Naming Africans: On the Epistemic Value of Names (Gender and Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora) 3031134745, 9783031134746

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GENDER AND CULTURAL STUDIES IN AFRICA AND THE DIASPORA

Naming Africans On the Epistemic Value of Names Edited by Oyèrónké Oyěwùmí · Hewan Girma

Gender and Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora Series Editor

Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí New York, NY, USA

This book series spotlights the experiences of Africans on the continent and in its multiple and multilayered diasporas. Its objective is to make available publications that focus on people of African descent wherever they are located, ratgeting innovative research that derives questions, concepts, and theories from historical and contemporary experiences. The broad scope of the series includes gender scholarship as well as studies that engage with culture in all its complexities. From a variety of disciplinary, interdisciplinary, and transdisciplinary orientations, these studies engage current debates, address urgent questions, and open up new perspectives in African knowledge production.

Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí • Hewan Girma Editors

Naming Africans On the Epistemic Value of Names

Editors Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí Department of Sociology Stony Brook University Stony Brook, NY, USA

Hewan Girma African American and African Diaspora Studies Program The University of North Carolina at Greensboro Greensboro, NC, USA

Gender and Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora ISBN 978-3-031-13474-6    ISBN 978-3-031-13475-3 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the ­publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and ­institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Olayinka Aro-Lambo of Moofa Designs This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Note on the Cover

In June 2021, I stepped into Moofa Designs, a trendy fashion house in Lagos, Nigeria, and found garments made from batik fabrics imprinted with Yorùbá personal oríkì (praise names). Excitedly, I found one bearing my own oríkì, Anike. I was elated and gratified by the timing of this find, which made me feel as if things had come full circle. My co-editor and I were wrapping up the editing of this book on African naming systems, a project which started with the aims to understand the genealogy of personal oríkì in Yorùbá culture and to assess their relevance today. Elsewhere, analyzing the meaning of oríkì names in the culture, I had written: “Oríkì are designed to flatter and praise, and when coupled with the longer lineage oríkì poetry, their effect is to puff up the person being named. … Whenever one is called by one’s personal oríkì, it is a sign of affection, a reference to [alternate language: ‘recalling’] times when one [was] basking in favorable light. Oríkì, then, are terms of endearment” (Oyěwùmí (2016) What Gender Is Motherhood? Changing Yorùbá Ideals of Power, Procreation, and Identity in the Age of Modernity. Palgrave Macmillan. p. 156). My joy at discovering evidence of the popularity of such a specialized name type in the heart of Yorùbá modernity knew no bounds. The cover of this book is based on the batik fabric so serendipitously discovered that day and we thank the designer Olayinka Aro_Lambo for permission to use this design. Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí, Co-Editor

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Acknowledgments

This project had a long gestation period. Thus we cannot overstate our gratitude to the contributors for their patience in staying the course and seeing the project to its logical conclusion. The editors would like to express their appreciation to you all for bringing this labor of love to completion. We also express our sincere thanks to Professors N’Dri Therese Assie-Lumumba and Clapperton Chakanetsa Mavhunga for rising up to the occasion and providing a ringing endorsement to the book. “Toward a Genealogy of Gender, Gendered Names, and Naming Practices” by Oyěwùmí, Oyèrónkẹ́, which originally appears in What Gender Is Motherhood? Changing Yorùbá Ideals of Power, Procreation, and Identity in the Age of Modernity, is republished with permission from Palgrave Macmillan. We thank them for permission to reprint material. Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí would like to thank the many colleagues and friends in Zimbabwe, Botswana, South Africa, Ghana, Nigeria and the United States who let themselves be subjected to my incessant questions about African names and naming systems. I must mention the Uber and Taxi drivers particularly in Accra and Harare who educated me about their names and the local cultures of naming. With gratitude, I thank my family for listening and encouraging my interests. Hewan (Debritu) Girma would like to thank her colleagues in the Ethiopian, East African and Indian Ocean Research Network housed at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. I also thank my family for their unwavering support and encouragement, always and forever. I am grateful for my name, the curiosity that you have instilled in me and the countless opportunities to discuss Ethiopian names and naming systems. vii

Praise for Naming Africans “The book opens up a serious conversation on African cosmologies and epistemologies, and the specific place of names and naming within it. It is a must-read for anyone who wants to understand how Africans document, archive, preserve, and update their knowledges.” —Clapperton Chakanetsa Mavhunga, Professor of Science, Technology, and Society (STS) at MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) and author of The Mobile Workshop: The Tsetse Fly and African Knowledge Production (MIT Press, 2018) “Naming Africans: On the Epistemic Value of Names is a timely and ground-­ breaking collection of cutting-edge perspectives on epistemic affirmation across Global Africa. Besides the dynamics of temporality and the different disciplinary insights authoritatively articulated by the contributors, the spatial coverage consolidates the significance of this work as a comprehensive source. This book will be a pleasant read and a powerful scholarly volume for students and scholars across traditional as well as more recently established academic disciplines, ranging from philosophy, sociology, education, history, religion, and literature to Africana studies, gender studies, and indigenous knowledge systems. The interdisciplinary meeting of the humanities and social sciences provokes an intellectual curiosity that should take readers to a deeper questioning of the origins and values of the naming in their evolving social contexts.” —N’Dri Therese Assie-­Lumumba, Professor of African and African Diaspora Education, Comparative and International Education, Social Institutions, African Social History, and the Study of Gender, in the Africana Studies and Research Center at Cornell University

Contents

Introduction  1 Oyèrónké Oyěwùmí and Hewan Girma  Toward a Genealogy of Gender, Gendered Names, and Naming Practices 13 Oyèrónké Oyěwùmí Amharic Names, Naming Ceremonies and Memory 37 Hewan Girma  Engendering Personal Names in Basaa Culture: From the Origins to the Epic Tradition and Beyond 61 Bertrade Ngo-Ngijol Banoum  What’s in a Namesake? The Owambo Naming Practice of Mbushe, Gender, and Community in Namibian Novelist Neshani Andrea’s The Purple Violet of Oshaantu 85 Martha Ndakalako  Mother-Agency and the Currency of Names105 Besi Brillian Muhonja

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Contents

 Akan “Soul Names” as Archives of Histories and Knowledge: Some Preliminary Thoughts119 Kwasi Konadu  Names Are Hisses of Divinity from Our Forebears: Exploring Names Through the Lens of Ntsiki Mazwai143 Zethu Cakata  Decolonial Epistemologies in Indigenous Names of the Bakiga of Southwest Uganda157 Tushabe wa Tushabe  Tell Me Your Name and I Will Tell You Who You Are: The Construction of Names in Angola and the Colonial Influence181 Florita Cuhanga António Telo Epilogue: Diasporic Dis/Connections207 Hewan Girma Index217

Notes on Contributors

Bertrade Ngo-Ngijol Banoum  is Associate Professor in the Department of African & African American Studies and the Interdisciplinary Program in Women’s Studies at Lehman College, City University of New  York (CUNY), USA.  Ngo-Ngijol Banoum’s academic interests are in gender and women’s studies; African cultural studies, with a focus on African oral traditions, African languages and linguistics; translation studies; and French and Francophone/Diaspora studies. Her current research focus is on women’s human rights; gender construction in language and society; African women’s verbal art and knowledge production; and women’s movements: from local organizing to global networking for social change. Zethu Cakata  is Associate Professor of Psychology at the University of South Africa (UNISA), South Africa, who specializes in the fields of African epistemologies, the significance of language in knowledge production, colonization and racism. She is interested in the re-Afrikanization of knowledge, learning psychology from IsiXhosa language and understanding creative work as an important source of knowledge. Hewan  Girma  (co-editor) holds a Ph.D. in Sociology and a graduate certificate in Women’s and Gender Studies from Stony Brook University, USA. She is Assistant Professor of African American and African Diaspora Studies at The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, where she cofounded the “Ethiopian, East African and Indian Ocean Studies Research Network.” Her research focuses on Ethiopian history, culture and migration. Her work has thus far been published in Social Problems, Sociology xiii

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Compass, the Journal of Black Studies and the International Journal of Ethiopian Studies. Kwasi Konadu  is John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Endowed Chair and Professor at Colgate University, USA, where he teaches courses in African history and on worldwide African histories and cultures. He is the author of Our Own Way in This Part of the World: Biography of an African Community, Culture, and Nation (2019); (with Clifford Campbell) The Ghana Reader: History, Culture, Politics (2016); Transatlantic Africa, 1440–1888 (2014) and The Akan Diaspora in the Americas (2010), among other books. Besi Brillian Muhonja  is Associate Professor of English, Africana Studies, Women’s and Gender Studies, and African Literatures and Cultures at James Madison University, USA. Her research, publication and teaching areas of interest include critical African studies; Africana, transnational and subaltern feminisms; queer African studies; motherhood studies; indigenous and contemporary African literatures and cultures; and decolonial knowledges. Her scholarship, extensively published in peer-reviewed journals and books, seeks to define new critical approaches for conceptualizing and theorizing the lived experiences of Africana women. Martha  Ndakalako is Assistant Professor of English at Gustavus Adolphus College in Minnesota.  Her research engages Namibian literatures within the context of African literary history, global Anglophone and world literature. Focusing particularly on literary works by and about women, this research considers the politics of literary production that these literatures highlight, as well as their relationship to activism as they afford a perspective of Namibian socio-cultural concerns that have implications beyond the Namibian national boundaries. Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí  (co-editor) is the 2021 recipient of the Distinguished Africanist Award of the African Studies Association. Author of many books, she is most well-known for The Invention of Women: Making an African Sense of Western Gender Discourses (1997), in which she makes the case that the narrative of gendered corporeality that dominates the Western interpretation of the social world is a cultural discourse and cannot be assumed uncritically for other cultures. The Invention of Women won the 1998 Distinguished Book Award in the Gender and Sex Section of the American Sociological Association and was a ­finalist for the Best Book Prize of the African Studies Association in the same year. Born in Nigeria

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and educated at the University of Ibadan and the University of California at Berkeley, Oyěwùmí has been widely recognized for her work. She is Professor of Sociology at Stony Brook University and Professor Extraordinarius in the Institute of Gender Studies at the University of South Africa (UNISA). Florita  Cuhanga  António  Telo  is Angolan, born in the province of Uíge. She holds a Ph.D. in Interdisciplinary Studies on Gender Women and Feminism from Federal University of Bahia (UFBA), a Master’s Degree in Human Rights from Federal University of Paraíba and a Degree in Law from Agostinho Neto University. Telo is a university teacher. She is also a researcher at the Center for Human Rights and Citizenship, Catholic University of Angola, and the Research Center at the Instituto Superior Politécnico Jean Piaget de Benguela. She is a member of the Group of Feminist Studies in Politics and Education at UFBA. Telo is an independent consultant on Gender, Women and Human Rights. She is the Deputy Director of the Public Policy Observatory from a gender perspective. Her research areas are post-coloniality, reproductive rights, gender, reproductive autonomy, feminisms, masculinities and epistemologies of the South. Tushabe  wa  Tushabe is Associate Professor in the Department of Human Sexuality Studies at Widener University in Pennsylvania.  She holds a Ph.D. in Philosophy from State University of New York (SUNY), Binghamton, and her research interests include global sexual identities, African cultures and philosophy, critical race theory, colonialism and postcolonial theories.

List of Tables

Amharic Names, Naming Ceremonies and Memory Table 1 Examples of common Amharic gendered names (source: Author) 40 Table 2 Examples of common Amharic gender neutral names (source: Author)41 Table 3 Common baptismal names (source: Author) 45 Table 4 Common bridal names (source: Author) 50 Table 5 Examples of horse names and their meaning (adapted from ‘Nineteenth-century horse names’ in Berhane-Selassie, Ethiopian Warriorhood: Defense, Land & Society 1800–1941)53

Akan “Soul Names” as Archives of Histories and Knowledge: Some Preliminary Thoughts Table 1 Soul Names, Guiding Forces (abosom), and Praise Names Table 2 Akan Ntorɔ/Ntɔn (patrilineal clans) Table 3 Akan “Day Names” from Captive Africans Procured East of the Gold Coast, 1810–1829

124 127 139

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Introduction What Is Not in a Name? Valuing Our African Names Oyèrónké Oyeˇwùmí and Hewan Girma

The great South African intellectual and anti-apartheid activist Archie Mafeje asked: “What forms of accumulated knowledge do Africans have and how do we get at it?” This question, or a variation of it, has always animated our research and informs the project Naming Africans: On the Epistemic Value of African Names. Indeed, one of the issues that bedevil scholars of Africa is how to identify the sources of knowledge about original African institutions, cosmologies and epistemologies against the background of the oft-repeated but erroneous idea that African communities

O. Oyeˇwùmí (*) Department of Sociology, Stony Brook University, Stony Brook, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] H. Girma (*) African American and African Diaspora Studies Program, The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Greensboro, NC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_1

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did not have indigenous writing traditions until “the Europeans came,” as is often cryptically stated. This error is often compounded by the almost exclusive use of written sources to access ancient or accumulated knowledge anywhere in the world. Although archeology, paleontology and ancient art have been recruited to shed light on the human past, everyday sources of information such as language, names and naming practices have not been systematically mined enough in the quest to decipher African realities, either past or present. Interest in personal names and what they portend is a universal preoccupation captured by Shakespeare in the often-quoted passage where Juliet asks her lover Romeo, “What’s in a name?” and goes on to conclude that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” In other words, the rose, even if it is called something else, would retain its distinguishing characteristics. The emphasis here is not on the name but rather on the article itself, implying that the names of people, places, and things do not affect who or what they really are. This conveys the idea that names in and of themselves do not hold much worth or meaning beyond their function as labels to distinguish people, places, or things from one another. In this book, we argue that names hold much more significance than is accorded to them by this elementary formulation. A simple Google Scholar search for the entry “what’s in a name” produces over 5 million results, demonstrating the significance of naming in varied disciplines from sociology to the natural sciences. From a sociological perspective, personal names have been studied through concepts of social capital, labeling theory, and symbolic interactionism. Onomastics, the field of the study of proper names, is characterized by methodological and disciplinary diversity, attracting an interdisciplinary field of scholars from cultural studies, social sciences and humanities, investigating proper names from theoretical, sociocultural, historic, and literary perspectives. There are even several interdisciplinary journals dedicated exclusively to the study of names (including Names: A Journal of Onomastics, Journal of Onomastics, Onoma: Journal of International Council of Onomastic Science, and Nomina Africana: Journal of African Onomastics, the latter being a journal dedicated solely to the study of African onomastics). Nonetheless, despite this methodological and disciplinary plurality (or perhaps because of it), onomastics is not a well-developed or unified field of study. African societies have creatively embedded in personal names a wealth of information. African names are repositories of information, available in both written and oral form, with deep-rooted meanings, and can serve as

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a collective historical record of the traditions and values of a particular society. As a result, African names tell us something about the development of African cultures. For instance, in certain African societies, personal names can provide information ranging from a commentary on the experiences of the surrounding society to an evocation of a desired outcome. The African experience invites a rephrasing of Shakespeare’s question, to ask instead, “What is not in a name?”

Names as Archival Sources (Epistemic Values) It is axiomatic that we all have names. Yet these ubiquitous appellations, which carry deep sociocultural significance in every part of the world, have not garnered as much study as might be expected. Names are interwoven with the languages, cultures, histories and religions from which they emanate. Personal names are a rich source of coded information in society, reflecting a people’s beliefs, ideology, religion, culture, philosophy and thought. Names are also a locus for identity, carrying a wealth of historical information and providing an entry point into a particular society. Names not only aid in the construction of identity, but also concretize a people’s collective memory by recording the circumstances of their experiences. We should also remember that naming systems are not static, but rather that names mirror social history. Names are not just creative linguistic expressions; they constitute valuable sources of historical and ethnographic documentation. In this regard, contemporary African names are instructive indicators of Westernization, Christianization, and Islamization—three entwined processes that in recent history have had a profound impact on peoples on the continent. Conversely, names can also conceal. Newly constructed names and recently adopted ones can hide information, since such names often erase origins and heighten or blur traditional lines of distinctions amongst diverse social groups. Names also serve to preserve family and societal history particular to sociohistorical time periods. In African communities, names are revealing, disclosing the day of birth, sibling birth order, circumstances surrounding birth, time of birth, gender, and state of the family at birth, among a variety of other details. As consequential labels that follow people throughout their life course, personal names serve as anchors of identity linking people to their culture and history. Names are therefore not just labels, but symbols and rich sources of oral history. Names are particularly useful to researchers given that they are short, abundant, easily accessible

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and have strong affective meaning. A person’s life history may be written in African cultural names, revealing the circumstances of conception and birth and documenting events in the family’s history. As such, names are repositories of information with deep-rooted cultural meanings. We are encouraged by the increasing attention scholars are paying to the topic of African names from an interdisciplinary perspective. For instance, Adelakun’s (2020) and Olanisebe’s (2017) articles on Pentecostal names in Nigeria both provide very interesting insights into how this one form of Christianity is influencing existing naming systems, highlighting the intersection between names and religion. Similarly, the edited volume by Nyambi et al. (2016) expound on the importance of African names. Although geographically focused on just southern Africa, they offer an interesting discussion on postcolonial changes and continuities in personal names (anthroponyms) and place names (toponyms). For instance, the chapter by Herbert Mushangwe “On the Brink of a New Naming Practice: Chinese Influences in Zimbabwean Naming Systems” traces the recent Chinese cultural influences on Zimbabwean students’ names. Furthermore, the Journal of Sociolinguistic Studies recently published a special issue guest edited by Eyo Mensah and Kristy Rowan entitled “African Anthroponyms: Sociolinguistic Currents and Anthropological Reflections” (Mensah & Rowan, 2019). The articles in this special issue provide a vast wealth of insights on praise names, death-preventing names, death-related names, and so much more. We situate our intervention within these recent scholarships.

What Are Old Names, What Are New Names, and Why Do We Need New Names? In her 2013 novel We Need New Names, Zimbabwean author NoViolet Bulawayo presents a beautifully crafted coming-of-age story of a young girl named Darling. The author takes the reader on a journey through a not-so-innocent childhood among the shantytowns of an unnamed African country to the precarity of life that African immigrants experience in the midwestern United States. While essentially presenting a story of displacement, Bulawayo plays with the theme of (re)naming throughout the novel. With unforgettable character names such as Bastard, Bornfree, Forgiveness, Godknows, Mother of Bones and Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro, the author provides insight into Zimbabwean

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naming practices. For instance, a name such as Bornfree can serve as a historical marker, as only children born after 1980, the year when Zimbabwe won its independence from Britain, are given this name. Bulawayo further contrasts the ironic naming of a squalid shanty town, known as Paradise, located next to Heavenway cemetery, with the naming of an affluent neighborhood after the European city of Budapest. Through the naming of these places, Bulawayo presents a scathing criticism of postcolonial African realities, where migration is posited as the only solution, despite repeated proof to the contrary. The novel We Need New Names speaks volumes about Zimbabwean naming practices. The topic of names is explicitly discussed in various places throughout the novel, including the harrowing scenes where Darling and her friends prepare to perform a makeshift abortion, immigrant parents name their American-born children, and one of Darling’s childhood friends names her daughter after her friend in a practice of namesaking. Thus the novel is both a reflection of and a commentary on the naming practices in Zimbabwe, highlighting connections and disconnections between generations, homeland and diasporic Zimbabweans. More specifically, the author forces us to reflect on these questions: Who is named? Who does the naming? What is the meaning of the name? How do these names translate across borders? Even the name of the author is interesting to consider. In her analysis of the novel, Polo Belina Moji (2015) writes about the author NoViolet Bulawayo’s own name change: Having grown up in Zimbabwe under the name Elisabeth Tshele, the author of We Need New Names has relocated to America and renamed herself NoViolet Bulawayo. She symbolically adopts the surname Bulawayo—the name of Zimbabwe’s second largest city—where she spent part of her childhood (Obioha 2014, np). NoViolet, adopted in honour of Violet—her deceased mother (Obioha 2014, np)—is a name which causes semantic uncertainty through its Africanized lexical structure. This is particularly true for English-speaking audiences who think the prefix ‘No’ means ‘without Violet’, whereas it actually means ‘with Violet’ in the author’s native Ndebele. (p. 183)

Similarly, Isaac Ndlovu (2016) writes that “Bulawayo’s pen name denotes loss and nostalgia; on the one hand, the literal loss of her mother, and on the other hand, the writer’s homesickness for the city of Bulawayo which she had been away from for 13 years when she publishes “We Need

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New Names.” Clearly, we need to question what are old names, what are new names, and why do we need new names?

Overview of Upcoming Essays This volume Naming Africans explores the epistemic value of African names, and in the process unveils endogenous forms of knowledge. This project was conceived to document and analyze personal names and associated naming practices in a wide range of African societies. It brings together valuable scholarship on African names and naming practices by investigating the meanings (symbolic and otherwise) and importance of names in African societies, including the way names are given, the reasons for choosing particular names and the rituals involved in naming. The scholars in this volume analyze names and naming patterns to communicate the value of African names as archival sources worthy of systematic analysis. The essays in this volume examine the social significance and meanings of the names in their respective communities. This volume brings together a collection of essays documenting diverse societies and naming practices on the geographically vast and ethnically diverse continent, including contributions from Angola, Cameroon, Ethiopia, Ghana, Kenya, Namibia, Nigeria, South Africa, and Uganda (listed here alphabetically). The contributors are scholars from a multiplicity of countries and linguistic backgrounds who have an established record of expertise in particular cultures. In their essays, they investigate names and naming practices diachronically in different African language communities. This comparative focus juxtaposing different African cultures and their embedded naming practices is one of the strengths of this collection. This work is a response to the paucity of empirically and theoretically rigorous studies of African names by Africa-born scholars. Names often provide insider information for those who share the same linguistic and sociocultural background. This is the reason why we explicitly privileged African scholars writing about their own societies in this volume. We also value the inferences these scholars can make from personal names about the larger society. All the contributors to the volume except one are Africa-born, which makes an important statement about self-representation in the generation of knowledge about the continent. The authors therefore have the necessary linguistic and cultural competence to decode these names, linking them to history, religious belief systems, indigenous philosophies, literary texts and beyond.

