As Africans, we have always passed down knowledge and wisdom through oral tradition - from the scholars of Timbuktu to the storytellers of today.
So when we built Babel, we refused to give our models cold, forgettable codenames. Each one carries the name of a son or daughter of the motherland - a poet, a playwright, a linguist, a keeper of stories - who loved their language so fiercely that history could not forget them.
Babel-Virahsawmy honours Dev Virahsawmy, who spent his whole life insisting that Mauritian Creole was a language and not a lesser tongue - translating Shakespeare, the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita and the Quran into Creole so his people could meet the world in their own voice.
Mariama Bâ, who gave Senegalese women a literature of their own.
Chinua Achebe, who made the world read Africa on Africa's terms.
Hadraawi, the "Master of Speech," who would not stop writing the poems that put him in prison.
They were told their languages were too small to carry literature, science, scripture. They refused to believe it.
We carry that same refusal into the age of AI. Every time someone speaks to Babel in their mother tongue and is understood, the work these men and women began continues.
We didn't borrow their names for prestige. We took them so that a child using Babel might one day ask, "Who was Virahsawmy?" - and go and find out.
Their legacy lives on.
Now it answers back, in the languages of the continent.
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