Nigerian Dialect Demo

0:00
Audiobooks
1559
1

Description

In this demo I'm narrating a story about a woman living in northern Nigeria.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

Nigerian North American (General)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the woman is short lived in the Gadi Gadi area where the old houses creaked under the weight of undocumented histories and the memories of the men who built them. While the newer one spoke of an ambition, not in some places seemed already outdated. In the areas where the houses were small, they were small because they had resisted the passing of time inherited from fathers and forefathers. They were now being lived in by the Children of the Children, of the Children, of the men and women who built them many decades before the breakfast house the woman lived in was not one of those houses. It had been built sometime in the eighties and the failed ambitions of that decade clung to it, woven into its foundations and rafters. A fenced property with an unmanned gate and sentinels of mango and orange trees standing in its spacious front yard in the shade of these trees, three mental benches had been planted in a small cluster, their feet buried in the earth there. Brick red paint scaling and peeling off in small patches on one of these benches lal assad and was serenaded by the strident and urgent twittering of birds in the trees as he observed the front door, through which Aziza, his friend and now travel partner and Mina, her daughter had disappeared. The woman they sought lived in the Gadi Gadi area where the old houses creak under the weight of undocumented histories and the memories of the men who built them. While the newer one spoke of an ambition that in some places seemed already outdated. In the areas where the houses were small, they were small because they had resisted the passing of time inherited from fathers and forefathers. They were now being lived in by the Children of the Children, of the Children, of the men and women who built them many decades before the breakfast house the woman lived in was not one of those houses it had been built sometime in the eighties and they failed ambitions of that decade, clung to it, woven into its foundations and rafters, a fenced property with an unmanned gate and sentinels of mango and orange trees standing in a spacious front yard in the shade of these trees, three metal benches had been planted in a small cluster, their feet buried in the earth there, brick, red paint scaling and peeling off in small patches. On one of these benches, Lalo sat and was serenaded by the strident and urgent twittering of birds in the trees as he observed the front door, through which Aziza, his friend and now travel partner and Mina, her daughter, had disappeared