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To animate our discussion, we interrogate the histories and cultural practices of naming to shed light on the society at large. How are African names constructed and deployed? What meanings and values do African societies attach to their names? How can names inform our understanding of social institutions and identities? What information can we glean from names that is unavailable to us elsewhere? In order to answer these questions, we have gathered a variety of essays that engage with names and naming practices from different African societies, cultures, historical time periods, and disciplinary perspectives. The contributions in this volume amply demonstrate that names are not only full of layered meaning but are dynamic artifacts that are continuously refashioned, reflecting sociohistorical realities in a process that affects us all. Additionally, the essays in this volume provide a critical commentary on the ways in which gender is central, both positively and negatively, to African naming practices. Most of the essays are products of original research and have not been published elsewhere. Valuing our names, defining their meaning and elucidating the value behind them on our own terms contributes to new insights into African histories and cultures. The ubiquity of gender distinctions in many contemporary African naming systems can usually be traced to one of three multifaceted processes: European colonialism, the introduction of Christianity, and the domestication of Islam, all of which embody gendered notions. But in spite of these powerful influences, the use of traditional, non-gendered, indigenous African names persists among some cultural groups. In the first essay, “Toward a Genealogy of Gender, Gendered Names, and Naming Practices,” Oyèrónké Oyeˇwùmí investigates gender dynamics in African names and naming systems, using Yorùbá names as a case study. There are at least four different categories of names in Yorùbá culture, and most of them are not gender-specific—that is, they do not make gender distinctions between males and females. But oríkì, or personal praise names, appear to be gendered, contradicting the fact that Yorùbá given names, like terms describing kinship and traditional occupations, do not express gender differences. Oyeˇwùmí’s essay offers a fascinating discussion that unravels the puzzle of why praise names seem to be an exception to the Yorùbá norm of non-gendered names. What do we learn about, and from, personal oríkì names, and what do they tell us about our history? The significance of history and gender is further interwoven in Hewan Girma’s analysis in “Amharic Names, Naming Ceremonies and Memory.” She starts by providing a detailed overview of the significant time periods

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in an individual’s life when they receive a name in the traditions of Northern Ethiopia and the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Secular or world names given at birth, or shortly thereafter, are alternatively supplemented or supplanted first with baptismal names and later in life with bridal names bestowed on women upon marriage and horse names acquired during warfare for men. Each of these different practices and its accompanying ceremonies provides an occasion to study complex social processes such as the formation of ethnic, religious and gendered identity. Girma expands her analysis with an examination of how Ethiopian-American author Maaza Mengiste deploys personal names as an instrument of memory in The Shadow King, a historical novel set during the second Ethiopian Italian war (1935–1941). Throughout the essay, Girma weaves in fascinating discussions of famous Ethiopian rulers and their complex multilayered names, including those of Emperor Haile Selassie (also known as Ras Tafari, among other names). Gender classifications, their historical significance and their usefulness as an index of women’s subordination constitute the main theme of Bertrade Ngo-Ngijol Banoum’s “Engendering Personal Names in Basaa Culture: From the Origins to the Epic Tradition and Beyond.” The essay addresses two important questions: “How are Basaa names created?” and “How is gender embodied in these names?” To answer these questions, Ngo-Ngijol Banoum explores the genealogies of Basaa ancestors and the foundational Epic of Hiton (an oral poetic tale from the early nineteenth century). These Basaa Cameroonian traditions showcase naming practices and patterns with deep roots in the people’s cultural heritage. Beyond the ethnographic and linguistic descriptions they provide, the names of Basaa founding parents and protagonists in the cultural epic consistently underscore the significance of gender. Ngo-Ngijol Banoum discusses Baasa naming practices, their deep cultural roots, their gendered significance, and their resulting implications. This intervention underscores that different conceptualizations of gendered identities simultaneously define and are in turn shaped by personal names and naming practices. In a further elaboration of the richness and complexities of African naming systems and their intersections with gender, we turn to Martha Ndakalako’s “What’s in a Namesake: The Mbushe and Gender in Owambo Naming Practices in The Purple Violet of Oshaantu.” Ndakalako-Bannikov expounds on the gendered legacies of colonization and Christianity amongst the Owambo People of Namibia (e.g., women taking up their husband’s names). Reclaiming Owambo personal names during the

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struggle for independence was a form of resistance to colonialism and an expression of cultural reawakening. Another common naming practice among the Owambo was namesaking (known as mbushe relationship). Grounding her discussion on the novel The Purple Violet of Oshaantu by Namibian author Neshani Andreas, Ndakalako-Bannikov uncovers the complexities of namesaking. Namesakes not only create a link in kinship networks but reflect the belief that when people share a name they inhabit the same personhood. Therefore, in addition to memorializing significant people, namesaking imposes social ties with sometimes conflicting obligations. In “Mother-Agency and the Currency of Names,” Besi Muhonja examines the question of power and the privilege of naming and its significance for identity creation, destiny affirmation, legacy establishment, lineage and community belonging among the Maragoli of western Kenya. Drawing from extensive research and her own personal cultural experiences, Muhonja discusses processes of renaming, de-naming, negative naming (i.e., challenging death through naming) and the performativity of names to indicate belonging. Within the patrilineal and patrilocal Maragoli community, she situates the influence of motherhood and the authority of women, particularly paternal grandmothers, in naming customs, including the power to withhold a name, thus denying admission into the family lineage. In “Akan ‘Day Names’ as Archives of Indigenous Knowledge,” Kwasi Konadu provides us with a historical perspective on the ubiquitous use of the patterned naming system that has spread beyond Ghana to African diasporic communities across the Black Atlantic. Arguing against the emphasis of colonial disruptions, Konadu narrates the story of “Adua,” one of the earliest documented “day names” in the written historical archives, to highlight historical continuities as evidenced in personal names. He advances three interrelated perspectives that can be gained through the study of Akan (and more generally African) names: (1) Paying attention to names as archives of historicized knowledge, (2) highlighting historical continuities through the epistemology of names, and (3) offering new pathways to cultural and historical knowledge. In “Names are Sighs of Divinity from our Forebears,” Zethu Cakata uses contemporary South African students’ efforts to decolonize education, including a return to their names, as an entry point for discussing colonial de-naming. She outlines the long-term negative psychological effects of the de-naming that was carried out through Western schooling,

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linking her discussion to destruction of language, place names and culture. Drawing from Ntsiki Mazwai’s poem “Risen,” Cakata further explores the significance of ukuthiya igama, which roughly translates to name giving but with profound spiritual meaning, as names among Xhosa speakers are believed to activate the child’s spirit, reveal a child’s life purpose, and connect the child to forebears. In “Decolonial Epistemologies in Indigenous Names of the Bakiga of Southwest Uganda,” Tushabe wa Tushabe discusses the erasure of Bakiga names and epistemologies with the advent of Christianity and the imposition of a colonial language, in a pattern that we see repeated across the African continent. As she writes, “Names became one of the ways by which Christianity penetrated African cultures to impose practices of forgetting indigenous sense of community, which includes ancestors, one’s culture, language, self, while remembering instead only Christian ancestors and practices.” Using her own family names and history as illustration, Tushabe reveals how names and language more generally serve as a window into a culture, its philosophies and its value system. For a decolonial conceptualization, Tushabe argues for a reexamination of the repository of Bakiga knowledge and cosmological connections “that enriches the cultivation of one’s self in community.” Florita Cuhanga António Telo, in her essay, “Tell Me Your Name and I Will Tell You Who You Are: The Construction of Names in Angola and the Colonial Influence,” discusses the changes in processes of naming over a broad historical period. Among the Bakongo ethnic group of northern Angola, naming of children was based on criteria for the maintenance of family history and/or ethnicity. Prior to the advent of Catholicism and the introduction of Portuguese as the official colonial language, the practice of bestowing names inherited from ancestors, which ensured the transmission of history and lineage, was widespread. Colonialism, however, disrupted this and other traditions by imposing, among other things, bureaucratic barriers to the use of indigenous (non-Portuguese) names. This devaluing of traditional naming practices, which is most evident in the official registries, began in the colonial era, continued almost unchallenged in post-independence Angola, where local names are still deemed inferior. The interventions of the Catholic church and problematic legal requirements such as the use of Portuguese names in the official registries are therefore shown to be detrimental to the national multi-ethnic identity and culture.

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Lastly, in the epilogue, “Diasporic Dis/Connections,” Hewan Girma opens up the conversation about how African names are employed, erased, transformed, reclaimed, and valued in the vast historically and geographically varied African diaspora. She illustrates her discussion of African names in the diaspora by examining the various name changes of one prominent African abolitionist, Olaudah Equiano, based on his memoir (1789). Our efforts in this volume demonstrate the richness and complexity of African naming traditions and the dynamic ways in which different communities have grappled with and encoded social change. Taken together, the essays expose the limitless possibilities of names to inform and communicate the past in ways that may not be readily accessible through other methods. The crucial importance of naming traditions in any culture cannot be overstated. In that vein, we hope this book will inspire others to pursue research into this time-honored subject, and to explore the many ways to answer the question, “What, indeed, is not in a name?”

References Adelakun, A. A. (2020) The Spirit names the child: Pentecostal names and trans-­ ethics. In The Palgrave handbook of African social ethics (pp. 543–567). Palgrave Macmillan. Bulawayo, N. (2013). We need new names. Chatto & Windus. Mensah, E., & Rowan, K. (2019). African anthroponyms: Sociolinguistic currents and anthropological reflections. Sociolinguistic Studies, 13(2–4), 157–170. Moji, P. B. (2015). New names, translational subjectivities: (dis) location and (re) naming in NoViolet Bulawayo’s ‘we need new names’. Journal of African Cultural Studies, 27(2), 181–190. Ndlovu, I. (2016). Ambivalence of representation: African crises, migration and citizenship in NoViolet Bulawayo’s WeNeedNewNames. African Identities, 14(2), 132–146. Nyambi, O., Mangena, T., & Pfukwa, C. (Eds.). (2016). The postcolonial condition of names and naming practices in southern Africa. Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Olanisebe, S.  O. (2017). Elimination by substitution: The travesty of changing cultural names to biblical names by Pentecostals in southwestern Nigeria. Ilorin Journal of Religious Studies, 7(2), 107–124.

Toward a Genealogy of Gender, Gendered Names, and Naming Practices Oyèrónké Oyěwùmí

The nineteenth century was a revolutionary period in Yorùbá history, producing great social changes that we are still trying to understand. The historical transformations that were to have this huge impact were documented by historian B. Agiri among others. They include: First, the disintegration of the old Ọ̀ yọ́ Empire and the emergence of a new political order; second, the collapse of the maritime slave trade and the growth of new exports, … the arrival of Christian missionaries and the establishment of the British at Lagos, followed by the spread of British influence inland. For the average Yorùbá citizen, it was a century of confusion and chaos when the old traditions were questioned. Some customs were modified, while others were reinforced or discarded. (Agiri, 1981)

What needs to be added to his list is that Islam, which had been present in some parts of Yorùbá communities before this time, was not only

O. Oyěwùmí (*) Department of Sociology, Stony Brook University, Stony Brook, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_2

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putting down deeper roots but was also expanding with noticeable impact on the society. In this chapter, my focus is on new customs, new institutions, new social practices, and most significantly new names that emerged in this period. Seemingly gendered names, gendered practices, and gendered institutions appeared, particularly in Ibadan and Abeokuta, two new polities that absorbed the fleeing refugees of internecine wars attending the fallen Ọ̀ yọ́ empire. The emergence of new names and novel naming practices was certainly a notable development. It is impossible to exaggerate the importance of names to Yorùbá people and therefore it is a useful window to their thinking, social practices, and social change. Naming systems are by definition knowledge systems given the epistemic value of names. Traditionally, Yorùbá names are not gender-specific in that both males and females bear the same names. Yorùbá names and naming are no different from their other social institution all of which expose an epistemology that does not construct gender. Hence, as I have established in various writings, there were no gendered moral and social attributes in the cultural ethos, and so notions of masculinity or femininity are alien. However, in the nineteenth century, oríkì or personal praise names, a particular kind of name that appear to be gendered, came into use. Such names seem to be gender-specific in the sense that today in popular understanding a particular set of oríkì is associated with the anafemale body and another parallel group is anamale identified. Gendered names at any level do not fit in with the already existing variety of names, neither did they conform to the logic of Yorùbá naming practices, world sense, and social institutions. The apparent identification of a set of praise names with one body type, and another group of oríkì with the other body type, then, becomes a curiosity, a puzzle that need to be explained. In my book Invention, I showed that gender constructs are a recent historical development in the society, emerging in the nineteenth century. Following from this thesis then, I hypothesize that personal praise names must be of relatively recent origin even though they seem deeply rooted in the current social structure, as if they have been in use from time immemorial. My objective is to investigate the origin of oríkì and its relationship to the convulsions that engulfed Ọ̀ yọ́-Yorùbá society following the disintegration of the empire. Second, I will examine the links between the use of praise names and the newly emerging Christian and Muslim convert communities. Despite the fact that female oríkì and male oríkì are thought of as a gender field of the same phenomenon, analysis of the meanings of the

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names suggest the two sets of names developed differently. My investigation will not take the gendered nature of personal praise names for granted recognizing that their apparent use today in a gendered fashion may be a result of change over time. Theoretically, the question of whether a particular practice or institution is gendered can be apprehended at two levels: first, gender is routinely invoked when the phenomenon under study is seen to superficially attach to male and female bodies differently, and in a binary way. The second level of gendering is more fundamental in that it speaks to the gender division of social and moral attributes that is embedded in the ethos, which is then expressed in social practices throughout. In Western societies, whose mores and values overly inform academic discussions of gender, the two levels are conflated because of the degree to which gender “doings” have become the warp and woof of the culture. However, in Yorùbá society because gender as a construct is not ontological to the ethos, and since any articulation of gender is a new development historically, the multilevel process of understanding gender becomes obvious. Thus a study of gendering in this society affords scholars the opportunity to understand the process by which institutions and practices become gendered. Does the presence of the first level, that is, the superficial naming of male bodies and female bodies differently automatically signal the presence in the society of gendered moral and social attributes? The evidence from Yorùbá society does not support this line of thinking because social and moral attributes are still not universally understood to inhere in males and females differently. A second question is whether the first level of gendering expressed in the naming of social phenomena as male or female is a sign that a society has embarked on a process of gender differentiation, classifying males and females differently, if not unequally. A third level is how to make sense of societies in which gender constructs were originally absent but have now been imposed through colonial processes of incorporation of such societies into the Western cultural gendered ethos. That is my task in this chapter. My analysis of names here is really a vehicle for raising questions about where apparent distinctions between female and male character that is suggested by different sets of names come from. The ultimate question in any discussion of origins of gender constructs in Yorùbá society really is not whether Yorùbá thought recognizes differences between male and female bodies but whether it recognizes social and moral attributes as feminine or masculine and has as a result-organized social facts to express such a belief. I am also interested in praise names for what they can tell us about

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social change, particularly in relation to gender. One of the most fascinating things about indigenous names is what one scholar calls their recordkeeping function, a fact that has bearing on how names have come to encapsulate elements of social change. According to anthropologist Niyi Akinnaso: Yorùbá personal names serve as an open diary by providing a system through which information is symbolically stored and retrieved. The diary is open because personal names are public, being the primary mode of address among the Yorùbá. However, the nature and range of information stored in a given personal name may not be known to every member of the community. Since personal names are used several times a day in the normal course of an individual’s life routine, this diary-keeping function is particularly effective in serving as a reminder of those dominant social values, important personal concerns, and other special events that are reflected in personal names. (Akinnaso, 1980)

Yorùbá names can be literally read for information and it is this archival function that attracted me to the idea of using such to probe gender issues. Although a number of scholars1 have demonstrated the value of oríkì poetry as a source of historical data, and a few linguists have analyzed oríkì names linguistically, many of the questions I am asking in this chapter have never been asked before in studies of Yorùbá culture. Consequently, the task of establishing the origin of praise names, whether they are gendered or not, is a multifaceted process that will draw in many other institutions and practices across three centuries. Investigating these questions requires a detailed examination of social practices and institutions that may at times appear to be far from the subject of gender, but this is not the case because in order to establish the genealogy of gender, this comprehensive excursion is necessary.

1  Following historian Bolanle Awe (1974), who showed us how oríkì (praise poetry) can be used as a source of historical evidence, literary anthropologist Karin Barber (1981), in a paper documenting the changes in the performance of oríkì (praise poetry), insightfully shows how the tone, content, and style of performance itself can illuminate the changes that took place in a particular epoch that led to social transformation.

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Naming Names: Putting Oríkì Names in Social Context The word oríkì refers to a verbal genre popularly described as praise poetry. However, there are a number of subgenres of oríkì poetry: oríkì orílẹ̀ (lineage oríkì extolling the characteristics of particular lineages), oríkì ìlú (dealing with the foundation of towns), and oríkì bọ̀rọ̀kìnní (oríkì of notable personalities). But oríkì can also refer to a personal name that is one among many names given to a child after birth. Oríkì names are distinctive and recognizable; they generally cannot be easily confused with any other names. In Yorùbáland, when one is asked about one’s oríkì, it is clear that the expected response is the single word personal name and not the long poetic verses referring to the lineage, town, or important people, since very few people today know the longer versions of their lineage oríkì. My primary interest here is in the oríkì personal name, the one-word, single names that are recognized as appellations, designed to flatter and praise someone, bolstering that person’s self-esteem. I will also refer to oríkì names as praise names, which the vast majority of them are, although a few are not as clear in meaning. To situate praise names in the culture, we must look at the overall naming system. There are many different types of indigenous names, but they fall into two broad categories, namely, àmútọ̀runwá (literally a name that the infant brings from the Otherworld) and àbísọ (the primary names given after the birth of a child). Àmútọ̀runwá are very specific names, few in number (probably not more than ten), whose chief distinction is that they are based on the observed biological facts attending the birth of that child. For example, the names Táíwò and Kẹ́hìndé are names of twins, and Ige is the name of a baby who emerges from the birth canal feet first. For Yorùbá people, babies who generate àmútọ̀runwá names enter the world already armed with their own name. Being born with a name is interesting and significant because in the culture, there is a reluctance to name an infant until a week or so after birth. The ìkómọjáde (literally exposing of the infant to the public, coupled with a naming ceremony) is supposed to be the occasion when the child is formally presented to nonfamily members, and the time when the name of the infant is announced by parents. Not so for àmútọ̀runwá babies, because these children preempt the elders and literally name themselves through the way in which they come into the world. These babies have already acquired a name, an identity long before the ìkómọjáde. These children seem to forcefully insert themselves

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into society as they are born. It is important to note that àmútọ̀runwá names are not gender-specific. The second broad category of names, àbísọ, encompasses all other name types, the distinguishing feature being that these are names given after birth. The majority of the names in the àbísọ category are primary given names that are simply called àbísọ. Literally, “to born and name.” When one is asked “kíni orúkọ re ̣?” (What is your name?), an àbísọ is usually the expected answer. Equally significant is the fact that àbísọ names are given to newborns due to the circumstances surrounding their birth, ranging from what the family might be going through to what the birth of the child entailed for the mother or the political and social climate of the time. Samuel Johnson, the pioneering Yorùbá local historian and ethnographer, identified different sets of circumstances of the family that will lead to particular àbísọ: Names having reference to the child itself directly or indirectly to the family e.g. Ayodele (Joy enters the house); Names having reference to the family directly or indirectly to the child: Kurumi (Death has impoverished me); names compounded of prefixes such as Ade [crown], Ola [honor], Olú [chieftaincy], For example Oyeyemi (title becomes me). (Johnson & Johnson, 1921, 80)

Praise names also fall under the broader category of àbísọ, if we follow the Yorùbá categorization scheme, because they are names given after birth, in contrast to àmútọ̀runwá, which are tied to the birthing process itself. Nevertheless, in usage, the distinctiveness of oríkì as a particular kind of àbísọ is recognized. To illustrate further, a praise name unlike any other àbísọ is not a primary name; it is not a name you answer to all the time. Rather, oríkì are intended for particular moments. Such an occasion can occur as many times in the day as the older person in an interaction finds necessary to address a younger person, or not at all.2 The point is that the names are designed to perform a specific function: to praise, to flatter, to exhort the subject, and to raise self-esteem. They are especially effective because they are not overused unlike the regular àbísọ that is used at all times. Whenever one is called by one’s personal oríkì, it is a sign of affection, and is associated with times when one is basking in favorable

2  It is rude to address an older person by name or worse their oríkì except of course if you are a performer.

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light.3 Oríkì, then, are terms of endearment. It is for these reasons that Ọ̀ yọ́ Yorùbá people express consternation4 when they find such names being used as the primary name for identification, as is increasingly common today. The ability of oríkì to elevate the subject psychologically has to do with its association with especially positive moments in one’s life. When they are used as everyday, all-the-time given names, then they lose their luster and can no longer fulfill this function. Oríkì are designed to flatter and praise and when coupled with the longer lineage oríkì poetry, their effect is to puff up the person being named. Socially, when the oríkì name is invoked, it is accompanied by the orílẹ̀, which is the totem of the family. My own oríkì is Àníkẹ́ and my family totem is Ọ̀ kín. When my oríkì is used by my parents or an older person who wishes to extol me, they usually say Àníkẹ́ Ọ̀ kín. Generally speaking the totemic name is derived from one’s father’s lineage of origin, and married women’s totem remains that of their natal homes. Linguist Olasope Oyelaran has compared the function of oríkì coupled with the family totem to the United States’ Social Security Number system: “a lè sọ pé bí nọ́ńbà ti jẹ́ sí àwọn ará Amẹ́ríkà, bẹ́e ̣̀ ni orúkọ, oríkì, àti orílẹ̀ je ̣́ sí àwọn Yorùbá. Ní ile ̣̀ Ameṛ́ íkà, tí o bá ti mọ nọ́ńbà ètó eese ìfeỵ̀ ìntì [Social Security Number] ènìyàn, tí o sì mọ nọ́ńbà láńsẹ́eṣ̀ ì àti ti tẹlifóònù rẹ, o ti mọ̀ ọ́n tán. Beẹ́ ̣̀ ni ti orúkọ, oríkì, ati orílẹ̀ je ̣́ láàrin àwa Yorùbá” (We can say what numbers are to Americans is the same with oríkì among Yorùbá. In the United States of America, when you know the Social Security Number of a person, know the license and telephone numbers, you can identify them absolutely. That is how oríkì coupled with orílẹ̀ among Yorùbá [my translation]). (Oyelaran & Adewole, 2007) He makes the claim that oríkì in combination with the primary name and orílẹ̀ are as unique to the individual as the United States’ Social Security Number. The comparison of oríkì to Social Security Number is baffling at a number of levels, and its veracity cannot be sustained for a couple of reasons. First, oríkì names are limited in number. According to Akintunde Akinyemi, a scholar who has studied the social uses of the oríkì genre, “personal oríkì are few in number unlike other types of personal names … 3  Because oríkì are said to encapsulate the essence of a person, they are also useful in times of personal crisis, for example, when a person is in a coma or distressed in any way. 4  One common saying I have heard about oríkì in Ibadan and Ogbomoso marvels at why Yorùbá people from Lagos tend to use oríkì as their primary names: “ Awon ara Eko ti won f’oríkì je oruko.”

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the total number of both male and female personal oríkì found among the Yorùbá is still under one hundred (100).” (Akinyemi, 1993) He also explains, “There is no way that we can coin or create new personal oríkì despite their unique phonological uniformity and systematical grammatical structure.” (Akinyemi, 1993) My own research concurs with this finding that oríkì names are few in number; as a matter of fact one hundred is a generous figure. Consequently, oríkì are invariably duplicated, especially in large households, which is the characteristic Ọ̀ yọ́-Yorùbá family settlement pattern. Many lineages have more than a hundred, two hundred, or even three hundred members. Thus, within one lineage compound, it is common to have names duplicated among cousins, uncles, and aunts of the same or different generations. Because they are all members of the same family, the totem names accompanying the oríkì are also the same. Even primary names are duplicated, given that the circumstances of birth that these particular appellations rest on can and do repeat themselves. Similarly, àmútọ̀runwá names, like twin names, are repeated within a lineage, as a family could have many sets of twins and they would all be expected to bear the same names, since these names are set in ritual concrete emanating from the biological fact of how the babies came into the world. In a particular household, then, you could have two cousins called Àlàkẹ́, and because their family totem name is Òpó, then they would both be addressed as Àlàkẹ́ Òpó, and finally, they could both have been given Olúrẹ̀mílẹ́kún (the lord has comforted me because they were born after painful happenings in the family) as their àbísọ names. Thus you have two persons in the same family with exactly the same three names. Because of the size of families, and because they are segmented within, parents— name-givers—often do not realize these duplications until much later. Since oríkì names are occasional (as in a special occasion or momentary) names, a person’s oríkì is rarely at the tip of the tongue of their many family members, much less of strangers. As a result, one frequent question in social interactions is: “what is your oríkì?” Or, whenever a senior person in an interaction wants to laud the junior one, they are likely to start with “remind me of your oríkì.” A visitor to a home is not guaranteed to learn a person’s oríkì indirectly (unlike the primary name), because its use is strategic, being invoked for a particular purpose not necessarily just for identification. The best way to know a person’s oríkì is to ask. Duplication of oríkì is not seen as a problem and has no effect on its primary purpose as a flattering device in that the oríkì is uttered directly and addressed to a particular subject who knows that s/he, and s/he alone, is being addressed

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at that moment in time. Oyelaran mistakenly deduces oríkì use from contemporary fragments of lineages that are trying to mimic the tiny Western nuclear family size, which is a legacy of Christian and colonial notions of acceptable family configuration. Oríkì are truly personal names but totally nonexclusive even in the family. Oríkì are not universal to all Yorùbá subgroups. Despite the wide distribution and prevalence of Oríkì poetry as a defining institution in Yorùbá society, personal praise names are particular to Ọ̀ yọ́-Yorùbá and are not prevalent among other Yorùbá subgroups such as Ìjẹ̀bú, Èkìtì, Ìjẹ̀sạ̀ , and so on. According to Ladele et al.: Ní ilẹ̀ Yorùbá, pàápàá láàrin àwọn Ọ̀ yọ́, bí a bá ti sọ ọmọ ní orúkọ ní ọjọ́ kẹjọ ni a o fún ọmọ náà ní oríkì sọ́ kí tí a ó máa fi kì í …Nínú ìwadìí tí a sẹ , a rí i dájú pé púpọ̀ nínú àwọn Èkìtì, Oǹdó, Ìlàjẹ, Ìjẹ̀bú àti Ìkálẹ̀ ni kò ní oríkì ṣókí. Àwọn díe ̣̀ tí ó ní ni ó jé ̣ pé bàbá tàbi ìyá wọn jé ̣ èỵ à Yorùbá tí ó máa ń fún ọmọ wọn l’oríkì. (Inú wa yóò dùn bí a bá lè ri ẹni fihàn wá pé àwọn ẹ̀ya Yorùbá tí a ní wọn kì í ní oríkì máa ń ni. Ṣùgbọ́n gbogbo ẹ̀ya Yorùbá Ọ̀ yọ́ l’ó ń ní oríkì. (Ladele et al., 1986) (Among the Yorùbá, especially the Ọ̀ yọ́, newborns are given brief oríkì (praise names) when they are named on the eighth day after birth. We found in the course of our research that a good number of other Yorùbá groups— Ekiti, Ondo, Ijebu, and Ikale—do not have the brief oríkì [praise names] tradition. The few among them that do are often descendants of Yorùbá groups that give such appellations. [We shall be happy to entertain information to the contrary. The entire Ọ̀ yọ́-Yorùbá region certainly gives brief praise names].)

