول يا رب كيف يستطيع السكوت من يفهم القنوت واما البقر فإنها تقول يا غافل انت في شاغل يا غافل انت عن القريب راحل يا غافل ما حدثت ما انت فاعل واما الشاة فانها تقول يا موت ما افجاك يا موت ما انشاك يا ××× ما اغفلك واما الحمار فانه يقول اللهم لعن المكا××××××××× الكلب فانه يقول اللهم اني محروم وانت الرحمن ××××××××× واما الثعلب فانه يقول يا رب ا...

As for the speech of animals and birds: The horse says in his neighing "O God, forgive the believers (al-muʔminīn) and sadden the disbelievers (al-kāfirīn)". The camel says "Lord, how can one remain silent (sukūt) who understands supplication (qunūt)?". The cow says "Neglectful one (yā ġāfil), you are in distraction (šāġil); neglectful one (yā ġāfil), you are soon to depart (rāħil); neglectful one (yā ġāfil), what have you made new and what are you doing (fāʕil)?" The sheep says "O Death, how surprising you are (mā ʔafjaʔak); O Death, how established you are (mā ʔanšaʔak); [...], how neglectful you are (mā ʔaġfalak)!" The donkey says "O God, curse the [...]". The dog says "O God, I am deprived (maħrūm), and you are the merci[...]". The fox says "Lord, [...]".

In form, these loosely reflect the actual sounds of the animals: each of the phrases attributed to the animals have a rhyme in Arabic that recalls the animal's stereotypical sound (the horse in -īn, the camel in -ūt, the sheep in -aʔak/-alak.) In meaning, on the other hand, they reflect not any actual intentions that the animals might reasonably be seen to have, but rather their species' role within human society: horses used for war, sheep bred to be killed, dogs relegated to a lowly position.

The real purpose of this invention is obviously devotional and mnemonic: it creates a memorable association between an animal's cry and a sort of mini-sermon, ideally making every animal's cry trigger dhikr (remembrance of God) in its human readers.

On the surface, this text not only admits the possibility of animals speaking but gives it a stamp of religious authority. Yet the specific interpretations it gives make it impossible to read such speech as contextually relevant in any specific here and now, or as relating in any way to the animal's desires or circumstances. The animals are not so much being anthropomorphized as being "angelized" - turned into messengers of an abstract cause, like Smokey the Bear. In fact, the pretense of translating the language of animals here, as so often around the world, actually deprives them of the voice that less "sophisticated" approaches like Adama Seydou's acknowledge.

The ideal people to ask about this topic, in some respects, are neither farmers nor scholars, but hunters and herdsmen (not that those categories are mutually exclusive!) Unfortunately, I'm not aware offhand of any work on Songhay-speaking hunters' attitude to animal communication; it would make a very interesting counterpoint to statements like these.

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This little foray into linguistic anthropology was partly inspired by discussions with James Costa. My thanks to him, to Mohamed Larbi Ayachi, and to the ELIT team.

Kabyle-Arabic phraseological convergence

Kabyle Berber and (especially north-central) Algerian Arabic show the marks of massive convergence, often reflected in the use of phraseology that translates literally with identical meaning. A nice example I came across recently (p. 186, Poèmes kabyles anciens, Mammeri 1980/2009) is the following sentence:

Ur as zmireɣ, ur iffiɣ felli.
NEG 3SG.DAT be.able.NEG.PFV-1SG, NEG 3MSG-go.out.NEG.PFV on-1SG
Literally:
I can't handle it, it doesn't suit me.

This translates perfectly into (north-central) Algerian Arabic:

ما قدرتلو، ما خرج عليّا.
Ma qdertlu, ma xrej 3liyya.
NEG be.able.PFV-1SG-3SG.DAT, NEG 3MSG-go.out.PFV on-1SG
Literally: I can't to it, it doesn't go out on me.
I can't handle it, it doesn't suit me.

In languages further removed from the area, however, a literal translation would be comically nonsensical:

• EN: *I can't to it, it doesn't go out on me.
• FR: *Je ne lui peux, il ne sort pas sur moi.

Another case was highlighted on Twitter by Noureddine Chikh: the use in both languages of "where do I know?" for "how would I know?" The latter proved to have some near-parallels elsewhere (with "Whence do I know?"), but no perfect ones were reported. How about this one? Can you think of any other idiomatic phrases that translate literally across the two languages?

Scattered etymological notes

I'm posting these mostly so I don't forget them...

Algerian Arabic jəḥmum جحموم "blackbird", and its Kabyle counterpart ajeḥmum, derive from Classical Arabic yaḥmūm يحموم "soot-black". This otherwise very irregular change y- > j- is perfectly paralleled in another animal name of the form yaCCūC: jəṛbuʕ جربوع "jerboa" from yarbūʕ يربوع. Could this be the regular outcome of this particular template? We need to check if any other yaCCūC animal names have survived.

The Korandje word for "vulva", imən, looks phonologically like an obvious match for Berber iman "soul, self". However, I could never see any sufficiently clear connection between the two semantically. The missing link is provided by Colin's (1918:118) description of the Moroccan Arabic dialect of Taza: there, rōḥ is glossed as a euphemistic term for "vulve de la jument ou de la vache". Is this attested in Berber itself anywhere, I wonder?

Another Korandje word, tasənɣəyt, refers to a type of rock; after Paleolithic discoveries near Tabelbala, paleoarcheologists ended up giving its name to an Acheulian cleaver type, the "Tachenghit" cleaver. This seems to match Jijel Arabic ašənɣud "pierre lisse (pour broyer)" (Marçais 1954:333), although Hassaniya Arabic may offer a more direct point of comparison. I don't remember seeing this in any Berber dictionary so far; is that attested?