In many African communities, elders had a deeply intuitive understanding of language—not just as a tool for expression, but as a vessel of power. Words could summon, dignify, or destroy. That’s why certain things—especially those considered bad, taboo, or dangerous—were deliberately left unnamed. To name something was to give it strength; to describe it was safer. It was a kind of cultural encryption, not just for protection, but to prevent the normalisation of harmful phenomena.
This linguistic restraint wasn’t ignorance. It was wisdom. And it’s a wisdom that modern communication practices could learn from.
Today, in an era of weaponised narratives, digital fakes, and semantic manipulation, we are seeing the consequences of naming things too carelessly. The boundaries between the real and the fabricated are blurring—and language is not neutral in this process. In fact, the very words we choose to describe lies, counterfeits, and misinformation often grant them unintended legitimacy.
Take the phrase “fake news.” It was coined to discredit fabricated information, but ironically, the term itself gives the lie a place at the table. It positions falsehood not as an aberration, but as a variant of truth. News, by definition, is anchored in verified fact. Calling something “fake news” still includes it in the category of journalism. It’s like labelling spoiled milk as “fake yoghurt”—you’re still giving it culinary status.
We might be better off calling such content what it truly is: fabrication, falsehood, deception. Even the term “content” is problematic. It has become a catch-all that makes every piece of media—from investigative reporting to conspiracy theory TikToks—sound equally valid, equally digestible. In some cases, “content” simply means whatever fills up time or screen space. But when used to label harmful or manipulative material, it creates a dangerous equivalence with credible work.
The same problem persists in product naming. For decades, the market has been flooded with labels like “PU leather,” “vegan leather,” and “faux leather.” Each of these terms contains the word “leather,” despite having no biological or material connection to animal hide. Why? Because language grants legitimacy. The counterfeit borrows the authority of the genuine by association.
This isn’t just a branding issue. It’s a cultural one. When consumers hear “vegan leather,” many assume it’s a morally superior upgrade from traditional leather—when in fact, it’s often made of plastics and petroleum-based synthetics with high environmental impact. Similarly, a customer might be told a shoe is “90% leather,” as if that fractional purity qualifies it for authenticity. But true leather is not a matter of percentages—it either is or it isn’t.
Compare that with how we treat food products. Honey, for example, is never sold as “honey-inspired syrup.” It’s either honey, or it’s not. If it’s mixed with jaggery or sugar syrup, it ceases to be honey. That linguistic clarity protects both the product and the consumer.
So why are we so loose with other categories? Why are we comfortable placing the fake alongside the real, as if it belongs?
Part of the answer lies in how global culture has re-engineered our relationship with truth. In the West, for example, the word “propaganda” doesn’t carry the same moral weight it does in African contexts. Some governments have institutionalised it through official ministries, using it unapologetically as a tool of statecraft. In Africa, by contrast, propaganda is synonymous with deception—and any government that tried to adopt the term formally would be accused of legitimising lies. The same word, different worldviews.
This dissonance underscores the deeper issue: semantics are not universal. Words carry cultural histories, spiritual associations, and social consequences. When communication professionals—or even lawmakers—borrow foreign terminology without cultural calibration, they risk eroding the credibility of their message and miscommunicating intent.
Activism is another term that struggles across cultural lines. Derived from “acting,” it can sometimes be perceived as performative or theatrical. In some communities, it is not taken seriously unless supported by education or institutional credibility. Yet we expect the term to carry moral authority on its own.
All of this raises a critical question for communicators, marketers, journalists, and policymakers: Are we reinforcing the very things we aim to dismantle by giving them borrowed legitimacy through language?
If we truly want to challenge falsehood, counterfeiting, and social decay, we must begin by stripping these things of their borrowed prestige. We must reject language that flatters lies or elevates imitations. Don’t call it “fake news”—call it deception. Don’t call it “vegan leather”—call it synthetic material. Don’t call it “PU” anything—call it plastic. The truth deserves clarity. And clarity begins with naming.
In the end, every culture decides what it gives power to through language. The elders understood this. Perhaps it’s time we relearned the art of dignified silence and intentional naming—not just for tradition’s sake, but for truth’s survival.
Edward Mwasi is a Media Industry Strategy and Innovation Consultant, CBiT. Email: edwardmwasi@cbit.co.ke