My own research bears out the finding that the use of oríkì is specific to Ọ̀ yọ́-Yorùbá and not universal to the whole ethnonationality. (Ladele et  al., 1986, 165) But this statement needs some qualification, because following the wars that tore Yorùbá polities apart and reconstituted them and created new polities in the nineteenth century, different groups of Yorùbá were scattered to many parts of the region. Thus there are Ọ̀ yọ́ groups today that make their hometown in originally non-Ọ̀ yọ́ spaces. Hence one does find families in Ekiti, for example, who give oríkì to their children. Polities like Ibadan, Abeokuta, and Lagos are amalgamations of people originating from different Yorùbá towns and beyond. Nevertheless, the Ọ̀ yọ́ Yorùbá proudly distinguish themselves from other subgroups by claiming that the other groups do not have personal oríkì, as if to say they are uncultured. In my experience and research, I find that in my

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generation many persons of Ọ̀ yọ́ origin readily proffer an oríkì as soon as you ask the question, “What is your oríkì?” In contrast, many non-­ Ọ̀ yọ̣́́Yorùbá often do not even know that such names exist or that they are distinct from primary names since use of these names is not part of their family experience. In my own Ọ̀ yọ́-steeped family, each and every one of us has an oríkì, which is one of the names we are given on the eighth day during the naming ceremony. Because of the importance of these names in our family interactions, I, in turn, have given praise names to my children, even those born in the United States—the meaning of which they have come to appreciate even more deeply when they visit their grandparents in Nigeria. Knowing the significance of the genre, I did not think twice before giving my children, born outside of Nigeria, oríkì names in addition to their other names. One cannot do without it, because it is required that parents and seniors use it to greet, praise, comfort, and motivate family members. The first thing one does when one marries a “foreigner” (non-Ọ̀ yọ́) is to give him or her an oríkì. Àjọkẹ́ (one to be loved by all) is an extremely popular oríkì that is given to in-marrying non-Ọ̀ yọ́ brides who do not come with their own oríkì. The experience of the anthropologist Barber with oríkì in Okuku an Ọ̀ yọ́ Yorùbá town is rich and telling. “I stayed three years in Okuku … I was given oríkì myself: the oríkì of the royal family, because I was ‘adopted’ by the ọba. Everyday I would hear the same phrases … Àjíkẹ́ Ọ̀ kín, child of the owner of the morning!” (Barber, 1991) Ajike (one who wakes up to be cherished) was Barber’s oríkì. In Ọ̀ yọ́ Yorùbá communities, oríkì are central to identity and are treated as if they have been part of the culture from time immemorial, a belief that I am calling into question. Many more issues arise regarding exactly when oríkì emerged as another set of personal names given to a child at the naming ceremony (isomoloruko), a week or so after birth. The first documentation of the existence of oríkì name is Johnson’s which meant that such names were already in existence by the mid-nineteenth century. Despite the certitude with which Johnson discussed them, I am suggesting that oríkì have not always existed as another type of name that was given after birth. They are not primordial. Perhaps I should point out that the question is not merely about whether one can identify a name or two as praise names in an earlier

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period5 (Danmole, 1993); the issue is when did such a name become distinctly recognizable as its own category and more significantly, when did two distinct sets of names become coupled, and developed identities as belonging exclusively to males or females. Examining the historical record, we find that the first bishop of the Niger, Samuel Ajayi Crowther, who was born in Oṣogun, an Ọ̀ yọ́ town in 1806, was never associated with any oríkì name; his only indigenous name Ajayi is an àmútọ̀runwá, a name that the child brought from the other world. The name Ajayi is given a child born face down. None of the names listed for his parents and siblings is an oríkì.6 (Ade Ajayi, 2001) A study of Johnson’s dynastic list of Ọ̀ yọ́ rulers through time until the nineteenth century yields no praise names (Oyewumi, 1997, 88). The local historian Johnson and his brother Obadiah had oríkì placed with their family totem in the author’s and editor’s prefaces of the book The History of Yorùbás. But what is not clear is when and how they acquired the names, given that they were born in the Yorùbá diaspora in Sierra Leone. (I will discuss the Johnson family history and naming practices later.) In Johnson’s time, such names must have already become institutionalized in places like Ibadan, where he grew up, New Ọ̀ yọ́ and Ogbomoso. But older historical documents, such as Johnson’s ruler’s list, and oral traditions, whether Ìtàn or larger oríkì oríle,̣̀ rarely contained names that one would readily recognize as oríkì. It seems logical to look at historical documents for oríkì names. However, it is important to note that the fact that we cannot find such a name for a particular person does not necessarily mean that they did not have one since oríkì are not everyday names that are used to identify a subject. Accounting for the gender specificity of oríkì looms large: and the answer to the gender question may lie in the origin of the name type.

To Gender, or Not to Gender? Making Sense of Praise Names Unlike any other indigenous name type, oríkì are today gender-specific in that male and female names seem to be distinguishable. No other Yorùbá names, whether the primary names, or àmútọ̀runwá, have gender 5  A nonauthoritative and disputed source claims Ayinla as the founder of Ilorin before the closing years of the eighteenth century. 6  One of Crowther’s sisters is named Amosa, a name that resembles an oríkì linguistically. I cannot ascertain whether this is an oríkì because it is also not common today.

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associations. The seniority-based system of social hierarchy is manifested in the naming of twins. The names Táíwò for the twin who is born first, and Kẹ́hìndé for the second born, are given regardless of sex. As I pointed out earlier, names for twins is the archetypal àmútọ̀runwá, and the assignment of names reflects the seniority principle encapsulated in Yorùbá kinship terms àbúrò (junior sibling) and ẹ̀gbọ́n (older sibling). The expression of seniority in naming twins also demonstrates the daily practice of hierarchy among siblings, in that Táíwò, who actually comes out of the mother first, is regarded as the junior. “The idea is that the first born was sent forward to announce the coming of the latter, and he7 is considered the younger of the two.” (Johnson & Johnson, 1921) Yorùbá do not distinguish between fraternal or identical twins, nor do they make a distinction among whether there are two boys, two girls, or mixed-sex twins. Twins are regarded as special kind of children with metaphysical powers, and their mothers must perform certain rituals in order for them to continue to survive. The same rituals are performed for twins regardless of their anatomies. I go to this length to explain Yorùbá names and naming practices in order to show how unusual the oríkì is in its apparent gender specificity. Are they in this regard, then, the exception that proves the rule that Yorùbá did not originally dichotomize their social world by using gender constructs? Given the gender-free nature of names, kinship categories, political titles, moral attributes, and the nongendering of social and political institutions before the nineteenth century, I am curious as to how and why oríkì are gender-specific at least in current usage and what this can tell us about the coming of gender paradigms in the culture. Against this background what is the origin of the praise name? Why are they seemingly gender-specific? What do these names tell us about social change? What do these names tell us about gender processes? Johnson had much to say about names. Writing from the middle of the nineteenth century, he observed the nongender specificity of Yorùbá names but made exception of personal oríkì declaring them to be gender divided. But he did not seem to think that such an unusual characteristic demanded an explanation. In fact, he builds on the gendered aspect of the name type:

7  Johnson’s use of the gendered pronoun “he” inadvertently adds gender to the seniority-­ based universe. Significantly, there are no gender distinctions made in whether the twins are two females, two males, or mixed sex.

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Oríkì or cognomen or pet name: this is an attributive name, expressing what the child is, or what he or she is hoped to become. If a male it is always expressive of something heroic, brave or strong: if a female, it is a term of endearment or of praise. In either case it is intended to have a stimulating effect on the individual. (Johnson & Johnson, 1921, 85)

Although Johnson’s unconscious gendering of experience through the use of English pronouns is a problem, I agree with him that female-­ identified oríkì are praise names intended to stimulate the individual and to express the love of parents for their children. But such sentiments are not limited to anafemale children; it is what parents anywhere desire for all their children. My point here is that female oríkì are stock names, and despite their apparent gender specificity in usage, they do not encapsulate any notion of femininity because moral and social attributes are not feminized or masculinized in the Yorùbá ethos; the sentiments they express are interchangeable from one child to the other, male or female. Thus the meanings of Àníkẹ́, Àṣàkẹ́, Àdùkẹ́, Àṣàbí, Àwẹ̀ró, Àmọ̀pé, Àjọkẹ́, Àbẹ̀bí— all female-identified oríkì—are similar or one and the same, emphasizing the preciousness of the child and the need to love, cherish, and pamper the offspring. Again, they are terms that express affection. What is the hope of the parents of Àdùkẹ́? That everyone the individual encounters should compete to cherish them. Is this not the hope of parents for all children, male and female? A cursory look at female-identified names will show that most of them end in “kẹ́,” a verb meaning to love or cherish. On the basis of such inventory, one might conclude that the verb to “kẹ́” has been feminized. Such thinking would be an error because there are many primary names that also contain the verb “ke,” which are not limited to males or females. For example, Adekemi, Obafunke, and Ikepo, all contain the verb but are not gender-demarcated. With regard to the meaning of male-associated oríkì, however, a different scenario becomes apparent. Unlike the female ones, the meanings of male names are varied, and seem more often to include verbs of agency, for example, Àjàmú (one who fights and triumphs) and Àjàní (one who fights and gets what he is fighting for). With regard to the female-identified oríkì, the names suggest what others should do for the child. But in regard to male oríkì we are told that these have more to do with characteristics of the child. Johnson’s claim that the names express parents’ gendered expectations for children is not borne out when we analyze the meanings of the names (more on this topic later). Like Johnson, few scholars of oríkì, if

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any, such as Oyelaran, T.  A Ladele et  al., Barber, A.  Oyetade, and Akintunde Akinyemi never asked any questions as to why oríkì names appear to be gendered even though all other types of Yorùbá names are not. My guess is that contemporary writers are living in an age dominated by a Western, Judeo-Christian, and Islamic cultures in which gendered names are normative. Steeped in Western intellectual theories, many Yorùbá scholars are not attuned to Yorùbá traditional norms and some may have a certain investment in the male superiority of present-day global culture. As far as I know, I am the first person to raise questions as to why oríkì are gender-specific in a universe of Yorùbá names that do not encode gender. Deconstructing the meanings of the names and discovering that there is nothing intrinsic in them that expresses femininity or masculinity immediately suggests that the gender associations are tied to usage. In fact, the parental desires they express are equally applicable to females and males. K.Yusuf8 seems to be the exception in that he addressed the issue of gender and oríkì in his writing. I cannot agree more with this linguist who concluded “that there is nothing in the linguistic and semantic structures of oríkì àbísọ9 that distinguish it as feminine and masculine, that oríkì àbísọ acquire gender associations from usage alone among the Yorùbá.”10 Two scholars disagree with this finding, and I will discuss them later. Of course accounting for why oríkì came to be used in a gendered fashion is part of the question. What is also obvious from the analysis of the pattern and meanings of the names is that female oríkì and male oríkì are so different that they appear not to have the same origin, which suggest that they may have developed for dissimilar purposes. It is my contention, therefore, that despite the fact that the female and male oríkì have become coupled in everyday use, and are treated as if they emerged together by most scholars, I aver that they have different histories and may have had nothing to do with each other originally. The majority of names in the genre are associated with females. Because the female oríkì names are truly praise names and define the category, I believe that the female ones emerged first as a distinct name category. Female oríkì, despite their numbers and apparent variety, all express the same thing: the desire that a child be cherished by  As cited in Akinyemi, “On the Meaning of Yorùbá Female Personal Oríkì (Oríkì Àbísọ).”  Some scholars such as Oyelaran refer to praise name as oríkì àbísọ and one finds this usage in the writings of linguists, many his former students. 10  As cited in Akinyemi, “On the Meaning of Yorùbá Female Personal Oríkì (Oríkì Àbísọ).” 8 9

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all. Strictly speaking, not all male oríkì are praise names; they are truly varied in meaning, and do not necessarily refer to the characteristic of the child so named. We will discover that oftentimes the name indicates a characteristic of the mother or father or conditions under which the child was conceived and not necessarily a personal quality of the child. In this sense, it is truly like other àbísọ, which are associated with the circumstance of birth or what the family, mother, or father are going through.

Disciplinary Debates: What Do Linguists Have to Say? As may have become apparent from earlier sections, since Johnson, the most consistent scholars who have studied oríkì are linguists. Despite the technicality of their research, I believe it is important to interrogate their findings on this subject. Undoubtedly, many important issues come to the fore when these names are analyzed from that disciplinary perspective. In a paper on tones in oríkì, B. A. Oyetade defined an oríkì as “a nominalized tri-syllabic” word (Oyetade, 1991, 55). From this perspective, tones on syllables are important, since in Yorùbá, a tonal language, “tonal information is part of the lexical representation of words and morphemes.” (Oyetade, 1991, 56) That is, the tones on Yorùbá words (indicating sound) are inherent in the structure of words and therefore are part and parcel of their meaning. Oyetade posited that of the 27 possibilities that tonal patterns can take in tri-syllabic Yorùbá words (such as oríkì), only three are utilized in these names. The majority of oríkì—both male and female—follow a predominant LLH (referring to low tone, low tone, and high tone) (Oyetade, 1991, 58). The second pattern LHH is fewer in occurrence and is found only in female oríkì. He writes, “I have not found a single male oríkì àbísọ with the LHH pattern.” (Oyetade, 1991, 59) Finally, Oyetade presents a third pattern, LMH (low, medium, high), in only a single oríkì: the female name Ajoke (Oyetade, 1991). What are the implications of this finding and what sense do we make of it in relation to gender? Oyetade does not say, but Olanike Orie, another linguist, has considered some of these findings in the light of her own research. Paying close attention to Oyetade’s finding that the LLH tonal pattern is the predominant one in oríkì names, in contrast to the LHH patterned names, which are fewer in number, Orie then asked the question, “Is this asymmetry in frequency an accidental gap, or does it follow from any

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principle of grammar?” (Orie, 2002) She believes that it is not accidental, given that there’s “a systematic robust pattern” that cannot be dismissed as insignificant (Orie, 2002). What then is this pattern that Orie sees that follows from a principle of grammar? Oyetade had made the observation that the predominant LLH pattern in oríkì names occur in both female and male appellations, giving us a list of 22 female and male names in this category. Second, he observed that the other, less predominant tonal pattern LHH occurs only in female names, giving us a list of 11 names. He concluded emphatically that he has not found a single male name exhibiting this tonal pattern (Oyetade, 1991, 59). Orie does not challenge any of these findings; she agrees with them. The problem to be unraveled from her viewpoint is not an asymmetry in the frequency of one set of toned-­ patterned names over the other; the asymmetry that she sees here is a gender asymmetry. Despite the fact that as many female names as male names occur in the predominant LLH tonal pattern, Orie labels it the male pattern. She then contrasts it with the LHH pattern, which contains exclusively female names as the female half. By doing so, she has introduced a gender binary where there was none. Orie then concludes that the explanation for the asymmetry in the occurrence of the LLH patterned names and the LHH patterned names is explained by a grammatical rule about “markedness distinctions” in which the male category is seen as unmarked, generic, and universalized to cover both males and females, and the female category is limited, restricted only to things female. (Orie, 2002, 134) She explains, The LLH pattern is more common than the LHH pattern because both male and female names are formed from it is explained if the LLH pattern is the unmarked form—the universal generic form that may have both masculine and feminine referents. The LHH pattern is less common because it is the marked form, the form reserved exclusively for creating feminine praise names. (Orie, 2002)

There are many questions to ask regarding Orie’s claims. First, how does a non-gender-specific category, LLH tonal patterned names, become transformed into a male-only category? Most fundamentally, what is the grammatical rule that overrides the presence of females and excludes them so totally in the definition of the category? There is no such rule, grammatical or otherwise, in Yorùbá. Orie had to go outside of Yorùbá language and culture to find such a male-dominant, gender-discriminating

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rule, and she found it in European languages and imports it to explain a Yorùbá sociolingual phenomenon.11 She writes: In languages such as English and French, masculine pronouns are sometimes used as universal signifiers that may have masculine or feminine referents. For example, in French, elles “they” is used when all referents are feminine. However if one of the referents is masculine, ils, “they” is adopted. Since the masculine form can be used for reference to both sexes, it is considered to be the unmarked form. (Orie, 2002, 134)

But Yorùbá is not English, French, or even another romance language, its cousin. The most basic reaction to Orie’s subterfuge is to point out that Yorùbá language has its own third-person pronoun, “wọn,” which has no gender associations whatsoever. Furthermore, Yorùbá categories, whether in grammar or in social reality, do not contain any gender rules. Yorùbá pronouns, names, and kinship categories are not gender-specific, and therefore the idea of a male generic does not arise. For example, the problem in English of the “ultimate generic” man used to designate male and female human beings does not arise in Yorùbá because humans are designated by the gender-neutral word ènìyàn (humans). The following is how I express this fact about Yorùbá culture in a previous work: There is no conception here of an original human type against which the other variety had to be measured. Eniyan is the non-gender specific word for humans. In contrast, “man” the word labeling humans in general in English that supposedly encompasses males and females, actually privileges males … Marilyn Frye captures the essence of this privileging in Western thought when she writes, “The word ‘woman’ was supposed to mean female of the species but the name of the species was ‘Man.’” (Oyewumi, 1997, 33)

Why then does Orie disregard everything she knows about Yorùbá grammar and culture to impose a European system on the language and its naming practices? Orie herself had noted at the beginning of her paper, “Although gender is marked in many languages, some languages do not classify nouns or pronouns in terms of gender. Yorùbá is considered an 11  Reference to Euro/America social norms in order to explain Africa is not unusual among African scholars, a legacy of colonial thinking and the fact that intellectual categories are insufficiently decolonized and remain Eurocentric. I have previously drawn attention to such a problem in the work of Jacob Olupona, scholar of religion.

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example of such a language; it classifies pronouns in terms of person and number, but not on the basis of gender.” (Orie, 2002, 115) According to linguists, because Yorùbá is a tonal language, tones are an intrinsic part of the structure and meaning of a word. This means that if the LLH patterned names contain both male and female oríkì, then these tone combinations cannot be said to be gender-discriminatory. The gender discrimination that Orie is alleging is extrinsic to the names and is clearly of her own making. The imposition by Orie of English- and French-­ language rules on Yorùbá is a colonial move if there ever was one, an archetypal disregard and erasure of the indigenous episteme. At a time when Western feminists are seeking to make their languages more gender-­ inclusive, like Yorùbá and many other African languages, it is unfortunate that Orie would move in the opposite direction. If it were that easy, many Western feminists would be happy to impose the rules of Yorùbá grammar on English and French. Can we by analogy impose the nongendered rules of Yorùbá grammar and dispose of “he” and “she” in English? Can we because of our love for French start referring to a table as “she” in the English language? Thus far, it is clear that the gendered nature of oríkì is more apparent than real, in that there is nothing inherent in the so-called male-associated names or female-identified names that makes them so, other than perception or convention. To put it another way, female names do not display any kind of femininity, neither do male names encapsulate heroism as one assumed mark of masculinity. The unfortunate thing is that scholars conflate female with femininity and male with masculinity. For example, Orie used female and femininity interchangeably. In a section of her paper titled “Femininity and Aesthetics,” she reports that one of her research subjects said that the oríkì “names Àgbékẹ́ and Àbákẹ́ were chosen for her daughters because they sound more feminine and attractive than names such as Àdùkẹ́ or Awekẹ́. In essence, this speaker views LHH names as displaying femininity and aesthetics, factors that may explain why LHH names are exclusively feminine.” (Orie, 2002, 135)

What Orie means to say here is that LHH names are exclusively female; we all know that because it would appear that all persons bearing the names are anatomically female. But what is feminine? And what is feminine in Yorùbá culture, since masculinity and femininity are cultural constructions, if ever and whenever they are constructed. What is the evidence

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of femininity in female oríkì names whose meanings are interchangeable? If it is true that LHH names are exclusively female and attractive to parents because they are feminine, why then are they so few? The answer of course is that such an analysis is incorrect. There is nothing in Àgbékẹ́ (one who is carried to be petted/pampered) that distinguishes it from Àdùkẹ́ (one whom we all fall over ourselves to pet/pamper) to suggest any level of femininity in either name. As I noted earlier, what is remarkable about female oríkì is the uniformity in their meanings and sentiment expressed in these names. Both examples of “feminine” and less “feminine” names that Orie proffers contain the verb kẹ́—to love, pamper, pet, nurture, or cherish—typical of most female praise names. Orie herself had pointed out that “feminine names contain verbs reflecting themes involving nurturing.” (Orie, 2002, 115) She also mentions that for most parents, the overriding choice of name is in the “semantics,” that is, the meaning of the name. (Orie, 2002) In truth with regard to female oríkì, they are more or less interchangeable, because they virtually mean the same thing. Another dimension of imposing gender on these names is apparent in the work of Akinyemi, who questions K.Yusuf’s accurate findings that there is nothing in the structures of oríkì names that distinguishes them as feminine or masculine, and that they acquire gender associations from usage alone. Akinyemi claims that oríkì names are not “gender neutral,” and that all the personal oríkì that are peculiar to female are feminine and cannot be given under any circumstances to male children in the Yorùbá tradition. Likewise, some personal oríkì are peculiar to males and such personal oríkì are masculine too and cannot be given to female children. This is not a taboo but it is not practiced in the society. (Akinyemi, 1993, 79)

Akinyemi’s argument that the names are feminine because they are female is tautological. At the very least, he needs to explain his usage of the terms. Female and feminine are not synonyms, and similarly male and masculine have different meanings. The terms “female” and “male” refer to the biological distinction of sex, which all human societies recognize, although in Western societies these terms already have social connotations. However, “feminine” and “masculine” more explicitly refer to distinct social expectations that some societies attribute to anatomic females and anatomic males, respectively. Though societies universally make

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anatomic sex distinctions for procreation purposes, not all have attributed social and moral attributes on the basis of distinct anatomies. Masculine and feminine categories are gender categories that carry social baggage, but anamale and anafemale categories are strictly bionatural. However, in societies like the West where gender thinking and practices are so ingrained, it is near impossible to separate the biological and social. In societies like Yorùbá, biological sex distinction did not carry any social or moral attributes and hence there was no gender. Perhaps, I should remind the reader that this is precisely why I coined the term “anasex” to underscore the fact that the Yorùbá biodistinctive categories (ọkùnrin and obìnrin) are not gender divisions. Consequently, Akinyemi’s claim that names are masculine and feminine in Yorùbá and are not interchangeable is simply incorrect because Yorùbá given names (àbísọ and àmútọ̀runwá), which form the vast majority of names, have no gender associations. If Yorùbá people had established notions of masculinity and femininity, then àbísọ, which are the everyday names by which individuals are identified, would be gender-­specific. They are not. It is also a fact that there are oríkì such as Àbẹ̀fẹ́ and Akoki that are given to both males and females; such oríkì names reflect the Yorùbá norm in which names are not gender-associated. Third, Akinyemi does not define masculine or feminine in Yorùbá society; therefore, it is difficult to know what he means by “female names are feminine” in a society in which these terms have not been defined. From the perspective of gender studies, he conflates male with masculine and female with feminine, a grave error, since male and female are often used to denote the biological anatomy, but masculine and feminine are social constructions that impute certain moral and social attributes to bodies. Like Orie in the preceding section, Akinyemi divides female-associated oríkì into two fields: “those depicting the tender nature of women” and “those depicting the beauty and the complete set of fundamental virtues in women.” (Akinyemi, 1993, 80) Names like Àníkẹ́, Àṣàkẹ́, and Àbíkẹ́, all containing the verb to pet, pamper, cherish, he puts in the first category. As I pointed out earlier, concurring with Oyetade, these verbs point to the desire to cherish a child—there’s nothing that says it is only a female child who must be cared for. But Akintunde writes that the verbs bẹ̀ (to beg) and kẹ́ (to cherish) in the names refer to “the tender care that would be given to the female child.” (Akinyemi, 1993) Because there is nothing semantically in these names to indicate male or female, we are left with no explanation for Akinyemi’s quirky and erroneous interpretation. Why

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should male children be excluded from care? He does not say.12 We also know that in Yorùbá society both male and female children are cared for and celebrated. With regard to the second category of oríkì names that he delineated, Akinyemi posits that they express “the complete set of fundamental virtues of the female child”; these include Àmọ̀pé, Àṣàkẹ́, Àrìnpé, and Àbẹ̀ní (Akinyemi, 1993, 81). Thus for him the verbs ṣà, “select carefully,” and pé “to be complete,” among others, speak to the “fundamental virtues of beauty that will make the child stand out” and presumably therefore attributes only relevant to the female (Akinyemi, 1993). Again, Akinyemi’s interpretation is unfounded and goes beyond the semantics of the name. What I hear in his coupling of female and virtues are echoes of the biblical virtuous woman,13 a far cry from the non-gender-­discriminatory traditional understanding of social virtue. Moreover, the notion that beauty in Yorùbá culture is gendered female is problematic. The most basic notion of beauty (ẹwà) links it to character (ìwà); thus ìwàlẹwà— character is beauty. The true mark of an ọmọlúàbí—a virtuous person—is his or her ìwà (character), which is truly the essence of beauty (ẹ̀wà). Males too are supposed to have ìwà and ẹwà—two inseparable virtues. It is character that beautifies. If anything, the oríkì names that are said to be explicitly about beauty are expressing the same thing as the other praise names—that this child is one who must be loved because it possesses attributes that one cannot but cherish. Thus female-associated oríkì names are testimonies about the good character of the subject, that is, a child, an attribute that compels love, care, and pampering. A Yorùbá primary name like Ọ mọlẹwà (child is beauty) or Arẹwà (the beautiful one) is given to both males and females. Oyetade, Akinyemi, Yusuf, and Orie have all paid close attention to the issue of gender in oríkì, and they must be lauded for having generated a debate in the field because for a long time, very little analysis of these names was done. They have certainly advanced the discourse. Nevertheless, the uncritical reflection of many scholars, especially linguists, on the gendered nature of oríkì names is perplexing, because they take it for granted even in the face of its unusualness. Perhaps because linguists are so focused 12  The irony is that in some cultures around the world the neglect and lack of care of the so-called girl child often resulting in infanticide has been one of the focal points of feminist activism around the globe. 13  “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies” (King James Version; Proverb 31:10).

