African languages are not just tools of communication. They are memories. They are identities. They are the scaffolding of culture itself. And yet, as the world charges deeper into the digital age, these voices are being drowned out. On the platforms that define 21st-century life—social media, mobile apps, digital assistants, AI tools—the overwhelming majority of African languages are simply absent. Not because they are less worthy, less expressive, or less intelligent. But because they’ve been historically excluded from the technologies shaping the global future.

Think about this: in 2025, you can ask Siri for the weather in Italian, Mandarin, or Swedish. But not in Hausa, one of Africa’s most spoken languages with over 100 million speakers. You can navigate Google Maps in Danish but not in Lingala.

And it’s not because African languages are “hard” or “too complicated”, those are myths. It’s because the systems that determine what gets built, what gets funded, and what gets scaled often don’t include Africa in their calculations. So people adjust. They code-switch. They rely on colonial languages like English, French, and Portuguese to interact with tools meant to make life easier. But this is not neutrality, it’s erasure. And if we don’t name that, we can’t change it.

The State of African Languages

Much of the challenge comes down to data. For a language to be supported by AI systems, it needs a certain amount of structured datatexts, audio recordings, translations, and grammar rules. These are the raw ingredients that feed machine learning. But the vast majority of African languages are classified as low-resource. They don’t have the digital materials that English or Chinese benefit from. Some barely have formal dictionaries. Others, like many Bantu languages, are rooted in oral storytelling traditions that were never codified. That doesn’t make them any less complex or rich, it just means they weren’t documented through systems that technology understands.

But here’s the deeper tension. When a language doesn’t show up online, it doesn’t just fall through the cracks, it begins to vanish. Not literally, at first. People still speak it at home, on the street, at weddings and funerals. But over time, as the internet becomes the dominant space for information, learning, and expression, what isn’t online might as well not exist. If you can’t Google a health question in your language, if your grandmother’s proverbs can’t be turned into captions, if your local dialect isn’t supported by speech-to-text, how long before your language becomes irrelevant to younger generations growing up entirely digital?

And then there’s the issue of dialects. African languages don’t sit neatly in boxes. Wolof in Senegal isn’t exactly Wolof in The Gambia. Fulani is spoken in over 20 countries, with dialects that vary so much they can sound like different languages. When tech companies choose to “support” a language, they often pick a dominant variant and call it a day. But what happens to the smaller dialects? Who decides which voice is the “official” one? Is it always the voice of the capital city? The voice of the elite?

The act of standardizing a language for technology is deeply political. It elevates one way of speaking as legitimate, while others are left out. And the painful irony is that this often mirrors the same hierarchies that colonial systems created, privileging one group while sidelining the rest. It becomes digital colonialism in new clothing. Who gets to speak and be understood? Whose grammar matters? Whose spelling is “correct”?

Many tech companies will argue that it’s simply a matter of scale. Localization is expensive. It takes money to train language models, to hire linguists, and to build tools for smaller user bases. The returns on investments aren’t immediate. So they focus on the languages with the biggest markets, the easiest data. But that logic, while rational from a corporate perspective, is damaging on a global scale, because it means the most digitally vulnerable communities are always the last to be served. If technology is the new literacy, then millions of people are being locked out of the library.

Initiatives that Amplify African languages

Thankfully, change is beginning. Grassroots efforts are taking the lead where global platforms have failed. The Masakhane project, for instance, is a decentralized community of African researchers building machine translation systems for African languages. They’re not waiting for Silicon Valley to catch up. They’re building their own future from the ground up, in their own languages, on their own terms. It’s collaborative, transparent, and most importantly, accountable to the people who actually speak the languages.

Again, Kingura, an innovative e-learning platform dedicated to empowering individuals and strengthening communities across Africa by providing high-quality educational content in native African languages, starting with Kinyarwanda, deserves to be mentioned. The platform was built in the Kinyarwanda language and offers a diverse range of engaging courses in vital areas like STEM, business and financial literacy, health and well-being, history, and culture, delivered through multimedia content and interactive exercises.

Imagine the impact: bridging the knowledge gap, fostering lifelong learning, and unlocking the full potential of a continent. Kingura is not just an e-learning platform; it’s a movement to elevate African languages and ensure equitable access to critical information.

Supporting initiatives within the African languages ecosystem

But movements like Masakhane  and Kingura need more than applause. They need funding. Institutional support. Government policy. Public education campaigns. We need universities to prioritize local language digitization. We need ministries of education to support curriculum in African languages. We need telecom companies to support interfaces in Tshivenda, Igbo, or Bambara, not just English and French.

We also need to ask harder questions. What does it mean to be truly multilingual in a digital space? Imagine a world where new apps launch in Amharic and Yoruba before English, much like Kingura was initially developed in Kinyarwanda. Can we train African AI models that don’t just understand our languages, but our proverbs, our pauses, our untranslatable concepts? Are we willing to build with care, or are we content to replicate exclusion?

The stakes are higher than most realize. When a language is left out of the digital future, a worldview disappears. A way of making sense of the world, the metaphors, the humor, the pain, the joy, gets flattened into something else. It’s not just about access. It’s about dignity.

So we return to the original question, who gets to speak in the digital age? And just as important, who gets to listen and be listened to?

This isn’t an easy problem to solve, but it’s urgent. Every day that African languages are not fully integrated into technology, we lose more than just words; we risk losing entire cultures. We have a responsibility, not to global standards or product roadmaps, but to our heritage, our future generations, and to ensuring that their stories are told in their own voices.