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on the mechanics of words and treat these names as merely words as if they do not occur in social context. Names are the product of a language, society, and culture. If Orie and Akinyemi had taken seriously the idea that gendered praise names are an exception to Yorùbá cultural norms, in that names, pronouns, kinship categories, and social institutions are originally nongendered, then it would have been clearer to the scholars that they need to provide evidence for their claims. Why is it that up till now, the exceptionality of oríkì as gendered names has not attracted much scholarly attention? It is this question of the apparent gender exceptionality of oríkì that led me to this investigation. It would appear that some of the points of debate with the linguists are tied to disciplinary orientation in regard to what constitutes an anomaly, what it is based on, and how to resolve it. I cannot disagree with linguists that tones constitute part of the meaning of a Yorùbá word; therefore if LHH toned names are associated with only one category of a thing—in this case female names—then it must implicate “something.” I do not disagree that this occurrence must be accounted for, but where does one look in order to do this accounting. Tone pattern can indeed alert us that something is amiss but it cannot tell us what exactly is going on. As a student of society as a whole, I am suggesting that in order to understand why the LHH names are only found on names given to females, but do not encapsulate all female names that are present in a second category of gender-inclusive oríkì, we must go beyond the narrow confines of the discipline and look to other sources of evidence. Akintunde who is a literary critic does try to use other sources, but his claim that using female oríkì names for males is not a taboo but is not just done cannot be sustained. If something is not a taboo and is not presented as such, the only reason why it is female or what we say it is because of convention. Convention by definition is arbitrary and time-sensitive. To restate the point, without a clear statement that a particular practice is forbidden, and without an established rule undergirding a specific social practice, movement in time or space could immediately falsify a claim. In essence, the claim of genderness or nongenderness is not merely about prevalence at the time of observation, but must incorporate something more. The idea that there is nothing intrinsic in the so-called female oríkì that preclude their use for males is borne out by the fourth set of oríkì that have been identified as unisex (Orie, 2002, 136–137). These names include Àkànkẹ́, Àdùfẹ́, Àkòkí, Àmọ̀rí, Àyọ̀fẹ́, Àpèfẹ́, and Àṣàfẹ́. Although these names are unisex, they seem to be closer in meaning to female-associated oríkì in that

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they contain the verbs kẹ́ and fẹ́. Also, a good number of them are terms of endearment that sound as if they emerged out of a highly sexualized situation. Even more so then, it is interesting that they are not genderdiscriminatory. With this example, it is difficult to sustain Akinyemi’s argument that oríkì for some unstated reason are gender-­specific and betray masculine and feminine traits. Indeed, the three tonal patterns and their distribution may indicate something is amiss although they do not specifically point to what distinctions they encapsulate. I would suggest that what the distinctions in tonal patterns of LLH and LHH may represent is a difference in provenance. That is, a difference in the time period during which they were composed. Even the third type that contains only a single name—Àjọkẹ́—that so far has not been factored into the linguist’s analysis should be explained. The debate about tones can be framed differently. Why is it that female-­ associated names come in a variety of tone combinations but male-­ identified names come in only one tone pattern? The answer to this question may lie in the fact that the female oríkì pioneered the genre. In keeping with the principle that there is more variety at the original source of social and biological phenomena, I believe that the female-associated oríkì came first. What the tone debate suggests is that a certain cluster of oríkì must have come into being at a different time than others. My conclusion is that the LHH tonal names that are said to be exclusively female may have originated first and defined the genre. The meaning and significance of female-associated oríkì does not lie in individual names, but in the origins of the category as a whole, a development that implicates many other issues.

References Ade Ajayi, J.  F. (2001). A patriot to the core: Bishop Ajayi Crowther (p.  21). Spectrum Books. Agiri, B. (1981). Slavery in Yorùbá society in the 19th century. In P. E. Lovejoy (Ed.), The ideology of slavery in Africa (p. 123). Sage Publications. Akinnaso, N.  F. (1980). The sociolinguistic basis of Yorùbá personal names. Anthropological Linguistics, 22(7), 279. Akinyemi, A. (1993). On the meaning of yorùbá female personal oríkì (Oríkì Àbísọ)—A literary appraisal. Research in Yorùbá Language and Literature, 4, 82. Barber, K. (1991). I could speak until tomorrow: Oríkì, women, and the past in a Yorùbá Town (p. 17). Edinburgh University Press.

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Danmole, H. O. (1993). Samuel Johnson and the history of Ilorin. In T. Falola (Ed.), Pioneer, patriot, and patriarchy: Samuel Johnson and the Yorùbá people (p. 140). University of Wisconsin. Ayinla is an oríkì. Johnson, S., & Johnson, O. (1921). The history of the Yorubas: From the earliest times to the beginning of the British protectorate (p. 82). Negro University Press. Ladele, et al. (1986). Iwadii Ijinle Asa Yorùbá (pp. 164–165). Macmillan. Orie, O.  O. (2002). Yorùbá names and gender marking. Anthropological Linguistics, 44(2), 134. Oyelaran, O., & Adewole, L. (2007). Isenbaye Ati Ilo Ede Yorùbá (pp. 144–145). Center for Advanced Studies of African Society. Oyetade, B. A. (1991). Tones in the Yorùbá personal praise names: Oríkì Àbísọ. Research in Yorùbá Language and Literature, 1. Oyewumi, O. (1997). The invention of women: Making an African sense of western gender discourses. University of Minnesota Press.

Amharic Names, Naming Ceremonies and Memory Hewan Girma

Ethiopians firmly believe that a good, well-selected name can guide a child into opportunities needed for a lifetime of happiness and fulfilment. There are quite a few Amharic sayings that highlight the importance of names. For instance, Semen meleak yawetawal roughly translates to ‘names are conferred by angels,’ which highlights that names can reveal the true character or fate of the possessor. Similarly Tiru sem ke mekabir belay new, which translates as ‘a good name is above the grave (never dies)’ and Melkam sem ke melkam shito yebeltal, which translates to ‘a good name is more fragrant (valued) than good perfume’ both highlight the importance of a person’s name and by association their character. These are examples of how personal names encode character, history and traditions. Although names do not automatically and necessarily represent one’s identity, they are lifelong markers which reveal parents’ aspirations for their child and may determine the child’s path.

H. Girma (*) African American and African Diaspora Studies Program, The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Greensboro, NC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_3

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Naming practices in Ethiopian traditions are a combination of long-­ standing Christian and Muslim1 influences (Abbink, 1998; Gnamo, 2002; Zawawi, 1998). In addition to religious considerations, naming traditions in Ethiopia are extremely diverse both between and within ethnic groups and geographic regions. Yet, despite the importance of personal names and societal naming practices, studies on the naming patterns, ceremonies and significance of different Ethiopian ethnic and language groups are extremely limited (Gebre, 2010; Leyew, 2003). This chapter seeks to fill this knowledge gap by discussing Amharic names and their related naming practices and ceremonies. Within the predominantly Amharic-speaking regions of Northern Ethiopia, there are slight differences in practices between the regions of Gojjam, Shewa, Gondar, Wolo, etc. This chapter, however, highlights the similarities rather than dwelling on minute differences. In other words, this study is an attempt to bridge the gap in our understanding of the naming practices of an African ethnic group as names are useful tools to link a person to particular social groups, which carry strong ethnic and religious connotations. Within the traditions of the Amharic-speaking regions of Northern Ethiopia and adherents of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, there are three significant time periods when an individual receives a new name— first, at birth, or shortly thereafter, second, as part of the Orthodox baptism ritual, and third, upon marriage for women and in battle for men. Each of these three different ceremonies and practices provides an occasion to study complex social processes such as the formation of ethnic, religious and gendered identity. The first section of this chapter examines each of these three instances in detail, while the second part explores how Ethiopian-American author Maaza Mengiste employs proper names as tools for memorialization of war in her 2019 novel The Shadow King.

1  Christian influences in Ethiopia date back to the first century AD while Islam came to the nation in 630 AD. Historically, there has been a peaceful coexistence of Christian and Muslim populations, despite phases of violent antagonism and confrontation. While the naming practices of Ethiopian Muslims have not been included in this study, it partly mirrors the practices of Ethiopian Christians whereby adherents to the religion bear names from the Koran such as Ahmed, Ibrahim, Jibril and Mohammed. There is in fact a conflation of Arabic and Islamic names for Ethiopian Muslims. For instance, a name such as Sayid, which is an Arabic name meaning Lord or Master, is commonly bestowed upon Ethiopian Muslim males even though it is not a particularly a Muslim or Koranic name.

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‘World’ Names as Secular Identity In the traditions of northern Ethiopia, the first time a person receives a proper name is at birth or shortly thereafter. This first name (sometimes also known as ye alem sem or ‘world’ name) is most often not the only name individuals possess throughout their lives despite it often being the one marked in legal documents. While naming a child is the primary responsibility of parents, others in the family or community such as grandparents, uncles, aunts and neighbours may also confer names to children that may either be used as the primary name or an additional name. Unlike other African societies, which hold naming or ‘outdooring’ ceremonies, most Ethiopian children are given their ‘world’ names privately. The first instance of naming is not a ceremonial event in any sense; in fact, it is the least marked of all the naming processes. Most of the time, this initial naming event takes place right after birth, but may occasionally happen a few years after birth. If the naming occurs months or years after birth, children are called by ‘name place holders,’ such as mamush for boys and mimi for girls, which roughly translates to ‘little boy’ or ‘little girl.’ The ‘name place holders’ can be creative such as wuro (little cat), mititi, chuni, butu, kaku, chuchu, nuna, tutu, lili, etc. which all translate into some variation of ‘small.’ Moreover, most of these names are two or three syllables at most and are easy to pronounce. Sometimes these ‘name place holders’ are discontinued after a child receives a ‘formal/official’ world name, generally written on either the birth certificate or school records (when available). Most of the time, the ‘name place holders’ remain in use as an affective (second) name within the family. Families thus differentiate between the official name (frequently used outside of the home) and ye bet sim or the ‘house name’ (used within the household and by close kin). The ‘official’ world name can be generally considered to be a person’s secular name, and is differentiated from a person’s Christian or baptismal name, although it is commonplace to use Amharic names with spiritual connotations. To illustrate, the names Melaku (angel), Emnet (faith) and YeAbsera (God’s handiwork) are all Amharic proper names with Christian religious meanings. For both official and house names, most Amharic names are gendered. The same names can generally have both feminine and masculine variations. For gendered names, most have the same roots but become gendered based on the addition of specific suffixes. To illustrate, let us consider the common name Abebe/Abebech which means ‘to

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Table 1  Examples of common Amharic gendered names (source: Author)

Masculine

Feminine

Meaning

Abebe Bizuneh Dagim Kebede Leul Muluneh Tadele Zewedu

Abebech Bizunesh Dagmawit Kebedech Lulit Mulunesh Tadelech Zeweditu

S/he has flowered You are many Again (second child) S/he is respected Earth You are complete S/he is lucky Crown

flower.’ The difference between the masculine and feminine variations is the addition of the suffix ch for the feminine version. Similarly, another familiar name Bizuneh /Bizunesh which translates are ‘you are many’ has the added sh to differentiate the feminine version of the name from the masculine. Table 1 presents selected examples of Amharic gendered names with common roots and their respective meanings. On the other hand, Amharic gender neutral names are a limited stock. Most of the gender-neutral names tend to be an urban phenomenon, where there is a greater preference for innovation, rather than a reliance on extant stock (Leyew, 2003). Table 2 presents examples of Amharic non-­gendered (or gender-neutral) names and their respective meanings. In Ethiopia, there is no practice, as in the West, of a family name that gets carried around for generations. The use of forenames and surnames should not be taken for granted, as this reflects mostly a Western2 naming model (Barbour, 1999). Moreover, the diffusion of European names and naming traditions in parts of Africa is directly linked to the history of colonialism (Madubuike, 1994). Within the Ethiopian naming system, each individual is assigned their own proper name, followed by the name of the father, name of grandfather, name of great-grandfather and so forth. Names trace patrilineal lineage, meaning male generational continuities is given importance as opposed to matrilineal lineage. The naming system helps trace patrilineal lineage for three to four generations at the most for the average person, and much longer for nobility. Within the Amhara traditions, it is not uncommon for names to form whole sentences in the form of poetry. A child’s name is carefully bestowed 2  A system of permanent, heritable last names in European societies is a relatively recent historical innovation, notably linked to the documentation of private property rights and inheritance procedures.

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Table 2  Examples of common Amharic gender neutral names (source: Author)

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Name

Meaning

Addis Bisrat Fikir Haimanot Kalkidan Nafkote Sisay Wosen Zena

New Good news Love Faith, religion Promise, covenant My heart’s desire Prosperity, riches Boundary News

so that it rhymes or makes a sentence when combined with the father’s name and sometimes with the grandfather’s name and beyond. For instance, a father named Belete (which translates to as ‘higher’ or ‘better’) names his three daughters Fikir (love), Selam (peace) and Emnet (faith) in reference to Biblical teaching. Therefore, these three full names would be translated as ‘Love is better,’ ‘Peace is better,’ and ‘Faith is better.’ Below are some additional examples to illustrate the practices of sentence making in Amharic naming traditions. In italics, I list the first name as the child’s name while the second name is the father’s name and the third name is the grandfather’s name. In parenthesis, I provide the literal translation of the name, whereas at the end, I offer a more accurate rendering of the ‘full sentence’ names when considering both father and grandfather’s name. For example: 1. Yetayal (seen) Berhanu (light) Bogale (dazzling) means ‘we can see that the Light is Shining Brightly’ 2. Tewedaj (beloved) Mulugetta (full Lord) Teshome (appointed) translates to ‘a beloved noble has been appointed’ 3. Biruh (bright) Desta (happiness/joy) Zenebe (it has rained) signifies that ‘amazing joy is plentiful’ 4. Zelalem (forever) Sisay (abundance) Molalegn (it is full) when considered as a full sentence becomes ‘I am overflowing with eternal blessings’ Parents have therefore the possibility to be creative in choosing a child’s name to make sentences and as a result make statements on the family lineage. Consequently, naming a child becomes an intricate art form that is unfortunately dying out in urban areas.

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One of the changes introduced in legal documents in Ethiopia due to a Western influence is the adoption of the grandfather’s name as the ‘family’ name. Ethiopians traveling outside of the country would constantly be questioned about their family names (which as explained earlier does not exist in Ethiopian naming systems) and the official names on passports started becoming problematic. For instance, when filling out immigration documents in the US, most Ethiopians experience an undesired, de facto name change: The person’s grandfather’s name becomes the new last name while the individual’s father’s name gets transformed into a middle name when applying a Western naming system. Unable or disinclined to resist this incursion on their names, Ethiopians living in Western nations have resignedly accepted this undue imposition. Capitulating to outside influence (and also as a pragmatic solution), the Ethiopian government, in the past twenty years or so, has adopted the Western naming standards, at least when it comes to passports and other travel documents. Ethiopian passports now identify an individual’s grandfather’s name as the surname or family name, the individual’s name as first name, the father’s name as the middle name. This undertaking at ‘standardizing’ Ethiopian names is nothing more than capitulating to Western standards in naming practices, at least as it relates to official documents. This can also be interpreted as a Western cultural imperialism in a country that resisted colonization and remained fiercely independent throughout its history. Perhaps not as drastic as the renaming of enslaved and colonized Africans (Lake, 2003), it still strips away the cultural identity of the individuals, alienating them from their own unique cultural practices. This (self-) subjugation is by no means benign, but can actually lead to the erasure of local naming practices in the long run. Although the Ethiopian naming practices have partly acquiesced to the global (Western) system partly for its expediency, local practices, for the time being, continue unfazed. Scholars have recently started addressing the transformations that Ethiopian naming practices undergo upon international migration (Girma, 2020; Walsh & Yakhnich, 2020). We find that Ethiopian immigrants strive to find a balance between the values of their cultural heritage from their home country with those of the new host society. They confront the uneasy choice of conferring on their child a name reminiscent of their cultural heritage, a name unique to their host country, a neutral name, or something in between. As cultures are dynamic and always in flux, it would

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be interesting to see which aspects of these naming practices and ceremonies are still performed by the Ethiopian diaspora. In addition to this global incursion on Ethiopian naming systems, the stock of names also changes with the time’s sociopolitical rule. For instance, during the Derg communist regime (1974–1991), the masculine name Abiyot was highly popular. Abiyot means revolution, and it is reflective of the revolutionary ideas of the communist system that overthrew the Imperial regime of Haile Selassie. After the fall of the Derg in 1991, most boys and men that were previously known as Abiyot (officially and unofficially) changed their names to the a-political Abiy (which translates to ‘first’) because these two names are only one syllable apart. The ideas of the communist revolution were no longer en vogue but were rather seen as a mistake of times past. A famous example of such a name change is the prime minister of Ethiopia, Dr. Abiy Ahmed (in office 2018—), who used to be formerly known as Abiyot. This example highlights that naming can be shaped by changing political dynamics. An individual’s proper name (sometimes also known as ye alem sem or world name to differentiate from their Christian or baptismal name), generally given at birth or shortly thereafter, is therefore the name that is used in official and/or secular settings, such as school records, government identification, bank records, etc. This, however, is not the only name as individuals can have household pet names (ye bet sim) that most often start off as ‘name place holders’ until an official name is selected. Additionally, individuals can have baptismal or Christian names (if they are adherents of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church tradition), to which we will turn our attention to in the next section.

Christian (Baptismal) Names In the Ethiopian Orthodox tradition (Appleyard & Parry, 2007; Boylston, 2013; Diamant, 2017; Shenk, 1988), which counts over 45 million3 followers (or a little less than half of Ethiopia’s population), the second time a child receives a name is during baptism, which is carried out exactly on the 40th day for boys and 80th day for girls. In general, a baptismal name is a given name bestowed for religious purposes, and which is generally 3  Ethiopia has the world’s second largest Orthodox population after Russia with over 100 million adherents. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church influences every aspect of life for the majority of Ethiopians, from diets to holidays.

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used uniquely in religious contexts. Unlike the initial (secular) naming which takes place in private, baptismal naming is a public and highly ceremonial event. In this instance, it is not the purview of the family to choose a baptismal name; rather, the head priest conducting the ceremonies bestows the Christian (baptismal) name without consultation with the parents. Infant baptism is considered to be the first of many sacraments in the Orthodox Christian Church. This Christian name chosen during baptism by the priest will be employed in any event connected with the Church (communion, wedding, death, etc.). There is therefore a significant difference between a person’s secular name and their Christian (baptism) name. The baptismal name is understood to be the spiritual name of the individual and also the name that God would purportedly recognize, and is thus given much more importance than the secular name for adherents of the faith. This is also the name that is believed to be registered in the Book of Life enabling entry into heaven at the appointed time. The donning of a baptism name is a common practice amongst (Eastern) Orthodox Churches such as Greek Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, Romanian Orthodox, etc. The baptism ceremony is in effect an induction to the faith and recognition of membership into the Orthodox Church. The baptismal name is generally selected in concordance to the Saint’s feast day on which the baptism falls. For instance, if the baptism falls on the 21st of the month on the Ethiopian calendar,4 then the girl child will be named after some variation of Mariam since it falls on St. Mary’s day (which is celebrated on the 21st of every month). Similarly, if a boy child’s baptism day falls on the 12th or the 19th of the month, then he will be named after some variation of Michael or Gabriel, respectively, since the 12th of the month is St. Michael’s day and the 19th is St. Gabriel. Since every day of the month has some feast day associated with it (whether a major or minor feast day), there are no shortages of names. Traditionally, Ethiopian Orthodox Christians celebrate their ‘name day’ (i.e. the feast day of their patron saint), rather than their birthday.

4  Ethiopia follows a derivation of the Julian calendar (in contrast to the Gregorian calendar) with a total of 13 months: 12 months of 30 days plus a last month Pagume of 5 or 6 days based on whether it is a leap year. This calendar also serves as the liturgical calendar for members of the Orthodox Church.

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Generally, baptismal names are given after saint names in Ge’ez.5 Most Ethiopian Biblical names, which are borrowed from Hebrew, Latin or Greek, undergo phonological modifications and hence are pronounced and spelled differently in Amharic (as evident from Table 3). These names went through an indigenization process when they became incorporated into the Ethiopian Orthodox belief system (Shenk, 1988). Therefore a name like Stephen (also spelled as Steven) in English is Stephanus in Latin, Stephanos in Greek and Estifanos in Ge’ez/Amharic. Similarly, the feminine name Mary in English is the equivalent of Maria in Greek and Latin, Miryam in Hebrew and Mariam in Ge’ez/Amharic. Whereas some might interpret the Ethiopian versions of the saint names as corruptions of the original Greek or Hebrew, indigenization or localization is a more appropriate depiction. Baptismal names are gendered. There are in general a lot more male than female names, as the Bible is male-dominated. Most of the female baptismal names are some form of derivation of the names and acts associated with the Virgin Mary. In the Ethiopian Orthodox tradition, there are several feast days associated with the Virgin Mary such as celebration of her birth (Lideta), the immaculate conception of her son Jesus (Bisrat Gabriel based on the angel Gabriel announcing her conception to Mary), her assumption (Filseta), her forgiveness (Kidane Miheret), etc. Table 3 presents an alphabetical list of common masculine and feminine baptismal

Table 3 Common baptismal names (source: Author)

Masculine name

Feminine names

Amanuel (28th) Bisrat Gabriel (19th) Elias (1st) Estifanos (17th) Fanuel Merkorios (25th) Michael (12th) Petros (5th) Yohannis (4th)

Askale Mariam (21st) Ehete Mariam Hanna (11th) Lideta (1st) Wolete

5  Ge’ez is an ancient (dead) Ethiopian language which is currently used only as a liturgical language in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. It is closely related to Amharic, Tigrinya and Gurage languages which are still widely spoken by tens of millions in different parts of Ethiopia.

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names and, when applicable, the date associated with the feast date (and by extension, the baptismal day). In the tradition of baptismal names, one of the most famous examples from modern Ethiopian history would be the name of Emperor Haile Selassie . The Ethiopian Emperor, who ruled from 1930 to 1974, Haile Selassie was known by many different names including Janhoy, Talaku Meri and Abba Tekel (Selassie, 1999; Zewde, 2002). He was born in 1892 as Lij (honorific title meaning child of noble blood) Tafari Makonnen Woldemikael. His given name, Tafari, means ‘respected’ or ‘feared.’ Like most Ethiopians, his personal name ‘Tafari’ is followed by that of his father Makonnen and that of his grandfather Woldemikael. As Governor of Harar, he became known as Ras Tafari Makonnen. Ras is a rank of nobility translated as head, equivalent to Duke or Prince depending on the context. In 1916, he became regent under Empress Zewditu and in 1928, his title was elevated to Negus or King. On November 2, 1930, after the death of Empress Zewditu, Tafari was crowned Negusa Nagast, or King of Kings. Upon his ascension to the throne as emperor, Tafari Mekonnen adopted his infant baptismal (Ge’ez) name Haile Selassie (which translates as ‘Power of the Trinity’) as part of his regnal name. Among other things, Haile Selassie inspired the birth/growth of the Afrocentric religion Rastafari (MacLeod, 2014) which is interestingly named after his secular rather than his baptismal name. It was common for Ethiopian rulers to change their name upon coronation as carefully selected throne names (also known as throne names or sime mengiste) showed their supposed divine power6 or connection to previous esteemed rulers. Alternatively, the rulers (who are not elected and therefore who do not derive their legitimacy from the people) chose to be referred to by their baptismal names instead of their given (secular) names.7 For instance, Emperor Haile Selassie’s baptismal name which translates as the power of the Trinity already alludes to supernatural power (and therefore the power of the king’s authority). This name change or adoption of baptismal name as a coronation name is symbolic 6  Within the Ethiopian dynastic traditions, all royals trace their lineage (real or fictive) to Menelik I, son of King Solomon and Queen of Sheba. Haile Selassie’s full title in office was ‘Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, His Imperial Majesty (HIM) Haile Selassie I, King of Kings of Ethiopia, Elect of God.’ 7  Examples of other Ethiopian monarchs known by their baptismal names include King Menelik II (1844–1913) who was baptized as Sahle Maryam and Empress Zewditu (1876–1930) who was baptized as Askale Maryam.

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of the figurative transformation or perhaps even a sort of transfiguration of the ruler, which is deeply significant for a religious population. The symbiotic relationships between the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and the Imperial ruling system that governed the country for centuries is undeniable, as the Church legitimized the power of the ruling elites and vice versa (Karbo, 2013). Similar to those that are part of the imperial system, priests, particularly those in the higher echelons, also change their names to their baptismal names for everyday use. Through the example of naming, it is evident that Ethiopian political and religious authorities mirror one another. The names of the most recent co-patriarchs (heads of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church) illustrate this point very well. Abune (honorific title meaning patriarch) Merkorios (patriarch since 1988) was born Ze-Libanos Fanta, while Abune Mathias (patriarch since 2013) was born Teklemariam Asrat. In the interim, there was also Abune Paulos (patriarch between 1992–2013) who was born Gebremedhin Woldeyohanis. Baptismal names can also be used to dispossess the individual from their own culture and belief systems, particularly in relation to slavery (Benston, 1982). In Ethiopia’s seldom acknowledged history of internal slavery8 (Edwards, 1982; Zewde, 2002), the naming patterns of the enslaved reveals how religion played a role in reifying the widespread practice. Just like other religious groups in other parts of the world, it was unconscionable for Ethiopian Orthodox adherents to enslave people of the same religious background (Shell, 2018). Therefore, the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, which was closely related to the northern ruling system, purposely neglected to penetrate the southern territories of its empire, enabling a continued source of subservient populations. The domestically enslaved were taken mostly from the southern part of Ethiopia from ethnic groups such as the Shangella, Oromo, Konso and were generally enslaved by their neighbours. When the enslaved from the southern parts of the country, who were considered pagan, came to be employed in ‘respectable’ northern Orthodox Christian families, they would have to undergo adult baptism to be considered kosher enough to work in the household. As part of the baptism, the enslaved would be given a Christian name which would replace their original ethnic but considered pagan name. For instance the Christian female name Wolete is generally ­understood as a slave name when used outside the context of baptismal names. The intersection of baptismal names and domestic enslavement 8

 Slavery in Ethiopia was abolished in 1936 under the regime of Haile Selassie.

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thus highlights the prevailing power dynamics between different social classes in the Ethiopian feudal system. Moreover, there are clear parallels between this Ethiopian practice on naming in domestic slavery and the naming dispossession widely written about of the African diaspora as a result of the transatlantic slave trade (Hartman, 2007). In sum, Christian baptismal names play a significant role in the lives of Ethiopian Orthodox adherents. Although mostly used in religious contexts (marriage, death and other religious sacraments), a baptismal name can sometimes supplant the original given (secular) name for select individuals from royal rulers to the enslaved. At times, the baptismal day is accorded more importance and celebrated rather than birthdays, the latter being the norm in other parts of the world. Since the Orthodox Church was the main record-keepers prior to the advent of the modern state, baptismal records (and therefore baptismal names) remain a significant source of historical knowledge. In the next section, I discuss the gendered practice of bridal names and the renaming of women upon marriage.

Gendering Through Bridal Names In the Amharic-speaking regions of Ethiopia, the third time an individual, this time specifically women, get a new name is upon marriage.9 Although women in Ethiopia generally retain their full given names upon marriage, this practice comes with certain caveats. First, women’s names are not recorded (and therefore disappear) in the family lineage. As discussed earlier, the Amharic naming system records paternality (child’s name, followed by father’s name, followed by grandfather’s name and so forth), thus arguably perpetuating patriarchy. The ambiguity of Ethiopian women’s autonomy is therefore illustrated through this gendered naming practice. There is however a new innovation arising from the newer generations where individuals have started inserting their mother’s name as a sort of middle name. To illustrate this point using my own name, instead of Hewan Girma, I would be known as Hewan Debritu Girma (Debritu being the first name of my mother and Girma the first name of my father). This innovation reflects an instrumentalist gendered negotiation of personal names and patrilineal systems.

9  Marriages can either be arranged by parents or elders in the family, and increasingly, especially in urban settings, decided upon by the couple themselves.

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Second, married women are given what is known as ye dabo sim which is an additional (and sometimes a substitute) name bestowed upon a bride during an elaborate naming ceremony, part of the wedding festivities.10 The bride name is known as ye dabo sim (which literally translates as ‘bread name’) because after the bride gets her new name approved by the groom’s relatives, the bride and groom cut a freshly baked bread which then gets passed around to all the guests. Everybody who partakes of this bread has to correctly call out the bride’s new name or otherwise will have to forgo the bread. This also serves as a way of reinforcing the new name through its repeated utterance. Consider the following scenario (based on a compound of different bridal naming ceremonies I attended over my lifetime). In the evening of the main wedding day, close friends and family members gather together to continue the celebrations. A Master of Ceremony (MC) is selected to conduct the naming ceremony by gathering name suggestions and holding a (semi-democratic) voting on the final selection. The ceremony generally starts in jest and a few typical names are shouted from the groom’s side and shouted down or booed from the bride’s side. These are typically names that unashamedly praise the groom and not the bride. Similarly, the bride’s family put forth suggestions that highly praise the bride and the groom’s side would generally disagree with their selection. Generally, each person who suggests a name would have to stand up and offer an explanation of the names. After a few rounds of these light-hearted and humorous exchanges, the list of names would have to be narrowed down. The MC would then repeat the list of suggested names and their respective explanations before the voting begins. Generally, the mother-in-law gets the deciding vote on the new bride’s name, as this is going to be a significant first step in the relationship for both women. The names are either something that holds 10  A typical wedding ceremony in the northern parts of Ethiopia would consist of several days of festivities. The groom would first have to seek permission from the bride’s family by sending respected elders Shemagele to ask for her hand. After the two sides of the families discuss the terms of the marriage, the groom would then have to provide a Tilosh, a bride price or bridewealth, which can be anything from livestock to clothes and jewelry. The official day of the wedding Serg the bride joins her husband’s family. It is generally on this day that the bridal name is selected. On the second day of the wedding Meless (which loosely translates as ‘response’), the bride’s family invites the bride and groom for more festivities to continue the celebrations. A couple of days later, the groom’s family invites the bride’s family over for an official merging (Kilekel) of the two families, where the bride’s new name will continue to be used.

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relevance to the new family or some variation of werk or gold. It is a way of directly praising the new bride and most often indirectly praising the groom. The names generally showcase either the groom’s family’s appreciation for the new addition to their family, or if one side is unhappy with the match for whatever reason, to voice their displeasure. Most of the time, the chosen name will have a double entendre in the Ethiopian tradition of Qene or wax and gold (M. Girma, 2011). Qene is a mode of expression, which historically developed in the courts of the Ethiopian royal families, through which the speaker can directly and indirectly convey double or even triple meanings. The listener would have to uncover the ‘Wax’ (Sem) and ‘Gold’ (Werq), where the wax is the obvious meaning while the gold is the hidden message. To illustrate, a common bridal name is Zuriyashwerk meaning ‘you are surrounded by gold.’ This name directly praises the bride and shows that she is much treasured (this is the wax or obvious meaning). At the same time, within a patriarchal society where the man is expected to be the provider, Zuriyazhwerk can also be interpreted as praise to the groom who is able to lavish his bride with an enviable lifestyle (this is the Werq or hidden meaning). Similarly, another oft selected name is Enkoiyehush which directly translates as ‘Glad I saw you’ but can have two different meanings in the tradition of wax and gold. The first meaning is expressing joy at witnessing a good match, while the second, more insidious meaning is expressing derision at seeing a disagreeable match and a somewhat deficient bride. Table 4 presents a list of common bridal names, most with double meanings, selected during the bridal naming ceremonies. The bridal naming ceremony is a way of both introducing and claiming a new member of the family. By naming the new bride, it serves as a visible way of exercising power over the newest and least powerful member of the family. This bridal naming has become merely ceremonial nowadays, Table 4  Common bridal names (source: Author) Bridal name

Sem or obvious meaning

Werk or hidden meaning

Enkoiyehush Keabnesh Enku Zuriyash work Zerfeshewal

Glad I saw you You are a jewel from God

You are lacking We have exalted you

Surrounded by gold Our son is gold You got a good groom (He’s a catch) You have stolen him (you do not deserve him)

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particularly in urban settings. However, historically, the (re)naming of the bride was paramountly permanent. The groom’s family, particularly the mother-in-law, would call the new bride only by her new name, while her own birth family would be the only ones who remember and still employ the old name given at birth. As depicted above, the bridal (re)naming is a highly ceremonial event. While the bride has no say in the new name selected for her, both sides of the families participate in this semi-democratic event. The bride’s new name enables the groom’s family to express their dis/pleasure at the match, either directly, but most often in the indirect way of the tradition of Qene or wax and gold. This new name will be used within the groom’s family setting, particularly by the mother-in-law. However, in urban settings, although the (re)naming ceremonies are still widely practiced, the selected names are forgotten soon after the wedding festivities are over. The bride will continue using her original (secular) full name for all purposes, public and private.

Horse Names (Ye Feres Sim) as Expressions of Masculinity We can contrast the tradition of bridal names with the practice of ye feres sim or horse names generally acquired by men during warfare. In different African contexts, it was common to fight or engage in combat under an assumed name, a fierce nickname intended to highlight the valour of the soldier and strike fear in the hearts of the enemy11 (Makoni et al., 2010). In Ethiopian warfare, different animals such as horses, mules and donkeys formed an integral part of either an armed cavalry or used for transport, scouting, patrol and reconnaissance. The horses of warriors were given unique names in battle describing the rider, usually praising him for his bravery. People would then start addressing the warriors by the names of the horses they rode. Consequently, horse names are often adopted as 11  In the Zimbabwean context, particularly during the liberation war, combatants adopted war names for both security reasons (i.e. to disguise their true identities) and to establish a new identity “in preparation for the new independent state” (Makoni et  al., 2010). The Zimbabwean combatants either gave themselves their new names or their fellow combatants conferred on them war names. War names given or adopted in the Zimbabwean liberation war ‘were seldom used again’ after the end of the war. In contrast, Ethiopian horse names transcend the initial war or battle where the names were conferred.

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noms de guerre or ‘war name,’ referring to the pseudonyms used during wars by soldiers and warriors. Berhane-Selassie expresses it this way: Men created their own horse-names or were given them by family, household members or friends. With rider and horse seen as identical in most paramilitary games, owners, retainers and admirers used these strictly personal names during warfare, other military activity, or whenever the need arose for using terms of endearment. The horse-name, with its prefix Abba, ‘Father of’, indicated ownership, control, aspiration, character, or mission desired and intended in warfare. […] Horse-names acquired in youth remained for life, irrespective of what happened to the original horse. (Berhane-Selassie, 2018, pp. 155–156)

The horse name is therefore not given by parents, family members or priests, but rather by the warrior’s compatriots in warfare. In other words, it is a coveted, acquired name indicating a respected status. Horse names were added to or substituted for men’s given and baptismal names. They were highly valued, praised in specialized songs and literary12 depictions. Even after the end of a war, horse names tended to overshadow or even replace other names as men would then start being addressed by their horse names as a sign of respect. Horse names can be divided into different categories related to the character of the rider (kindness, generosity), a message to be conveyed (anger or bravery), or even the colour of the horse (Wäldä-Mäsqäl & Tafla, 1969). Subjects, servants and squires would use the horse name of their master to praise him using songs and flattering poetry. Horse names are therefore conferred marking the entry into a new phase of adult life. The conferring of horse names is a predominantly male practice and even though women could also ride horses, be warriors, and demonstrate their bravery, they did not assume horse names similar to their male counterparts. 12  In Maaza Mengiste’s The Shadow King (discussed more at length in the next section), the carefully selected names (Buna and Adua) of the horses of the two main characters have significant symbolic value. Buna is the Amharic word for coffee, a quintessential Ethiopian drink (Ethiopia is after all the birthplace of coffee), while Adua (also spelled as Adwa) was a humiliating defeat for Italian troops in 1896, crushing their colonial dreams during the scramble of Africa and also one of the first places they recaptured in 1935. The Italians even tore down a historic obelisk from Aksum and reassembled it in Rome in front of the ‘Ministry of Colonies’ building. Unfortunately, these two horses (and the associated horse names) do not have a significant role in the overall storyline of the book.

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Table 5  Examples of horse names and their meaning (adapted from ‘Nineteenthcentury horse names’ in Berhane-Selassie, Ethiopian Warriorhood: Defense, Land & Society 1800–1941) Horse names

Meaning

Abba Seytan Abba Dagnew Abba Bezibiz Abba Jihad Abba Tatek

Father of Satan Father of justice Father of plunder Father of the Jihad Father arm yourself

The horse names in Table  5 are real nineteenth century names of renowned kings and military leaders as discussed by Berhane-Selassie (2018). For example, Abba Tatek was the horse name of Tewodros II, Emperor of Ethiopia from 1855 until his death in 1868. Emperor Tewodros was also known by his ‘world’ or secular name of Kassa Hailegiorgis and his baptismal name of Sahle Dingil. Similarly, Abba Dagnew was the horse name for Menelik II who was the Emperor of Ethiopia from 1889 until his death in 1913. Baptised as Sahle Maryam, he was mostly known by this name until he took on the name Menelik upon his rise to power. Menelik II took his name from the originator of the Solomonic dynasty, Menelik I, the son of King Solomon and Makeda, Queen of Sheba. Although the exact origin of Ethiopian horse names has not been established, it most likely emanates from the Oromo group who were renowned for their horsemanship and established early cavalries (Pankhurst, 1989; Mekouria, 1966). By the late eighteenth century, the practice of horse names was prevalent and extensively used throughout northern Ethiopia as well as the rest of the country. The use of horse name effectively ended with the end of the Haile-Selassie regime in 1974 and the rise of the Derg communist regime. The system of nobility was supplanted by a modern army that was the antithesis of the old rules. The above discussion illustrates the most significant naming practices and ceremonies in the life of Northern Ethiopia. While naming in Ethiopia can also be a combination of private events and public ceremonies, the first proper (secular) name can be supplanted by baptismal names for Orthodox adherents and by bridal names for married women and horse names for male warriors. Sometimes these new names serve as substitutes for the original name, but most times, they serve as additions as individuals can

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have a series of names that can be used in specific instances (within the family, for religious purposes, etc.). Based on this overview of naming practices, let us examine how Ethiopian names are deployed in literature.

Naming and Memory in Maaza Mengiste’s The Shadow King Maaza Mengiste’s, 2019 historical novel The Shadow King lends itself to an interesting discussion of names as an apropos tool for memorialization in times of war. Set during the second Ethiopian Italian war (1935–1941), The Shadow King artfully weaves the story of women thrust in the middle of a war brought on by Italian colonial ambitions in East Africa. Maaza enables the reader to inhabit the war period through the eyes and experiences of her characters, while examining complex historical fissures between nations and empires. Through the use of personal names, the novelist emphasizes who rather than what should be remembered. The Shadow King opens with the protagonist, Hirut, sitting in a train station recalling the names of women warriors she fought alongside during the Italian colonial invasion of her homeland. While most of the story takes place between 1935 and 1941 during the second Ethiopian-Italian war, both the prologue and epilogue are staged in 1974. The year 1974 is significant as this is the year that Emperor Haile Selassie was toppled by a communist coup d’état, bringing with it the end of the thousands of years of Ethiopian Solomonic dynasty. Prologue: “…some of the greatest fighters Ethiopia had ever known, women named Aster, Nardos, Abebech, Tsedale, Aziza, Hanna, Meaza, Aynadis, Debru, Yodit, Ililta, Abeba, Kidist, Belaynesh, Meskerem, Nunu, Tigist, Tsehai, Beza, Saba, and a woman simply called the cook. Hirut murmured the names of those women […] each utterance hurling her back in time….” (p. 4)

The last pages of the book feature a similar list of both women and men’s names, names of Ethiopian soldiers, arbegnoch, an irregular army, guerilla fighters, who fought against and sustained a resistance to the five year long Italian occupation. Epilogue: “Getey, Fasil, Aster, Nardos, Zenebwork, Siti, Tesfaye, Dawit, Beniam, Tariku, Girum, Amha, Bekafa, Bisrat, Desta, Befekadu, Saleh, Ililta,

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Meaza, Lakew, Ahmed, Eskinder, Biruk, Genet, Gabriel, Mattewos, Leul, Hoda, Birtukan, Mulumebet, Estifanos, Hewan, Lukas, Habte, Mimi, Kiros, Mohamed, Wongel, Atnaf, Jembere, Imru, Senait, Yosef, Mahlet, Alem, Girma, Gelila, Birtukan, Freiwot, Tiruneh, Marta, Harya, Hayalnesh, Mengiste, Zinash, Petros, Anketse, Sergut, Mikael, Mogus, Teodros, Checole, Kidane, Lidia, Fifi and Ferres, and the cook, the cook, the cook […] (p. 423)

These two lists of names serve as mirror images of one another with one (slight) difference: In the prologue, we find only women’s names while the epilogue’s longer list of names includes men’s names. Although it is not quite clear why the author made this choice of gendered names, these lists of names are a sort of wake-up call for memory and a warning against forgetting. Names highlight the individual in collective memory. In other words, the brave Ethiopian warriors are not nameless, faceless masses. In the last pages of the book, the author alludes to the importance of this list of warrior names. … and as she [Hirut] says their names, she feels them gather around her and urge her on: Tell them, Hirut, we were the Shadow King. We were those who stepped into a country left dark by an invading plague and gave new hope to Ethiopia’s people. […] as the door closes behind them, Hirut stands tall and repeats the names of those who came before her, of those who fell as she rose to her feet… (p. 423)

Recalling the list of names is therefore a sort of redemption, a rallying cry against social amnesia. These names help us remember the forgotten warriors who bravely fought to maintain Ethiopia’s independence from European colonial incursion. In addition to the lists of names, Maaza Mengiste makes a poignant remark about names as she includes one character ‘who refuses to give her name’ and another named Minim (nothing). The character who refuses to give her name is simply known as ‘the cook.’ Commenting on why no one knows the cook’s actual name, we get the following explanation: “The cook. I know, it’s strange. She says she was stolen as a child, brought to work for a family. She refused to give them her name. So she’s the cook.” (p. 219). After this explanation, one Italian soldier exclaims with frustration “What is it with your people and their names?” (p. 219). Although nameless, the cook is an important character who points to a form of domestic slavery seldom addressed in Ethiopian history. The cook becomes

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a historian of sorts. In one of the most powerful scenes of the book, captured Ethiopian soldiers are thrown off a cliff, with their hands and feet bound, by the Italian military. The cook smuggles the condemned prisoners some astefaris (a medicinal plant) to numb the mind and lessen the pain. In addition to this minor mercy, she promises to record their names ensuring that they are not forgotten. … tell me who you are, she [the cook] says. Tell me slowly and repeat it three times, and I will make sure you are known. I will make of you a remembrance worthy of this fall. Say your name to me now. Say your name as you are photographed. Say it as you leap into the air and learn to fly. Do not let them forget who they have killed. (p. 290)

The repeated utterance of the fallen’s names ricochet in the valley, demanding to be remembered, refusing to be forgotten. The cook then scurries away from the harrowing scene to ensure that the names are recorded one by one so that, at the end of the war, they can be memorialized. The irony is that it is the cook, the one character who refuses to give her own name in the entire novel, who ends up recording all the names of the martyrs. In addition to the cook, Minim is another important character in the book with an unusual name. Minim translates as nothing, a very unique and uncommon Amharic name. The character explains his name this way: “My mother named me Nothing, Minim,13 do you know why? Because I had an older brother who died, and after him, what’s left?” (p. 236). His nothingness enables him to be a blank canvas on which the persona of a king can be inculcated. Minim, in the absence of the true king, becomes transformed into the shadow king, the namesake of the book. The real king, Emperor Haile Selassie, was exiled in Europe for the duration of the war and engaged in diplomatic and propaganda war from abroad. The shadow king therefore becomes a decoy, a rallying cry, a subversive symbol for a guerilla army orphaned by the exile of the true king. Minim learns to  We can draw parallels between the unusual name of the fictional character Minim with the real life name of Ethio-British poet and author, Lemn Sissay. Lemn’s given name means ‘why,’ another very unusual Amharic name. Although it is not explicitly clear why Lemn’s mother named her child ‘why,’ her infant was forcibly taken from her as a Black unwed mother and put into the British care system in the late 1960s where he experienced grievous abuse at the hands of racist adoptive parents and service providers. In his memoir aptly titled My Name is Why (Sissay 2019), Lemn discusses how he was known by a different British name (Norman) for the first decade of his life, and discovered his initial given name as a teenager. He started using his given Ethiopian name to reclaim his lost identity after adoption through deception. 13

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embody the royal personhood in order to give hope to the fighting masses who were demoralized without the clear presence of a leader. Yet, Minim, the supposed official shadow king is a nothing character and the real Shadow Kings emerge as all the women who were fighting in multitude ways to maintain their country’s independence. At the end of the war when the shadow kings were no longer needed, Emperor Haile Selassie is welcomed in victory with the people shouting out his many names: “As the emperor lifts his hands to bless his beloved subjects, they shout his many names: Jan Hoy, Negus Nagast, Abbatachin, Haile Selassie, Ras Teferi Mekonnen” (p. 241). Minim, having served his purposes, returns to the anonymity of his life as a common farmer. Maaza’s deployment of names is therefore a powerful tool for memory. She provides us with a list of names at the beginning and end of the book to emphasize that we should remember these names. They deserve to be remembered and memorialized. Maaza includes a character who refuses to give her name and another named ‘nothing.’ She underscores how recording names can be an act of resistance in war. The Shadow King itself is an intervention against historical social amnesia. The novelist thus highlights the importance of names in Ethiopian society.

Conclusion From something as simple and seemingly innocuous as personal names, we can learn much about Ethiopian culture, gender and power dynamics. This study focuses on a single language group in Ethiopia (Amharic) and discusses naming practices mostly from the northern part of this multi-­ ethnic country. Since Ethiopia has over eighty different languages and just as many ethnic groups, the wealth of cultural knowledge still to be written about is substantial. It would be a disservice to African studies and knowledge production if we do not explore the linguistic and cultural complexities in our names and naming practices.

References Abbink, J. (1998). An historical-anthropological approach to Islam in Ethiopia: Issues of identity and politics. Journal of African Cultural Studies, 11(2), 109–124. Appleyard, D., & Parry, K. (2007). Ethiopian christianity. The Blackwell companion to Eastern Christianity, 117.

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Barbour, A. (1999). Where do American family names come from? Presented at the Annual Conference of the National Council of Teachers of English. Benston, K. W. (1982). I yam what I am: Naming and unnaming in Afro-American literature. In Black American literature forum (pp. 3–11). , School of Education, Indiana State University. Berhane-Selassie, T. (2018). Ethiopian warriorhood: Defence, land and society 1800–1941. Boydell & Brewer Limited. Boylston, T. (2013). Food, life, and material religion in Ethiopian orthodox Christianity. In J. Boddy & M. Lambeck (Eds.), A companion to the anthropology of religion (pp. 257–273). John Wiley and Sons. Diamant, J. (2017). Ethiopia is an outlier in the orthodox Christian world. Pew Research Center. Fact Tank. Accessed April 1, 2021, from https://www.pewresearch. org/fact-­tank/2017/11/28/ethiopia-­is-­an-­outlier-­in-­the-­orthodox-­christian-­world Edwards, J. R. (1982). Slavery, the slave trade and the economic reorganization of Ethiopia 1916-1935. African Economic History, 11, 3–14. Gebre, Y. (2010). Cultural contact and change in naming practices among the Aari of Southwest Ethiopia. Journal of African Cultural Studies, 22(2), 183–194. Girma, M. (2011). Whose meaning? The wax and gold tradition as a philosophical foundation for an Ethiopian hermeneutic. Sophia, 50(1), 175–187. Girma, H. (2020). Black names, immigrant names: Navigating race and ethnicity through personal names. Journal of Black Studies, 51(1), 16–36. Gnamo, A.  H. (2002). Islam, the orthodox church and Oromo nationalism (Ethiopia). Cahiers d’études africaines, 42(165), 99–120. Hartman, S. (2007). Lose your mother: A journey along the Atlantic slave route. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Karbo, T. (2013). Religion and social cohesion in Ethiopia. International Journal of Peace and Development Studies, 4(3), 43–52. Lake, O. (2003). “Renaming African people” in blue veins and kinky hair: Naming and color consciousness in African America (pp. 1–16). Praeger Publishers. Leyew, Z. (2003). Amharic personal nomenclature: A grammar and sociolinguistic insight. Journal of African Cultural Studies, 16(2), 181–211. MacLeod, E. C. (2014). Visions of Zion: Ethiopians and Rastafari in the search for the promised land. NYU Press. Madubuike, I. (1994). A handbook of African names (2nd ed.). Three Continents Press. Makoni, B., Makoni, S., & Pfukwa, C. (2010). Language planning, language ideology and entextualization: War naming practices. Names, 58(4), 197–208. Mekouria, Tekle-Tsadik. (1966). Les noms propres, les noms de bâptème et l'étude généalogique des rois d'Éthiopie (XIII-XXe siècles) à travers leurs noms patronymiques: étude d'Éthiopie. Mengiste, M. (2019). The shadow king. W. W. Norton & Company.

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Pankhurst, R. (1989). The early history of Ethiopian horse-names. Paideuma, 197–206. Selassie, H. (1999). My life and Ethiopia's progress: The autobiography of Emperor Haile Selassie (E. Ullendorff, Trans.). Frontline Books. Shell, S. R. (2018). Children of Hope: The odyssey of the Oromo slaves from Ethiopia to South Africa. Ohio University Press. Shenk, C. E. (1988). The Ethiopian orthodox church: A study in indigenization. Missiology: An International Review, 16(3), 259–278. Sissay, L. (2019). My name is why: A memoir. Canongate Books. Wäldä-Mäsqäl, M.-S., & Tafla, B.. (1969). A study of the Ethiopian culture of horse-names/ . Journal of Ethiopian Studies, 7(2), 195–303. Walsh, S. D., & Yakhnich, L. (2020). “Maybe One Day I Will also be Almito”: Ethiopian Israelis, naming, and the politics of immigrant identity. International Migration Review, 1–29. Zawawi, S.  M. (1998). African Muslim names: Images and identities. Africa World Books. Zewde, B. (2002). A history of modern Ethiopia (pp.  1855–1991). Ohio University Press.

Engendering Personal Names in Basaa Culture: From the Origins to the Epic Tradition and Beyond Bertrade Ngo-Ngijol Banoum

Introduction Imagine introducing yourself to your students on the first day of class at an urban American university as Professor Bertrade Ngo-Ngijol Banoum. The now predictable students’ reaction each semester is: “Do we have to use all your names?” “Can we just call you Professor Ngo?” The latter query prompted me to insert a hyphen between Ngo and Ngijol to signal that the two are inseparable. Students continue, “Can we just call you Professor Banoum?” “Can we just call you Professor Bertrade?” My unequivocal response is “Yes” to the first question and to the others, “Absolutely not! Every single component of my name has a meaning and it is the sum total of who I am that makes my name”. I then proceed with a deconstruction of my name to make my point: Bertrade is a French first B. Ngo-Ngijol Banoum (*) Department of African & African American Studies, Lehman College-CUNY, Bronx, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_4

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name but I am not French, Ngo means “the daughter of”, Ngijol is my father’s name, and Banoum is my paternal grandfather’s name. [Footnote: It is clear who is missing in a Basaa traditional naming system—the mother.] In other words, calling me Professor Bertrade will be inappropriate as it is a first name and the title professor should be followed by a last name. Calling me Professor Ngo will not stand as it is incomplete, “the daughter of whom?” And calling me Professor Banoum will make me a man and violate a Basaa sacrosanct tradition of marking gender in the naming process. Yet for the sake of convenience, many find it easier to simply use “Banoum”. At a campus event, my brother kept hearing a mispronounced “Professor Banoum” and he immediately asked me how that could be, as his name is Banoum, and only a man can be so designated. His shock and the encounter students have with my name aptly capture the complexities of Basaa naming conventions. Each component of the name is multi-layered and carries specific meaning(s), including kinship, ethnicity, creed, and gender, which is the concern of this study. Gender-­ specific naming stands out as boys and girl are traditionally named differently at birth. The topic is significant and needs academic attention, as scholars pursue our explorations of various ways in which gender is constructed in diverse societies. I thus set out to investigate the centrality of gender in Basaa names and naming practices, its motivations and possibly some implications and ramifications in other social practices, structures, and institutions. A name is defined by Merriam Webster Dictionary as “a word or phrase that constitutes the distinctive designation of a person or thing”. Onomastics is the study of names and naming systems. Basaa personal names or anthroponyms are the focus of this chapter. Agyekum (2006: 211) usefully asserts that “naming can be considered as a universal cultural practice; every human society in the world gives name to its newborn as tags majorly as a means of identification, but how the names are given, the practices and rituals involved and the interpretations attached to the names differ from society to society and from one culture to another”. How then are Basaa personal names engendered? The verb to engender carries a double meaning in this question—to create or to produce personal names on the one hand, and to construct or to embody gender in personal names on the other. The double question then to be addressed in this inquiry is: “How are Basaa names created?” and “How is gender embodied in these names?” To answer these questions, this study explores the genealogies of Basaa ancestors and the foundational Epic of Hiton. These traditions

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showcase insightful naming practices and patterns, with deep roots in the people’s cultural heritage. Beyond the ethnographic and linguistic descriptions, the names of Basaa founding parents and protagonists in the culture epic consistently underscore the significance of gender. Basaa indigenous names are consistently gendered and seem to shape gendered identities based on differential conceptualizations of men and women. Yet the gender dimension of African naming practices in general, and Basaa ones in particular, has not been examined sufficiently in academic arenas. Why name girls and boys differently? Would this differential naming pattern have other implications in individual and/or institutional spheres? How would gendered names and naming systems impact gender balance in society? These are all crucial questions, yet no specific study has focused on them; only peripheral mention has been made in some scholarly works on Basaa culture and language (Bitjaa Kody, 2010; Bot ba Njock 1970; Mboui, 1967; Ndebi Biya, 1987; Ndjewel Ndjewel, 1980; Njock, 2007; Titi Nwel, 1985). The present study aims to fill this critical gap, by interrogating the bases and significance of gender construction in Basaa personal names. Onomastic scholarship has been abundant in Southern Africa, which is home to the Bantu family of languages (Doke, 1954). The region claims numerous academic works including Suzman (1994), Neethling (2005), Ngubane and Tabethe (2013), Nyambi et al. (2016) and is anchored by the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSA), and its journal Nomina Africana. Conversely, studies of names and naming among other Bantu-­ speaking/African societies are few and far between (Akinnaso 1980;  Kimenyi, 1989; Shottman 2000;  Ndinga Mmbo 2004; Batoma, 2006; Mamusse Diagne 2005, 2006; Ngade 2001). The common thread stitched through all the studies reviewed is the great significance of African naming and ways in which personal names are deeply rooted in the people’s ancestral values, belief systems, cosmology, epistemology, geography, and history. As sociologist Oyewumi aptly states, “Naming systems are by definition knowledge systems given the epistemic values of names” (2016: 151). An important aspect that has only minimally been studied is the gender dimension of African naming systems. Few studies have focused on onomastic practices and gender (Rapoo, 2002; Bongaju, 2005; Oyewumi, 2016). Yet this is an important area of research, as scholars from diverse disciplines continue to unearth various ways in which the category of gender is constructed cross-culturally, notably across African societies. Sustained searches have yielded no academic study devoted to Basaa

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naming systems, let alone its gendered patterns. My objective in this chapter then is to investigate Basaa onomastics, with a particular emphasis on ways in which women and men are assigned names on the basis of their gender. What then is in a Basaa name? I will first provide the socio-cultural context which constitutes the background for Basaa names and naming practices. The second and main concern of this inquiry is an attempt to address the question, “How are Basaa names engendered?” Answers will be based on a sociolinguistic analysis and semantics of the names of the society’s founding parents and the protagonists of the culture Epic of Hiton. What do these foundational traditions teach us about the people’s original naming patterns and their conceptualizations of femininity and masculinity?

Who Are the Basaa? The Basaa are Bantu people located in Southern Cameroon. The Republic of Cameroon, located on the west coast of Central Africa, is bordered by Nigeria to the west, Chad to the northeast, the Central African Republic to the east, and Equatorial Guinea, Gabon, and the Republic of the Congo to the south. After massive migrations in the thirteenth century, the Basaa people moved southward and established their first settlement in Ngok Lituba (Rock with a Hole/Hollow Grotto), on the right bank of the Sanaga River, and later organized into Mbok Liaa (Society of the Rock). They are today established in three major communities in the southern forest zone up to the Atlantic coast: Babimbi, Bikok, and Likol. Ngok-­ Lituba represents the birthplace and sacred grotto of the Basaa and is their spiritual shrine where pilgrimages are taken periodically. The society is organized around lineages made up of extended families, which trace their descent from a common male ancestor, from father to son (Mboui, 1967; Ndjewel Ndjewel, 1980; Ndebi Biya, 1987). Basaa is also one of 279 living languages listed in Ethnologue and ALAC  for Cameroon  (Dieu & Renaud 1983; Gordon 2005). It has been classified as part of the northwestern group of Bantu languages and codified as A. 43. It is related to the Benue-Congo group of the Niger-Congo subfamily, a member of the Niger-Kordofonian language family. Basaa exhibits Bantu characteristic features such as tonality, an extensive verbal system, and a prolific noun classification (Bot ba Njock 1970; Ngo-Ngijol Banoum, 2004). Most words consist of a root, to which affixes are attached. It is through this affixation process that the lexical root acquires the status of words such as

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nouns and verbs. Nouns and verbs are very relevant to the making of Basaa personal names, as will be shown later in this chapter. The Basaa story of origin traces the people’s ancestry to the sacred grotto, Ngok Lituba, with nine founding fathers and nine founding mothers. The names of these forebears are the entry point to this study as they draw us into the thinking of the name originators of Basaa onomastic systems. The nine founding fathers’ names are: Ngok (Rock), Mbok (Society/Civilization), Njel (Path/Way), Mbang (Builder/Constructor), Mban (Protector/Patience), Ngaa (Gun), Nsaa (Disperser/Disrupter), Bias, and Buwe. Translation of the last two names is still not recovered. The nine Basaa founding mothers names are: Kiwom (Ki-Farm), Kindap (Ki-House/Family), Kinun (Ki-Look/Observe), Kihek (Ki-Create/ Measure), Kinom (Ki-Longevity), Kinyemb (Ki-Death), Kihisi (Ki-Earth), Kindok (Ki-Stubbornness/Deafness), and Kiyikii (Ki-Know Plenty). Two key distinctions that stand out between the two sets of names are their form and their gender. What does this linguistic differential mean? Is it just a formality or does it have deeper implications for Basaa ideologies and epistemologies?

Morphological Structure and Semantics of Ancestors’ Names Unlike their male counterpart’s, the female ancestor’s names consistently start with the prefix Ki-, a female gender marker in the culture. But why is the prefix ki- applied only to the female ancestor’s names and not to their male counterparts? Why not simply name the women Wom, Ndap, Nun, Hek, Nom, Nyemb, Hisi, Ndok, and Yi (kii), instead of Kiwom, Kindap, Kinun, Kihek, Kinom, Kinyemb, Kihisi, Kindok, and Kiyikii? What does this morphological difference mean? Most specifically, what does the prefix ki- mean? The answer to this question is critical to the driving theme in this study, which is the gendered construction of personal names. Ethnographic sources and Basaa dictionaries concur that the prefix ki- marks a woman as the name bearer (Mboui, 1967; Ndjewel Ndjewel, 1980; Njock, 2007). Ki- is thus a female gender marker in the culture that makes a clear distinction between men and women in the naming process. The particle ki- literally means “a lot like”, “in the manner of”, “of sorts”, “the embodiment, the essence, the personification of, qualities of, characteristics of”, what is designated by the attached noun. When affixed to a

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verb, ki- designates a woman who likes, enjoys, indulges in, knows how to do, excels in, exaggerates, or does too much of the act expressed by the verb. So what are the cultural bases of the usage of the prefix Ki- for female citizens and not male ones? It is noteworthy that ki- is not a noun class prefix in Basaa but happens to be the Proto-Bantu prefix for noun class 7 (Doke, 1954; Denny & Creider, 1986; Nurse & Philippson, 2014). What does ki- mean in this generic context? Bantuists have variously described the prefix ki- as a diminutive marking small size or little significance. Ki- also designates languages as opposed to people and cultures, for example, Kiswahili, Kikamba. Denny and Creider (1986: 223) state that the “primary meaning of Proto-Bantu Class 7 is instrumental artifact”. Their semantic network for class 7 comprises utilitarian objects, small entities in general including small artifacts, pieces/parts of things, similarity/ manner, small body parts and ailments associated with them, small animals, immature beings and people with physical defect/lack. Along similar lines, Waliaula (2009) questions the inherently negative connotation of the prefix ki- which is often appended to nouns to stress diminution or smallness. For instance, “mzee” is the ordinary term for an elderly person; “kizee” suggests an elderly person of small stature or size, and perhaps miserable. He goes on to list Kiswahili ki-initial words referring to disability such as kiziwi (deaf), kiwete (lame), kilema (disability), kichaa (mentally ill), kigugumizi (stutterer), kitembe (lisp), kiguru (one legged). The author wonders why there is a frequent use of the prefix ki- in words describing disabled people when most words describing humans such as mtoto (child), mtu (person), mwanamke (woman), and mwanamume (man) all begin with the prefix m- and belong to the Bantu human noun class 1. His question in relation to usages of ki- echoes mine: why is the prefix ki- used to mark women’s names and not men’s ones. Let us look more closely at Basaa ancestors’ names in relation to the language noun class systems. The practice of noun classification was spearheaded by linguists such as Doke (1954), Greenberg (1970), and Guthrie (1967–1971), and has since been applied to Bantu languages including Basaa.

Original Ancestors’ Names in Basaa Noun Class System Ancestors’ names, as seen from their English glosses, happen to also be common nouns in the Basaa lexicon. They accordingly belong to the language complex noun class system mentioned earlier and outlined below. I

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have highlighted in the following section the common nouns used as founding fathers’ and founding mothers’ proper names: Two-Class nouns I Class 1/ Class2 mangé/bongé (child/children) nlóm/balóm (husband/husbands) nwaá/baá (wife/wives) mbang/babang (builder/builders) mban/baban (protector/protectors) nsaa/basaa (disperser/dispersers) III Class 5/class 6 lihoha/mahoha (fault/faults) liwándá/mawándá (friend/friends) jumbúl/mumbúl (nest/nests) V Class 9/class 10 mbonji/mbonji (flower/flowers) nyík/nyík (porcupine/porcupines) pepeé/pepeé (cockroach/roaches) ngaa/ngaa (gun/guns) ngok/ngok (rock/rocks) VII Class 14/class 6 koo/makoo (leg/legs) lép/malép (river/rivers) oó/maoó (ear/ears)

II Class 3/class 4 mpay/mimpay (path/paths) ntómbá/mintómbá (sheep/sheeps) nó/minó (head/heads) nkol/minkol (slave/slaves) ntuk/mintuk (game/games) wom/nwom (farm/farms) IV Class 7/class 8 nugá/binugá (animal/animals) eng/bieng (outfit/outfits) yalák/gwalák (nail/nails) VI Class 9/class 6 mbegee/mambegee (load/loads) ngeda/mangeda (time/times) mbok/mambok (society/societies) njel/manjel (path/paths) ndáp/mandáp (house/houses) VIII Class 19/class 12 hilógá/dilógá (boy/boys) hilémb/dilémb (tongue/tongues) hisi/disi (land/lands)

While class 1 and its plural counterpart, class 2, are basically made up of nouns designating human beings or personified entities, the other classes seem to elude any principled semantic justification. The only characterization is that they include animate and inanimate entities. Nouns from diverse semantic categories belong to the same class and a few human referent nouns are also found in other sets than classes 1 and 2 (e.g. hingonda, girl, hiloga, boy, liwanda, friend). In addition to twoclass sets, there are some one-class sets, whereby the noun root combines with one singular or plural class prefix. I use numerical classification below, as I did with two-class noun sets; only here, the numbers are followed by a subscript “a” for a singular prefix, and “b” for a plural prefix. Consider:

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One-Class Nouns IIIa Class 5 lipém (glory) liemb (witchcraft) jiibê (darkness) liyép (poverty) Va Class 7 biibe (sweat) yak (pride) nom (longevity) VIa Class 9 kohi (children flu) mbon (poison) mbok (civilization) ndok (stubbornness) nyemb (death)

IIIb Class 6 malép (water) macel (blood) mook (drink) maeyá (mourning) Vb Class 8 bilim (bad omen) biok (curse) bilama (beauty) VIIa Class 14 bé (ugliness) woní (fear) mban (patience) Class 19 hisi (earth)

As stated above, personal names given to Basaa founding parents also function in the language as common nouns belonging to human noun class 1 (three founding fathers), noun class 3 (one founding mother), noun class 7 (one founding mother), noun class 9 (seven: four founding fathers and three founding mothers), noun class 14 (one founding father), and noun class 19 (one founding mother). All nine male names and six female names are noun roots, while three of the founding mothers’ names are verb roots: nun (look), hek (create), yi [kii] (know). What is the significance of Basaa ancestral names?

Semantics of Basaa Original Ancestors’ Names What are the meanings of the various nouns/names? Their literal translations are as follows for the founding fathers: rock, civilization/society, path/way, builder/constructor, patience/protector, gun/rifle, disperser, bias, buwe. Names such as Ngok and Mbok signal that the inquiry must rise beyond their literal meanings to capture socio-cultural connections. For instance, the first founding father’s name Ngok unequivocally takes us back to the origins of the Basaa people in Ngok Lituba, their sacred grotto, birthplace and cradle. Ngok literally means rock, stone; metaphorically, it

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denotes strength, might, power, force, energy, stamina, endurance, stubbornness, hardness, firmness, roughness, ruggedness as well source of protection, safety, security, stability, and the like. Ngok is reminiscent of the original tools and weapons made of stone, from the Old Stone Age through the New Stone Age and the Neolithic revolution, which ushered farming and the domestication of food crops. The second forefather’s name, Mbok, echoes the Basaa original organization Mbok Liaa, the Society of the Rock. Liaa is synonymous to Ngok. Mbok variously means universe, world, globe, planet, continent, region, country, nation, land, area, community, neighborhood, society, homestead, and dwelling. It also refers to knowledge in its broadest scope comprising all spheres, wisdom, erudition, civilization, tradition, culture, cosmology, history, philosophy, epistemology, geography, geology, technology, science, the sum total of Basaa people’s know-how and knowledge of society’s cosmology, epistemology, geography, history, philosophy, worldview. The Mbok Basaa is expounded through the seminal works of sociologists Mboui (1967) and Ndebi Biya (1987). The third ancestor’s name Njel means path(way), route, way, means, medium, channel, conduit, stepping stone, means and ways. Metaphorically, Njel denotes direction, guide, guidance, guidelines, orientation, vision, cue, clue, hint, heads-up. The fourth founding father’s name Mbang means builder, constructor, engineer, and manufacturer. Mbang also implies preliminary stages of conceptualizing, designing, as well as creativity, ingenuity, intelligence, expertise. Mban literally means patience, perseverance, persistence, tenacity; metaphorically, it points to protector, immunizer, and healer. Ngaa, means gun, rifle—a tool or weapon most probably produced by Mbang. It echoes power that can kill and maim animals and people in activities such as hunting, competing, defending, protecting, warring, as well as preserving life. Nsaa translates as disrupter or disperser and is the singular form of Basaa, the Bantu people discussed here. As noted earlier, my searches through databases and personal communications with Basaa scholars and elders have not yet yielded any translations for the two founding fathers Bias and Buwe. The meanings of the founding mothers’ names literally translate respectively to farm/plantation, house/family, look/observe, create/ measure, longevity, death, earth and know plenty. Each noun or verb starts with the female gender marker prefix ki-, which means “a lot like”, “in the manner of”, “of sorts”, “the embodiment, the essence, the personification, qualities/characteristics of” the attached noun. The first

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foremother, Kiwom, is thus a lot like/embodies a farm/plantation/ field/garden; the second, Kindap, embodies a house/a dwelling/a building/a home/a household/a family/a lineage/kinship; the fifth, Kinom, embodies longevity/durability, the sixth, Kinyemb, death, and the eighth, Kindok, ­deafness/stubborness. Ki-affixed to a verb means “a woman who likes/enjoys/indulges in/knows how to do/excels in/does a lot of” the act expressed by the verb. Accordingly, the third founding mother, Kinun, is a woman who is expert at looking and observing, while the fourth one, Kihek, knows how to create/to measure and likes it. The ninth foremother, Kiyikii, knows plenty. It is noteworthy that Basaa novelist, poet, playwright, and performer Werewere Liking gave the name Ki-Yi to her theater group and village. The Village Ki-yi is rooted in rich African matriarchal traditions, although it is surrounded by the realities of a patriarchal world, and these traditions come into play in its organization and mission (Werewere Liking 2000; Toman 2015). Analysis of Basaa founding ancestors’ names has shown that the naming system is a reflection of the peoples’ cosmology, epistemology, ideology, history, philosophy, society, spirituality, and technology. Gender distinction is consistent both formally with the female ki- marker, and semantically with differential social roles referenced for men and women. What does this gender marking in Basaa names and onomastic practices say about the people’s gender ideologies across socio-cultural practices? In her theoretical framework for naming and gender, feminist sociologist Oyèrónké Oyeˇwùmí makes a compelling case for two levels of gender construction in society: “first, gender is routinely invoked when the phenomenon under study is seen to superficially attach to male and female bodies differently, and in a binary way. The second level of gendering is more fundamental in that it speaks to the gender division of social and moral attributes that is embedded in the ethos, which is then expressed in social practices throughout” (2016: 152). She goes on to pose the critical question: “Does the presence of the first level, that is the superficial naming of male bodies and female bodies differently automatically signal the presence in the society of gendered moral and social attributes? A second question is whether the first level expressed in the naming of social phenomena as male or female is a sign that a society has embarked on a process of gender differentiation, classifying males and females differently, if not unequally” (2016: 153). My examination of Basaa founding ancestors’ naming system has shown that men and women were named

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differently with the overt marker Ki- applied to females. Beyond the overt Ki- marker for female names, socio-cultural references attached to men’s and women’s names are different. Man is Rock, Society/Civilization, Path/Way, Builder/Constructor, Protector/Patience, Gun, ­ Disperser/ Disrupter, Bias, and Buwe, while woman is like Farm, House/Family, Longevity, Death, Earth, Deafness/Stubbornness, and Knowledge. She knows how to Look/Observe, Create/Measure. Does this first-level gendering signal a systematic categorization of moral and social attributes as feminine or masculine? The two sets of ancestors’ names seem to suggest so as they convey distinct social roles to males and females. Do they indicate an unbalanced gendered classification of social institutions, social practices, and social structures? Social roles generated by Basaa founding ancestors’ names are gendered in the way they are assigned to women and men without overlapping. Are they unbalanced or unequal? While a cursory analysis shows difference, this multi-layered question requires a deeper analysis of each name and embodied values in Basaa society. This important question will be explored farther as we look beyond the founders. Has the ancestral naming tradition remained intact or has it evolved since? An examination of the Basaa foundational Epic of Hiton will shed light on the question.

Naming Practices in Basaa Epic Tradition The Basaa epic tradition embodies fundamental socio-cultural concerns of the people, as well as a rich survey of their institutions, values, and customs including naming patterns. A case in point is the genealogies found in the Basaa Epic of Hiton, which is a virtual chronicle of the Basaa people of Southern Cameroon.

The Plot Line of the Epic of Hiton Hiton is an early-nineteenth-century poetic tale running 5052 verses. The heroic poem is traditionally sung in an open or public space, throughout the night, by a professional bard playing the hilun, a charmed stringed lute, which has earned the Basaa epic tradition the name Mingen mi Hilun (the Wonders of the Hilun). It recounts a complex tale full of wonder and

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heroism, centered around the main personage, Hiton, the rivalry between him and his father, and his social non-conformism. One of the two sons of Lingom-li-Njok of the Nwaanag lineage and Ngo-Hiton-hi-Ngut of the Baeg lineage, Hiton-hi-Lingom rebels when the bridewealth received for his sister is used to secure the marriage of their elder brother, Lingom-li-Lingom.1 Hiton-hi-Lingom also wants to get married but lacks the wherewithal. As his father cannot help him to gather bridewealth, he leaves the family homestead to establish his own village and devote himself to hunting. He becomes rich but wants to enjoy the spoils of his labor alone in a culture where community comes before individuality. This selfish attitude stirs resentment and hatred from neighboring lineages, now unwilling to offer him any of their daughter’s hand in marriage. Eventually, he makes peace with his lineage patriarchs and succeeds in abducting Kibum, a daughter of Dimbaya-di-Maen. Of their union are born twenty-six sons (named by order of birth) and an only daughter, Ngo-Hiton-hi-Lingom. Reluctantly, Ngo-Hiton-hi-Lingom is married off to Bihuga of the Baken lineage on the condition that Hiton-hi-Lingom, the bride’s father, be the one to give a name to the couple’s firstborn. Unfortunately, Bihuga disregards this agreement and takes it upon himself to give his firstborn son the ominous name Makus, meaning “humps” or “hunchback”. This transgression triggers a succession of misfortunes of which the first is the premature death of Makus’ parents. Orphaned, Makus seeks refuge at his maternal uncles’ who find him a wife, Ngo-Cenel, a daughter of the Baeg lineage, who later elopes with Minkaa, a son of the Nliga Ngwan family. The incursion is central to the epic plot as it escalates into a fierce war between Hiton and Nliga lineages. The brave warrior Lingom-li-Hiton is killed in battle; the hero Hiton-hi-Lingom is later killed by his own son, Hiton-hi-Hiton. Now the new clan patriarch, Hiton-hi-Hiton, restores Ngo Cenel to her husband Makus. He later names the young couple’s two sons, Lingom-­ li-­Makus and Hiton-hi-Makus, in honor of the fallen heroes: Lingom and Hiton. Below is a genealogy chart for more clarity:

1  Marriage is exogamous and a groom is expected to give bridewealth to his wife’s lineage. This is traditionally due on the birth of the first child of the union. Bridewealth received for a female child is used by one of her male siblings to acquire his own wife.

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------ Njok Lingom Lingom-li-Njok ------=

------ Ngo-Lingom

Ngo-Hiton-hi-Ngut--------- Hiton-hi-Lingom

=

Kibum

________________________________ (27 children) (1 daughter)

+

26 sons (>Lingom & Hiton)

Ngo-Hiton-hi-Lingom

=

Bihuga

________________________ (1 Child) Makus &

Ngo-Cenel

________________________ (2 Sons) Lingom-li-Makus

+

Hiton-hi-Makus

Genealogy Chart

The naming pattern delineated above is cyclical and reproduced across generations, since children are named for their grandparents. A powerful tool for the regeneration of the lineage, this naming pattern makes possible the re-birth and perpetuation of Hiton’s progeny. After the wanton carnage are sown the seeds of regeneration and immortalization through cyclical naming patterns. The latter, however, seem to only apply to the patrilineage, as women are not represented in the gendered genealogical tree above that is essentially androcentric.

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Gendered Genealogies, Gendered Names, Gendered Identities At each birth, the responsibility of naming the newborn is the exclusive prerogative of the family head who takes this duty seriously. Thus the lineage patriarch Lingom-li-Njok (Lingom of Njok) names his firstborn male child after his paternal grandfather Njok Lingom (Njok of Lingom). He names his second-born son Hiton-hi-Lingom (Hiton of Lingom), after his maternal grandfather Hiton-hi-Ngut (Hiton of Ngut). Note the distinction between the latter and his grandson and namesake, who carries his grandfather’s name Hiton, but is the son of Lingom, not Ngut. It is also noteworthy that Makus’ parents’ failure to honor this tradition of naming firstborn sons for their grandfathers was the root cause of his misfortunes, including his parent’s premature death. Makus’ cultural transgression is critical in the development of the epic plot. Conversely, observance of the cross-generational naming practice is instrumental in the re-birth of the two heroes at the end of the epic: Hiton and Lingom. The naming convention establishes interconnectedness between two conjugal families for good. Their destinies seem to be inextricably linked through their nuptial ties; their histories seem inseparable as their respective names will always feature alongside each other. The names of the two patrilineages, Hiton and Lingom, have become intertwined and the compounds “Hiton-hi-Lingom” and “Lingom-li-Hiton” are bound to re-­ occur generation after generation. Echoed in this naming pattern is the ancestral adage, “Libii li mal be” (Marriage never ends). In other words, a marriage that has produced children will be perpetuated through the children naming after their maternal and paternal grandfathers. The missing part in this naming system is the mothers and grandmothers, as seen in the opening deconstruction of this author’s name. Basaa genealogies seem to be androcentric and patrilineal, with descent traced exclusively through the male line. Women are not represented despite their critical role in children bearing and rearing. In the epic, the two oldest sons are named for their maternal and paternal grandfathers. Subsequent male children are named for their father, a special friend, a significant icon, a crucial event, circumstance, or attribute, as illustrated in Hiton’s thematic naming of his sons in the epic. All their names are inspired by significant events that contributed in shaping and defining their father’s heroic life cycle. In the process, the non-conformist hero violates the rules governing the naming of the two oldest sons after

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their grandfathers. He names his firstborn son Ngambi,2 after the diviner who facilitated Hiton’s acquisition of wealth, wives, and abundant offspring. The second son is called Sap for the traps that Hiton had set to catch animals and make a fortune; the third, Bisai, means the blessings he received from his lineage; the fourth, Lingom, named for his father; the fifth, Njok, named for the elephant he killed and refused to share with his patrikin. On goes the list of Hiton’s twenty-six male children’s names, all bearing symbolic meanings pertaining to their socio-cultural and historical heritage. The semantic basis of these names is reminiscent of the founding fathers’ names reviewed previously. In contrast to their male counterparts, baby girls are given the compound name “Ngo (daughter of) + father’s name”. There are various illustrations throughout the epic: Lingom-li-Njok marries Ngo-Hiton (the daughter of Hiton), and the couple’s only daughter is named NgoLingom (the daughter of Lingom). Along the same lines, the couple’s younger son Hiton-hi-Lingom and his wife Kibum beget an only daughter whom they name Ngo-Hiton (daughter of Hiton). Occurrence of two different Ngo-Hiton (Hiton’s mother and his daughter), once again, highlights the matrimonial symbioses of the two families, which are consolidated and perpetuated through the naming process. Makus’ wife is called Ngo-Cenel (the daughter of Cenel). Girls are consistently named as their father’s daughters, with no mention of their mothers. This masculinist genealogy begs the question, “What became of the daughters’ mothers who seem lost in the naming process?” The only exception to the Ngo + father’s naming paradigm for girls is Hiton-hi-Lingom’s wife, whose name is Kibum. The latter points back to the founding mothers’ Ki- initial naming pattern as delineated earlier. The use of the ancestral female naming prefix Ki- in the culture epic centuries later signals that it has not disappeared from the Basaa onomastic system. Another significant pattern emerging throughout the epic is that women maintained their maiden name after marriage: Lingom-li-Njok’s wife is Ngo-Hiton, Hiton-hi-­ Lingom’s wife is Kibum, Bihuga’s wife is Ngo-Hiton, and Makus’ wife is Ngo Cenel. In case clarification was needed, marital status was expressed through adjunction of the phrase “nwaa sem ni kaa” (the wife of so and so). The matrimonial status of the various female characters in the epic would thus be stated as follows: 2  Diviners in Basaa civilization are called ngambi and traditionally use a ground-dwelling hairy spider (ngambi), to interpret the oracle.

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Ngo-Hiton, nwaa Lingom-li-Njok Kibum, nwaa Hiton-hi-Lingom Ngo-Hiton, nwaa Bihuga Ngo-Cenel, nwaa Makus

(Ngo Hiton, wife of Lingom-li-Njok) (Kibum, wife of Hiton-hi-Lingom) (Ngo Hiton, wife of Bihuga) (Ngo Cenel, wife of Makus)

A similar pattern of married women not taking their husband’s names is observed with the founding mothers. Each one of them carries her own name distinct from her spouse’s. This is of significance, as modern Basaa women automatically take on their spouse’s names when they get married. How and when did this naming practice come to be? The answer will be provided below. What happened with boys beyond their given names at birth?

Self-Naming/Praise-Naming and Gendered Socialization Throughout the tale, adolescent men are required to prove their hunting skills by killing a community game such as a leopard or an elephant. They are also expected to build a house among other tests, in order to graduate from boyhood into manhood. Only then can they start searching for a bride. Boys are thus raised into men before becoming husbands. Additional male qualities are outlined when the epic hero asks each one of his sons to proclaim their praise names to show him that he has fathered worthy sons. This ritual heralds the praise name exchange between Lingom and Minkaa later in the epic (v. 3754 on), a prelude to the great epic battle to follow. Below are some of the young men’s praise names in this process of self-naming: I, the cock perched on the threshold, I, the ram that rammed into the hedge. I, the toucan that passes by, carrying a hoop net on his head, The toucan that flies majestically, hoomm, The elephant that crosses the river thanks to his height. The knotted okoume wood that fell off and blocked the river; The storm that warms up the atmosphere, And eventually strikes somewhere. Water that never dwells on its way overnight, I, the eagle that snatched the chick

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In broad day light! Madness that breaks loose, the gorilla marked with a spot The spear with a long iron studded with ten teeth, I, the talking drum of initiation day, The drums of the initiation of the Great Mask, The steel that comes straight from the furnace glowing red. I am the male limb of the leopard. (vs. 2510–2651) The above male praise-names celebrate bravery, belligerence, courage, might, strength, and related attributes that boys must develop in order to become men. Their initiation from boyhood to manhood takes place, prior to them becoming husbands. In contrast, marriage seems to be the actual initiation for girls; it constitutes their rite of passage, as they are not asked to choose their praise names like boys. Consistently throughout the epic, a young bride is referred to as “mange” (a child) when she is transferred to her husband. There she is welcomed in her new conjugal family with ovations and instructions about the perfect wife’s qualities of silence, hard work, honesty, obedience, chastity, fidelity, and fertility. In each of the four wedding ceremonies featured in the narrative the young bride is met with admonitions directed toward her by her in-laws in the following terms: Marriage entails numerous things … You must be a silent wife … You must be a hard-working wife … You must be a loving wife, … You must be an honest wife, … You must be a fertile wife. (v. 91–105) Unlike the boys, the girls are not asked by their parents to self-name or to proclaim their praise-names. In contrast, they seem to be named once again, this time by their husbands and/or parents-in-law, and given additional names of sorts: Silence, Work, Honesty, Obedience, Chastity, Fidelity, and Fertility. All that seems to be missing from these names is the prefix Ki-. Not surprisingly, Basaa women have often felt the need to self-­ name later in life, and have been very creative in naming and re-naming themselves to redefine their identities.

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Women Self-Naming, Self-Identifying, and Self-Affirming Basaa women have shown their power to re-name and to re-construct their own desired identity, different from that imposed on them by their father and later by their husband, in keeping with societal naming conventions. Through their own songs and spoken words, young women proclaim their given names and genealogy, and, later in marriage, engage in self-naming, self-identifying, self-affirming, and self-representing, by giving themselves new names. For instance, in a Basaa ngola rendition titled Ngond lon I nsoo be jol (A Daughter of the land does not hide her name), a woman sings: They have named me Ngo so and so kololoko Kololoko eya ee My name is Kumul I Makanda (Tree Stump at the Crossroads) kololoko kololoko ee My name is Sok i Mbon (Cassava Stem) kololoko kololoko eya ee

The tree stump at a crossroads has literal and metaphorical meaning. Though the stump is at the mercy of all passers-by, who constantly stumble over it, curse it, and beat it up with their canes, it withstands the assaults and remains firmly rooted. The stump at the crossroads resists and prevails though people keep stumbling over it. The cassava plant, a perennial root crop that blooms in any type of land, is accessible to the wealthy and the poor, and its stems may be planted by anyone, especially women and children. Cassava offers many uses in Africa and many parts of the world. Igbo pioneering writer Flora Nwapa praises the root crop in her Cassava Song as “Great Mother Cassava”, the icon of femininity which deserves to be celebrated and sung, just like yam, the male crop par excellence, which is honored with a prestigious Yam Festival. In this mock epic, rated as her most feminist work by the author herself, Flora Nwapa elevates cassava, the unsung icon of femininity, in order to reclaim complementarity and parity with masculinity (yam), as inscribed in African cosmology (Nwapa, 1966). The praise names Tree Stump at the Crossroads and Cassava Stem are self-selected names and self-constructed identities reminiscent of the young men’s praise names mentioned in the Epic of Hiton. The importance of women’s self-naming is emphasized by meaningful metaphors and significant symbols of agency, self-definition, and self-determination.

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Basaa women exercise their power to name themselves, their locations, their trials and triumphs, echoing sociologist Patricia Hill Collins’ concepts of self-definition and self-valuation. She stresses the importance of practices of self-definition and self-valuation that allow black women to negotiate contradictions between their own perceptions of themselves and misrepresentations of their identity. They contribute to the women’s journey to independent definitions of their identities. “The insistence of Black women’s self-definitions reframes the entire dialogue from one of protesting the technical accuracy of an image … to one of stressing the power dynamics underlying the very process of definition itself. By insisting on self-definition, Black women question … the intentions of those possessing the power to define … the act of insisting on Black female self-­ definitions validates Black women’s power as human subject” (Collins 2000: 114). Along similar lines, Basaa women’s self-definition through self-naming challenges the original name givers’ motivations and representations of their identities. Through their new names they reposition themselves as the primary sources for naming themselves and defining their humanity. Their self-valuation helps them to reclaim aspects of their identity that they want to affirm and celebrate. Unlike adolescent boys who were granted permission by their father to give themselves praise-­names, their female counterparts were denied the opportunity. They consciously appropriate the power of self-naming, self-definition, and self-valuation, when they are women.

Basaa Naming Practices, Christianism, and Colonialism The advent of Christianity and colonialism introduced major changes in the Basaa people’s naming conventions and practices. Both boys and girls at birth would now be given Christian first names alongside their father’s name preceded by Ngo for girls. These first names would now be their baptismal names recorded in their birth certificates. Another major colonial change was that male children now had to take on their father’s last name. This foreign practice disrupted the ancestral tradition of naming the first two sons after their paternal and maternal grandfathers. The pantheon of the society’s founding mothers and the genealogies of the culture epics show that Basaa women traditionally maintained their birth names after marriage. New brides were now made to take on their husbands’ names

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upon marriage in both civil and religious registries. This foreign practice stands in stark contrast to the founding mothers and the epic female characters who maintained their names after marriage. Within the Christian/ colonial model, the epic’s married women would be named Madame Lingom nee Ngo-Hiton, Madame Hiton nee Kibum, or Madame Makus nee Ngo-Cenel. In these naming and re-naming situations, the woman’s identity seems to be subsumed under her father’s and later under her husband’s. Accordingly, it is not uncommon in contemporary Basaa society to hear an educated husband call his wife by her maiden name only when he is annoyed or angry with her or one of her children. By calling his spouse Ngo + father’s name (the daughter of her father), the husband is stripping her of the prestigious title “Madame”, and downgrading her to an unmarried status, which is looked down upon in Basaa culture and African society in general. The foreign names and naming practices are so deeply ingrained today that most young and not so young people think they are endogenous to Basaa culture. It is nevertheless worth stressing that there have been many innovations in contemporary Basaa naming processes and practices. Naming after grandparents has been rehabilitated in the post-colonial context, though not always observed by the younger generations. For one reason, they are not having as many children as their forebears. Many parents have also elected to drop the particle Ngo before their daughters’ names for a variety of reasons, including the search for ethnic and/or gender neutrality. Parents are also increasingly creative in ways they want to name their children, including going back to ancestral models. In his seminal Basaa-Basaa dictionary Nkobol nu Hop Basaa, Pierre Emmanuel Njock shares his own family’s onomastic trajectory. In the early 1900s, his grandfather had to give up his original Basaa name Bot ba Si ba Njock to be baptized in the Christian church as Simon Pierre, and his wife as Cecile. They later gave all their children French Christian names, then a customary practice under the colonial and Christian disposition. The naming pattern has been in place in the French-speaking region of the country ever since. Pierre Emmanuel Njock and his wife however, decided in 1970, to have their own children baptized with Basaa names and have them recorded in their children’s respective birth certificates as follows: Atna (Unity/Solidarity), Mbombo (Grandmother/Namesake), Mbombok (Elder/Sage), Letes (Courage/Tenacity), and Masee (Joy/Happiness) (Njock, 2007: iv-v). The foregoing naming model is reminiscent of the founding ancestors analyzed earlier, only without gender distinction. Apart from the name

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Mbombok that may only be given to a man, the other four names are gender neutral. Many of the younger generations of Basaa parents are going back to the beginnings, giving their children Basaa first names, instead of French ones, as well as waiving Ki- and Ngo- in their daughters’ last names. Despite these attempts at reviving ancestral naming patterns, the Euro-Christian first names are very deeply rooted in Basaaland and former French colonies in general.

Conclusion Formal gender specificity stands out as omnipresent and salient in Basaa personal naming practices through the ages. It legitimizes the role of indigenous knowledge, traditional practices, local institutions, and cultural heritage. We have seen Basaa naming patterns evolve from the beginnings with their founding fathers and mothers through genealogies of their epic tradition. A common thread has been the propensity to make gender distinctions in the process from the Ki-initial to the Ngo-initial female names. I am still working on recovering why and when exactly the female gender marker changed from Ki- to Ngo. Male naming patterns on the other hand do not seem to have undergone any change, except the father-son kinship marked by double names for the epic characters (Njok Lingom = Njok of Lingom, in other words, Njok. the son of Lingom). Obviously, the founding fathers’ names are single because they were first in line. We have noted that while men’s names are free-standing concepts, women’s are like concepts, all deeply rooted in Basaa cosmology and spirituality. Traditionally, baby girls would be named “Ngo + faher’s name” (Daughter of). Described as the daughter of your father X, X does not become your name. Girls were also given ancestral names starting with the prefix Ki- used to address them. This name would be used even after marriage with the designation “Nwaa Y” (the wife of Y), whereby Y did not become the bride’s name. She retained her ancestral name, as attested by the pantheon of the nine Basaa founding mothers and genealogies of the culture epics (Mboui, 1967; Ngo-Ngijol Banoum, 2002). The introduction of Christian first names reinforced gender marking in Basaa naming practices. In recent years however, feminist and progressive younger generations of Basaa parents have been questioning the validity of gendered names and reclaiming gender parity in naming practices. Taking inspiration from their ancestral heritage, they are foregoing gendered French first names and Basaa female gender markers Ki- and Ngo in their daughters’

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last names. The next step in this project is to conduct principled archival research through birth records, wedding registries, interviews, anthropological and sociological studies, to determine the current state of these innovative trends in naming practices among the Basaa people of Cameroon. The Handbook opens with an introduction, in which Hough defines the study of names in terms of being “both an old and a young discipline”.

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What’s in a Namesake? The Owambo Naming Practice of Mbushe, Gender, and Community in Namibian Novelist Neshani Andrea’s The Purple Violet of Oshaantu Martha Ndakalako

In her poem “Women’s Human Rights,” Maria Kaunapawa Iihuhwa uses the Owambo names given to girls indicating their time of birth to signify women’s importance in the context of the family and community: There is nothing as good as women waking us early in the morning Pounding The Namutenyas cooking us lunches The Nuusikus preparing supper

M. Ndakalako (*) Department of English, Gustavus Adolphus College, Saint Peter, MN, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_5

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But women are humiliated Their rights stolen Their humanity not counted

With Namutenya being the name given to baby girls born during the day, and Nuusiku the name for a girl born at night, the poem implies that the core of the community is structured around the rhythms of women’s activities. The sun rises and sets with the sounds of their work setting the patterns of the everyday—and yet women are subordinated. As the poem also suggests, Owambo names are far more than mere markers of identity. As in other African societies, Owambo naming systems are epistemic systems (Oyěwùmí, Motherhood 151). In The Purple Violet of Oshaantu, Namibian novelist Neshani Andreas uses another Owambo naming practice, the mbushe, or namesake, to express communal obligation in Owambo society. As the novel deals with women’s precarity in rural Namibia, it considers community in the context of gendered subordination. In particular, the narrative revolves around the tradition of widow dispossession of property that Owambo women experience at the hands of their husband’s family following his death.1 During the country’s precolonial and colonial era, the introduction of Christianity and Western notions of gender have gradually shaped perceptions of certain traditions and the way they are practiced, so that the subordination of women is deemed a natural feature of “traditional” Namibian societies. However, instances in which living traditions—such as naming—exert themselves in the present demonstrate how gender is far from absolute in its binary definition of women and men’s roles, as well as the salience of other social categories apart from gender. This chapter considers how The Purple Violet of Oshaantu uses the Owambo naming practice of mbushe to unsettle the seeming monolith of patriarchal power. The novel envisions notions of community that stand in tension with Western individualism, and intimately calls the community to account for gender-based violence and inequity.

1  Although widows from various class positions have dealt with this practice, for reasons that will become apparent below, widow dispossession disproportionately affects rural and poorer women.

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Gender, Christianity, and Colonial History in Namibia The Purple Violet of Oshaantu is set in modern-day Namibia, and gender-­ based violence and inequality are at the core of the novel’s concern.2 The contemporary levels of violence toward women and women-identified peoples, and the structural inequality they must navigate are frequently justified as part of Namibian cultural traditions. However, the violence and inequality, and their supporting discourses, are an afterlife of colonialism. Namibia was a German colony from 1884 to 1915, after which point it became a protectorate of South Africa, mandated so by the League of Nations. South Africa began implementing policies of racial segregation in the country, and, over the years, used Namibia as a source of labor and resources. In 1966, Namibians began the formal war for liberation, and the nation became independent in 1990. Before the formal introduction of colonialism, however, Finnish missionaries began proselyting the northern Namibian societies of Owamboland, arriving in 1871 and followed later by German missionaries (Wallace 93). The introduction of Christianity, while by no means smooth, gradually underscored Western notions of gender roles. In turn, colonial governance privileged men and worked to create a system in which women could not travel freely and were confined to the home. The intersecting experiences of Christianity, colonialism, and the migrant labor system created societal upheaval, eroded Owambo cultural practices, and altered how various traditions have been understood (Mckitrick, 2002; Ndakalako-Bannikov, 2020). In the context of gender, the contemporary afterlives of these shifts have been largely devastating. The novel deals with the dispossession of property that Owambo widows undergo at the hands of their in-laws after their husband’s death. Widow-dispossession in Owambo society is a practice with long historical precedent, and for this reason, Robert J. Gordon suggests that it could be considered a structural issue (2008, 2). Gordon traces widow dispossession or “asset stripping” (1) back to missionary documentation in the late nineteenth century. Missionaries connected it to the matrilineal system of inheritance which children inherited from their uncles or aunts—that is,

2  This chapter takes Oyèrónké Oyěwùmí’s call for cultural and historical specificity in the study of African societies regarding gender as a foundation for considering the gendered dynamics in the novel (Invention, 1997, 31).

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people who shared the same mother as the deceased. In this system the widow and her children belong not to the father's family but to her own matrilineal relatives who are supposed to care for them. Missionaries found that widows were much devalued. They had no rights to any kind of property left by the husband, and the husband's relatives … would decide whether the widow could remain or not, or whether she should be stripped of all the gifts given her by the husband. Even gifts given by the father to his children had to be returned. (3)

It is evident in these missionaries’ concerns that their perspective privileges patrilineal inheritance. While Owambo societies were patriarchal, this perspective obscures that matrilineality in general gave women greater measures of autonomy (Wallace 82). Women came into marriages with an inheritance that remained theirs, and that they could pass to their daughters (82). Matrilineal inheritance gave both elite and poorer women a measure of control regarding income, childbearing, and other local political concerns. Furthermore, it offered women protection given by their matrilineal kin (83). Under colonialism, women lost these, and many other rights (Wallace 83). Nevertheless, widow dispossession was controversial and repeatedly debated by lawmakers throughout the colonial era and into independent Namibia (Gordon 2). In contemporary Namibia, widow dispossession is a feature of customary law, and because women—and particularly rural women—continue to have less access to education and financial autonomy, “customary law promulgates notions of patriarchy and female subordination” (“Women’s Property Rights”, 2015, 3). Thus, widow dispossession continues to define various Namibian social structures, functioning alongside contemporary colonially inflected conservation notions of gender and tradition. Indeed, in her study of gender in Namibia Heike Becker (2007) finds that gender dynamics changed after colonial experience and the introduction of Christianity. Becker historicizes these changes considering the political debates regarding women’s rights that occurred shortly after independence. These debates revealed that both parties for and against reforms in women’s rights legislation considered women’s rights (and the push for gender equality) and African tradition (particularly as it is represented in customary law) as incompatible, an opposition that predates independence. In other words, both those for and against gender equality saw tradition as inherently patriarchal, timeless, and unchanging (23).

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Contrary to this belief Becker argues that in precolonial African societies of Namibia’s territory, and in particular Owambo communities, gender may not have been the most salient social category. Rather, important categories included “elite membership, age, or rank among the co-wives in a polygynous marriage” (25). Furthermore, for women of the royalty or members of the elite, their noble status was far more significant for their own self-perception and for “the power they could exert, than being a ‘woman’ or a ‘man’” (25). More generally, women were visible in the sphere of production, which was integrated with the relations of reproduction. Elements of the matrilineal system … tempered the control a husband could evoke over his wife, or wives, and children. Divorce was frequent and easy to obtain in the absence of any substantial material transfer at marriage. Women played significant roles as healers, as well as in ritual and cultural performances … certain women were also actively involved in the transmission of oral history and traditions and enjoyed substantial measures of autonomy in their sexual and economic lives. Women were a minority among traditional rulers, but at least in the Kavango and in Owambo, queens and other female leaders were common. (25)

Increased precolonial long-distance trade relations with Westerners led to the militarization of Owambo and other Namibian communities, which linked armament and militarization to male power, and negatively affected women’s power in politics and society. This, followed by colonialism, Christianity, and the influence of local elites, played a significant role in reconstructing women’s social positions and gendered roles (26). In the colonial era “perception of ‘native’ policy as ‘male’, there was no room for powerful women. This extended to the administration’s dealings with traditional authorities” (27). Colonial native policy was also “exemplified in the efforts of colonial officials to prevent the migration of women out of Ovamboland. Women’s mobility was seen as highly threatening to the traditional order. It was prohibited as presumably in breach of ‘traditional laws and customs’” (28). Such thinking was reinforced by alliances forged between colonial officials and African elites, particularly “conservative male elders and leaders, who in their turn drew selectively on African cultural precedents concerning gender norms” (28). Furthermore, colonial law meant that women could only enter into legal transactions with their husband’s consent, which required that she take his last name (Mbenzi, Dictionary, 2006, 10). This further enforced women’s social

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dependence on men, and their subordination to their husbands (10). In this manner colonialism constructed and enforced essentialist notions of gender in which women were relegated to the domestic and traditional sectors of society. They were to remain in the ‘tribal areas’ producing agriculture or engaged in animal husbandry to subsidise the system of cheap male migrant labour. They were to be kept under the control of male traditional authorities … whereas men were to enter the public sphere, predominantly as migrant labourers … Traditional politics and jurisdiction were redefined as exclusively male domains. (Becker, 2007, 29)

Christianity also contributed to the formation of this social category of “woman,” reinforcing male dominance and spreading puritan values and the idea of the “Christian housewife” that further served to constrain women’s labor and sexuality (29). Thus, in the colonial era, “social, cultural, political and economic power became tied up with male-ness, whereas domesticity became the defining characteristic of female-ness” (29). These gender categories subsumed earlier social ranking systems. In contemporary Namibia, this deep gendered divide is further visible in the disjunction between legislation that protects women, and women’s continued marginalization and experiences of gender-based violence and femicide. For instance, Hannah Britton and Lindsey Shook find that oppressive and preexisting social scripts of gender inequality and patriarchal dominance continue to function alongside, and, despite progressive legislation, foreclosing social transformation in independent Namibia (2014, 153, 159). After Namibia’s independence, despite the advancement of women in the public sphere, Namibia has, and continues to experience, an alarming increase in physical and sexual violence against women, and particularly younger women and girls (154). This rise has been attributed to various factors, some pointing to a “failure of accountability about war rape and too narrow a conception of national reconciliation,” which contributed to a situation where gender issues are subordinated to the project of nation-building, and therefore normalized gender scripts (154, 157). This creates a situation in which “gender issues are often publicly advanced through legislation and campaigns for elected office but privately restricted within households and through socially ascribed gender roles” (154). Others link this violence to entrenched patriarchal attitudes that sustain perceptions of women as property, subject to male control and

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regulation (154). The violence could also be in response to women’s own success—as a means of “violently putting women back in their place” (154). This disjunction between the law and patriarchal public attitudes is applicable to the situation of women’s dispossession as well, because despite legislation in the Constitution guaranteeing women’s rights, and changes in customary law passed shortly after independence to protect widows, the practice continued (“Women’s Property Rights”, 2015, 3; Gordon, 2008, 8–9). Britton and Shook’s findings are arguably an afterlife of coloniality and gendered liberationist discourse during the Struggle that continue to define a masculinist national identity, and therefore only seems to include women as citizens symbolically (McFadden, 2018, 424; Currier, 2012, 444). One of the ways in which patriarchal power is diffuse is in cultural practices that complicate the assumed binary nature of categories such as gender. Naming is one such practice.

Owambo Naming Practices and the Mbushe Naming is an integral part of Owambo social categories. As in many other African societies, names in Owambo are an essential part of a person—they characterize them (Saarelma-Maunumaa Edhina Ekogidho, 2003, 47). Accordingly, there were many rituals associated with precolonial Owambo name-giving, and some persist today (Mbenzi, Dictionary, 2006, 5–6). Names are used to tell the time of a child’s birth, as signified, for example, in the poem in the introduction, or to recall events occurring at the time of birth, or to send a message (Saarelma-Maunumaa, Edhina Ekogidho, 2003, 116, 120, 123). Petrus Angula Mbenzi writes that names can convey “ridicule [or] criticise the beaviour of another person”; they can register a grievance against someone, and they can also “remind the guilty party of his mistakes” (“Selected”, 2009, 64). Mbenzi elaborates particularly on commemorative naming during the Namibian War for independence (1966–1990). Commemorative names given to children as permanent names or freedom-fighters as temporary nicknames functioned

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as a reminder of certain events that occurred during the liberation struggle (64).3 One such name, for instance, is Mekondjo (“In the Struggle”). Names are also used to commemorate people. In the instance of naming a child after someone, or the mbushe, this practice serves to invoke the essence of a person, and this includes their social status, to some degree. It remains popular to name a child after a close or respected friend or relative. A mbushe, far more than the practice of memorializing an individual, however, is an act of bringing that person back, so that whether the person invoked is alive or has passed, when people share a name, they inhabit the same personhood. The name is a connection between namesakes, and children are named after someone with the good social standing in anticipation that the child would copy the behaviours of its namesake hence the saying: Edhina ekogidho (The name is a link). The child may also be named after someone who is deceased in order to reincarnate him/her or to appease the ancestral spirits. (Mbenzi, Dictionary, 2006, 7)

3  When Finnish Christian missionaries began proselyting the Owambo in the late 1800s, it became common to give Christian names (65). These signified Christianity and civilization and were a means of forging privileged relationships with Westerners (65; Mckittrick, 2002, 111). However, in the 1950s and 1960s, with the rise of anticolonial nationalism Owambo names became important again as a sign of solidarity with the Namibian struggle (Mbenzi, “Selected”, 2009, 65). During the war for independence, commemorative “combat names” were one of the strategies used by freedom-fighters as part of “guerilla warfare tactics … to conceal their identity. They gave themselves names which negated colonialism” (64, 65). In turn, “The proponents of colonial rule were given names that criticised the repressive laws and oppression of Namibians. [For example] Cocky Hahn [a colonial official] was nicknamed Shongola (the whip)” (Mbenzi, Dictionary, 2006, 11). When naming was used among the citizens as a form of resistance, a name could be coded or fully point to liberation. A name would refer to an event but in truncated form, thus coding the name so that it was unclear even to native speakers which event was being referred to (Mbenzi, “Selected”, 2009, 66). For example, “A name such as Djeimo (go out) remains unintelligible to outsiders or even to native speakers because it is only the name giver who knows the motive behind such a name” (66). As a resistance name, it tells the colonizers to get out of the country. However, Mbenzi posits that because of the nation’s adoption of national reconciliation after independence, these kinds of naming practice related to resistance have become less popular, and names are given instead in the context of current societal concerns (67). Furthermore, in contemporary Namibia, Christian influence continues to be felt as it continues to be common for a child to receive both an Oshiwambo and a European or biblical name at baptism (Saarelma-Maunumaa, “Name Sharing”, 1999, 41.).

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Because of the shared personhood between namesakes, these relationships affect social categories and familial relationality. The namesake connection is reflected in how namesakes are addressed in terms of their social categories, to reflect their shared personhood. For instance, “a grown-up man was expected to call his father’s young namesake ‘my father’” (Saarelma-­ Maunumaa, Edhina Ekogidho, 2003, 118 and “Name Sharing”, 1999, 35). Because of this co-identification, namesakes “occupy the same position in a kinship network,” and as the relationship also involves serious obligations it is a very important social category (Saarelma-Maunumaa, “Name Sharing”, 1999, 35). These obligations included “giving presents and looking after the child later in life. If the parents died, the namesake was often the one who took care of the orphan” (Saarelma-Maunumaa, Edhina Ekogidho, 2003, 118). While Christianity brought with it Western and biblical names, the practice continued, including European names in interesting ways.4 Despite Christian and colonial influence, name-sharing is a living tradition. And while the female characters of The Purple Violet of Oshaantu find themselves living in a post-independence rural society marked by the many continued reverberations of Namibia’s colonial past, the mbushe relationship allows for kinship ties forged between friends. In this way cultural practice provides the women with a measure of agency and suggests broader social ties and obligations regarding the events in the novel.

Social Themes in Namibian Literature African novels produced during and right after colonial experience have been a way for Africans to make sense of the social change that occurred with the experience of colonialism. They have been a means of humanizing African social practices and a tool for decolonization (Msiska, 2016, 4  Saarelma-Maunumaa, for instance, gives the example of the name Selma, the most popular name in Owamboland throughout the twentieth century (“Name Sharing”, 1999, 42). Girls with this name were named after the Finnish missionary Selma Raino who worked in the region from 1908 to 1939 and was the first European doctor in Northern Namibia and founder of Onanjokwe Lutheran Hospital (42). “It is interesting to note,” SaarelmaMaunumaa points out, “that all Selmas in Ovamboland today may be addressed as Gwanandjokwe (‘the one from Onandjokwe’), which is the name the Ovambos gave to doctor Selma Rainio. In Ovamboland, the child usually inherits the namesake’s nicknames as well. By using these Oshiwambo nicknames, the Ovambos have also managed to avoid using European and biblical names, which are no longer fashionable” (42).

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37). The Purple Violet of Oshaantu, published in 2001, is Neshani Andreas’ first novel. Published only eleven years after Namibia’s independence, it is telling that the novel deals with the gender legacies of colonialism—particularly as they manifest in the practices of Christianity and tradition. The themes encountered in The Purple Violet reflect the era of its production, as Namibian novels of the early post-independence era (after 1990) were, like their African counterparts, preoccupied with the theme of social change, given recent colonial experience and the task of envisioning a new independent society. Through its narrative form, The Purple Violet reflects on alternative possibilities for dealing with oppressive patriarchal traditions in the context of a male-dominated society (Arich-Gerz, 2010, 25). Like other early post-­ independence Namibian novels, The Purple Violet envisions communal values at the “levels of narration and [internal] focalization” (Frank, 2018, 34). Kerstin Frank points out that in these novels, this kind of focalization relies on a homodiegetic narrator—a narrator who is also the protagonist, and whose perspective should be the only focal point (21). These novels create a sense of community in that they employ internal focalization by other characters alongside the narrator, allowing for multiple perspectives, that implies “a sense of communal identity, often rooted in traditional values, which is at odds with modern, Western ideas of individualism” (22). This narrative technique charts “character constellations and plots that showcase clashes between individual and communal identities … narrating them in ways that create empathy and insights into different world-­ views” (21). While Frank focuses on narrative techniques as a means of demonstrating an alternate sense of community and being-in-the-world, I consider the living tradition of giving a namesake as another means of envisioning communal responsibility and identification in the novel. In The Purple Violet of Oshaantu the mbushe creates social ties and hierarchies that highlight its centrality to communal belonging, and that affect the way the women characters navigate patriarchy, tradition, and gender-­ based violence. The mbushe is also the way in which the novel articulates the generational implications of gender-violence and women’s inequality.

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The Mbushe and Gender in The Purple Violet of Oshaantu The Purple Violet of Oshaantu addresses women’s subordination in the context of the friendship between two young women who, through the namesake, become more intimately and communally connected. Ali, the first-person narrator, and Kauna are best friends and neighbors who live in the village of Oshaantu in northern Namibia. Both Ali and Kauna are married to men who are migrant laborers and thus spend much of their lives working and living in the mining towns of their employ, far from Owamboland where Oshaantu is located, and coming home only for brief periods. This work arrangement is part of the continuing after-life of the colonial-era migrant labor system that drove men to the various mines and white-owned farms throughout the country. However, where Ali’s husband Michael is doting and loving, Kauna’s husband Shange is physically abusive and unabashedly unfaithful. The novel’s overarching narrative tells of the event of Shange’s death and the subsequent activities leading up to his burial. Central to these preparations are the widow’s performance of mourning rituals and the practice of widow dispossession. Through Kauna’s experiences, the novel envisions the subjective effects of this practice, highlighting the ritual of hostile accusations and humiliations targeted toward the widow to justify her dispossession. As Kauna’s kin, Ali must navigate these hostilities alongside her friend. Ali and Kauna are kin because of the namesake through which their friendship becomes a mother-daughter relationship. When Ali moved to the village, Kauna was one of the few people who was kind to her, and the two quickly became inseparable.5 Ali’s husband Michael, sensing the close friendship between the women, names their only daughter after Kauna, surprising Ali: “I was delighted by his gesture. I had no words to thank him. I started to call Kauna ‘omumwandje’ [my child] and she would call me ‘meme’ [mother]” (16). More than a gesture, however, becoming Kauna’s mother comes with obligations for Ali, and allows her certain leniency when she seems to overstep in the context of Kauna’s marriage. For instance, when Shange dies, Ali has duties toward Kauna: “As her 5  Frank notes this bond as it appears on the level of focalization where an event is related from Kauna’s perspective: “While Ali remains in their village, Kauna’s thoughts and feelings during the trip are given in detail. This is clearly a paralepsis, but in the context of Ali’s and Kauna’s close bond, the break in the logic of the narration appears meaningful, since Ali feels like a part of her friend and shares her experiences even if they are apart” (2018, 26).

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friend, neighbour and ‘mother’, I was expected to be with her to give her emotional support” (15). And even before his death, tired of witnessing Shange’s violence toward Kauna, Ali goes to a church elder to advocate for the church’s intervention, hoping that they will force the couple to divorce. When Ali’s actions are made public, Shange is furious, but as Ali’s husband points out to her, “The only reason why Shange did not come here to give you a piece of his mind is because I have named our daughter after his wife” (9). Michael’s gesture is, of course, a great honor, but more importantly, the implication is that one does not disrespect one’s in-laws. The mbushe relationship, thus, does not just tie the two namesakes together but extends to the surrounding family: naming our daughter after Shange’s wife served me and Kauna well. Shange respected me more than ever before. I became his ‘mother-in-law’ and he my ‘son-in-law’. ‘Shitenya’ and ‘Mememweno’ was what we would affectionately call each other, especially when he was in a good mood. I became Kauna’s ‘mother’ and she my ‘daughter’. I exploited this situation whenever I needed favours from Shange. Referring to my daughter, I would say to Shange, ‘your wife is growing fast.’ ‘Your wife has prepared this for you.’ ‘Greetings from your wife.’ ‘Your wife has done this or that.’ And when he was not nice to his wife, I would use the same tactics. ‘Please don’t treat my daughter like that.’ Even Kauna took advantage of this situation. She would use affectionate remarks about him to my daughter, ‘Go say “hi” to our husband.’ Shange was … nice to some people, arrogant to others and usually mean to his wife. However, he had never been rude to me or my husband as he was sometimes known to be in the village. (18)

Through the mbushe the families of the two women are kin and the novel weaves a web of intricate interconnectedness so that what happens to Kauna after Shange’s death has consequences for all of them. While the event of Shange’s death and burial form the basis of the narrative, the non-linear narrative style gives the reader a sense of the state of Kauna and Shange’s relationship, as well as the community’s dealings with widow dispossession and other forms of gendered oppression. Frank notes that while Shange’s death is told to us early in the text, “Ali’s narration of the events following his death are repeatedly interrupted by flashbacks concerning Kauna’s marriage, Ali’s own family, and several parallel cases of women [of various ages and social positions] struggling within the confines of the patriarchal village” and conservative traditional society (2018, 26). In this way the reader understands why, after years of humiliation and

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abuse, Kauna refuses to participate in the mourning rituals expected of a widow, determined that “Shange would not receive a drop of her tears” (50). A consequence that would have occurred had she mourned or not is that even when Shange’s death is proved to be caused by a heart-attack, his family nevertheless accuses Kauna of poisoning him (50). At the novel’s conclusion, Kauna is stripped of her and Shange’s possessions, and in collusion with the village headman, Shange’s relatives evict Kauna and her children from the homestead. These events that happen to Kauna and in turn her actions, or refusal to act in response, are the novel’s central framework for its problematizing the dynamics of gender in this rural Namibian community. The novel, after all, is named for Kauna, because, as an older woman explains at Shange’s wake: “‘Don’t you remember? … We called her the purple violet of Oshaantu. She was so delicate and she came when these flowers were in bloom … Shange turned that child’s beautiful face into something that looked as if it had been through some strange incisions made by a clan from outer space’” (148). Aletta Cornelia Rhode argues that Kauna’s refusal to mourn is a form of resistance that envisions “potential sites for protest in [characters’] daily lives, however humble [and] not conventionally associated with the political” (49). This kind of resistance appears in “small everyday acts of defiance and a refusal of approved forms of behaviour” (49). Had Kauna not defied traditional expectations and mourned her husband’s death as was expected of her, she would be just another victim in the wake of “indigenous patriarchy which uses traditional practices and colonial Christianity to oppress and to silence women” (Rhode 44). It is therefore significant that when faced with the pressure that she behave in a traditional manner that would nevertheless still lead to her dispossession, Kauna acts in a starkly untraditional manner that the village perceives as madness. Upon finding Shange in the sitting room dead of a heart-attack, Kauna is desperate, not because this abusive man has died, but rather to let everyone know that she is innocent of his death—that she did not poison him: Shange was in a sitting position, his head had flopped forward like somebody who was sleeping in his chair. Kauna almost tripped over his body as she hurried to show them his food. She ignored Shange completely.… ‘He did not eat my food. Ask my children,’ she kept repeating … [Ali observes:] It was as if she did not know or recognise me. She did not cry. There were no tears on her face, not one. (11)

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However, as we read further along, as Kauna is later accused of killing her husband and then disinherited, we realize that Kauna’s “madness” is in fact foresight: ‘People must know the truth. He did not eat my food and I did not kill him! You hear me. You evil people. I know what you are thinking. I know because you are evil. Evil people, all of you!’ She was screaming, pointing at all of us in the living room. ‘Of course you did not kill him. What are you talking about? How can you even think that? Nobody thinks you killed your husband…’ She looked at me as if I had said the funniest thing on earth and laughed hysterically.… ‘What has got into her? Is she sick?’ people asked curiously. Soon everybody had heard what had happened. That her husband did not sleep at home—just arrived in the morning—did not eat her food, and had died. But the biggest news in the village was that Kauna had gone mad. (12)

Kauna’s madness—the desperate insistence of the facts of her innocence—contrasts the villagers attempt at calming her by telling her that “nobody thinks you killed your husband,” and yet this will become the prevalent rumor within a few days of Shange’s death. Her madness foreshadows these accusations and others that will be thrown at her soon, accusations that are madness in themselves. The weight of historical traditional practice demands that Kauna must mourn, yet this same tradition means that widows will be cast as murders and thieves to justify their dispossession. Kauna’s turn away from the traditional performance of mourning is a disruption that highlights the violence of Shange’s abuse as well as that of his relatives in the future: whether she mourns or not, she is guilty. So why not attempt prove her own innocence while the evidence is in plain sight, knowing that even to act as is expected of her—to play the role of the heartbroken and bereft widow—will not save her? When Shange’s family finally calls a meeting to accuse Kauna of murder, Kauna “did not seem surprised that the Shanges had planned this meeting behind her back” (97). As Rhode explains, Kauna “opposes her oppression with the scant weapons at her disposal and within the boundaries and restrictions of her patriarchal community” (58). Her foresight and refusal to mourn stand in contrast to Ali’s admonition for Kauna’s adherence to traditional practice. Kauna and Ali’s oppositional stances toward traditional behavior highlights the significance of the social category of motherhood, made salient

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through the mbushe relationship. Because of the mbushe Kauna is relationally Ali’s “child friend” (39). If this novel is, as Rhodes describes it, “a celebration of female solidarity and support [and Andreas] uses this solidarity amongst her female characters to counter the oppressive gender ideologies and hierarchies in their society,” in the context of namesakes, motherhood is the category through which this solidarity is brought to the fore (Rhode 53). Ali’s obligations to Kauna are that of both friendship and motherhood, and this relationship is recognized in the community. Accordingly, Kauna’s refusal to mourn carries implications for Ali: “‘You are putting me in an awkward situation. Your in-laws will think I have something to do with your decision’ I said, worried” (139). This demonstrates a communality in mothering that is common in many African societies, and has been frequently written about, as well as the significance of the category beyond gender roles.6 But Kauna and Ali’s friendship becoming that of a mother-daughter relationship brings to the fore Kauna’s other mothers and Ali’s role as a mother (19). At the occasion of Shange’s death, Ali refuses to act in contradiction of cultural expectation and counsels that Kauna honor tradition. While there are many good mothers in this novel, Ali seems unwilling to act to positively influence Kauna’s situation. For her, Kauna’s actions are madness, “hysteria” (31). But perhaps Ali’s own refusal to flout tradition is willful blindness. While Ali shares a good relationship with Michael she is nevertheless aware of her own precarity as a young wife and mother to seven children who is entirely dependent on her husband: “What will happen to me and to our children if my husband dies? I don’t like to think about it, but sometimes I can’t help it” (37). Yet she shies away from considering that what threatens Kauna threatens her as well, and thus, perhaps, she cannot not consider the inevitability of humiliation and dispossession both foreshadowed and resisted in Kauna’s behavior. For instance, when another woman Meme Katalina, fearing for Kauna’s wellbeing, warns Ali that Shange’s family had already started taking property and urged Ali to act on Kauna’s behalf and hide her property, Ali hesitates: I did not understand what she meant … ‘I don’t know if that is such a good idea,’ I said. ‘What do you mean, you don’t know if that is such a good idea? I am talking about your friend, and if you are her true friend and are 6  See for instance Emecheta’s “Feminism with a Small ‘f’” (2007); also see Oyěwùmí’s What Gender is Motherhood? (2016).

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c­ oncerned about her and her children’s wellbeing, you won’t tell me you are not sure … do you think that child is in any position to take care of her things? So, in this case, you are the person who should take care of her goods … you should make decisions for her’”. (39)

Nevertheless, despite the urgent situation, and non-confrontational solutions Meme Katalina suggests that would ease Kauna’s situation in the future, Ali “was not sure if I wanted to be involved in Kauna and her dead husband’s property wrangles … ‘I don’t think Kauna has lost anything yet’” (41). And when the time came Ali decided “not to tell her about the alleged fighting over cattle at the kraal. There would be time to do so” (43). Instead, Ali pushes her friend to perform the rituals expected of her, in a futile attempt to provide Kauna with leverage with which to negotiate her future inheritance. Ali’s hope is that, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary (that she herself recalls throughout the narrative), the performance of traditional mourning will save her friend. Thus, Ali finally confronts Kauna about her refusal to mourn: “‘There is a rumour that apparently you are not behaving like a widow.… People think you are glad he is dead.’ [Kauna replies] ‘Well, I’m sorry you all feel uncomfortable about my behaviour, but I cannot pretend … I cannot lie to myself and to everybody in the village. They all know how I was treated in my marriage. Why should I cry? For what?’” Ali silently thinks in response: “For the homestead” (48). Ali’s naïve hope that adherence to traditional rituals will safeguard Kauna’s property stands in contrast to Kauna’s resolve in her refusal (50). This means, however, that Ali cannot truly help her child friend, or seriously consider that the precarious position her friend is in foreshadows her own precarity, and that of her daughter. The generational impact implied in the novel becomes especially apparent when Ali’s young daughter Kauna speaks on behalf of her namesake, reminding her mother that what happens to the adult Kauna has serious implications for the younger Kauna because they share a personhood. In a conversation with her mother during the funeral proceedings, Ali’s daughter, concerned about her namesake, asks, ‘What are they going to do with my mbushe?’ … I had completely forgotten about her. Shange’s death must have affected her too in some way. He is her mbushe’s husband … ‘If they ask her to leave the homestead, it will not be because they think your mbushe bewitched Tate Shange, but because that is

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how some people do certain things,’ I explained to her.… ‘But whose land is it then, Mammy?’ … The question caught me by surprise, but I told her what I had to tell her. ‘It is Tate Shange’s land…’ ‘But Tate Shange is dead now and he never worked on that land. It was always just my mbushe who did that!’ she said, clenching her fists in protests. (129)

Similar to her mbushe’s refusal, Ali’s daughter protests this patriarchal way of doing “certain things,” a protest that is at the core of this novel and raised the context of generational futures. After all, both Kaunas are the purple violet of Oshaantu, because namesakes take after each other. And perhaps herein lies possibilities, because while violences toward women, such as those described in the novel, socialize girl-children to conform— “to become patriarchalized females”—girlish resistances to conformity and protests such as Kauna’s above may form the foundation of feminist politics and resistance as adults (McFadden, 2018, 419, 420). Kauna’s own refusal to conform to tradition foregrounds the injustice of her situation, and the novel extends the implications of such gendered physical violence, along with the material violence of dispossession, beyond Kauna through the namesake. Through the kinship ties created by the mbushe this violence and dispossession are no longer personal nor confined to a single family. Rather, these concerns become communal and generational.

Conclusion What’s in a namesake? The mbushe is an epistemic practice that creates communal and generational bonds, powerful social categories, and shared responsibilities and obligations between the members of a community. The essential connection between the novel’s two Kaunas casts a shadow on the younger mbushe, implicating both Ali and Michael in Kauna’s dispossession and her experiences of gender-based violence. While Ali is fortunate in her marriage to the generous Michael, neither she nor her daughter is safe. While Michael promises Ali that he would “handle his marriage” himself and keep his extended family out of their affairs, Kauna’s experience is one telling instance that warns that such a promise may not entirely be within his capability to fulfill (180). Ali, her daughter, and her family are all made responsible for and implicated in what happens to Kauna because of their connection. In The Purple Violet of Oshaantu the mbushe kinship tie between Ali and Kauna not only unravels simple

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gender hierarchies but also creates connections beyond the biological and familial, and raises concerns regarding generational consequences of the continued colonial legacies of gendered oppression in contemporary Namibia.

References Andreas, N. (2001). The purple violet of Oshaantu. Heinemann. Arich-Gerz, B. (2010). Postcolonial English language prose from and about Namibia: A survey of novels from 1993 to the present. Journal of Namibian Studies: History, Politics, Culture, 7, 7–28. Becker, H. (2007). Making tradition: A historical perspective on gender in Namibia. In S. LaFont & D. Hubbard (Eds.), Unraveling taboos: Gender and sexuality in Namibia (pp.  21–38). Gender Research and Advocacy Project: Legal Assistance Center. Britton, H., & Shook, L. (2014). “I need to hurt you more”: Namibia’s fight to end gender-based violence. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 40(1), 153–175. Currier, A. (2012). The aftermath of decoloniztion: Gender and sexual dissidence in postindependence Namibia. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 37(2), 441–467. Emecheta, B. (2007). Feminism with a small ‘f. In T.  Olaniyan & A.  Quayson (Eds.), African literature: An anthology of criticism and theory (pp. 551–557). Blackwell Publishing. Frank, K. (2018). Individual and communal values, voices, and perspectives in Namibian novels. Research in African Literatures, 49(2), 20–38. Gordon, R. J. (2008). Widow ‘dispossession’ in northern Namibian inheritance. Anthropology Southern Africa, 31(1 & 2), 1–12. Iihuhwa, M. K. (2005). Women’s human rights. In E. Ιkhaxas (Ed.), Between yesterday and tomorrow: Writings by Namibian women (Vol. 7). Women’s Leadership Centre. Mbenzi, P. A. (2006). A dictionary of Oshiwambo surnames. ELOC Printing Press. Mbenzi, P. A. (2009). Selected Oshiwambo revolutionary names as a decolonising strategy. Nawa: Journal of Language and Communication, 3(2), 64–73. McFadden, P. (2018). Contemporarity: Sufficiency in a radical African feminist life. Meridians: Feminism, Race, Transnationalism, 17(2), 415–431. McKittrick, M. (2002). To dwell secure: Generation, Christianity, and colonialism in Ovamboland. Heinneman. Msiska, M.-H. (2016). The novel and decolonization in Africa. In S.  Gikandi (Ed.), The Oxford history of the novel in English: The novel in African and the Caribbean since 1950 (pp. 37–54). Oxford University Press.

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Ndakalako-Bannikov, M. (2020). Changing dresses: Owambo traditional dress and discourses on tradition, ethnicity, and National Identity in Namibia. Journal of Folklore Research, 17(1), 73–109. Oyěwùmí, O. (1997). The invention of women: Making an African sense of Western gender discourses. University of Minnesota Press. Oyěwùmí, O. (2016). What gender is motherhood? Changing Yorùbá ideals of power, procreation, and identity in the age of modernity. Palgrave. Saarelma-Maunumaa, M. (1999). Name sharing in the naming system of the Ovambos in Namibia. Nomina Africana: Journal of the Names Society of Southern Africa, 13(1&2), 35–45. Saarelma-Maunumaa, M. (2003). Edhina Ekogidho—Names as links: The encounter between African and European anthroponymic systems among the ambo people in Namibia. Finnish Literature Society. Wallace, M. (2011). A History of Namibia: From the Beginning to 1990. New York: Oxford University Press. “Women’s Property Rights in Namibia: An Investigative Report to Determine the Potential for Litigation.” (2015). The University of Wyoming Human Rights Clinic. January, 2015. https://www.uwyo.edu/law/experiential/_files/intl-­ files/namibia.pdf

Mother-Agency and the Currency of Names Besi Brillian Muhonja

My paternal grandmother, Guku Marita, was Mmavi-Mgonda, which means her father was Mmavi, a member of the Mavi clan, and her mother was Mgonda. Her husband, Guga Kayiya, was Mmasero, meaning “of Masero clan.” The names she chose for her children should have favored primarily my grandfather’s clan, Avamasero. Guku, instead, named her surviving children after members of her clan, Avamavi. Guku initially gave some of her children names from her husband’s clan. When all these children passed away, she challenged death through naming. There were probably other reasons at play for the loss of lives, but for grandmother’s concerns, names from her family line saved the lives of the children who survived. This account illustrates three things: the complexity of naming processes, the location of women in naming customs, and the currency permeating names and, because of that, naming practices. There is a dearth of critical scholarly research on philosophies, practices, and rituals of naming among the Maragoli of Western Kenya. Excursions into the performances of naming and performativity of names,

B. B. Muhonja (*) Department of Scholarship and Research Development, James Madison University, Harrisonburg, VA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_6

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therefore, present new frontiers in, and for studying identities and power dynamics within this community. This chapter does not make new discoveries because the Maragoli have historically understood the weight and complexities of their naming mores. The chapter critically engages parts of that construction through the lens of mother-agency. I consider the social currency encased in anthroponyms and exercises of naming. I examine unique ways in which women, mostly occupied with mothering and applying mother knowledge, (re)direct(ed) some naming and identity creation processes and customs, thereby leveraging their double privilege as naming agents and mothers for their personal survival and that of their families. I employ the expanded definition of mothers embraced by the Maragoli to include mother identities beyond the bio-mother. The proximity of mothers, grandmothers, and other mothers to children at the start of life, coupled with the revered character of motherhood, result in access to naming influence and authority. An onomastic analysis reveals that while assigning anthroponyms to humans was not exclusively within the purview of women among the Maragoli, women were involved in a number of naming practices and rituals and extensively expended their influence within these settings. To explore applications of that power as mother-agency, I draw from personal experience, Maragoli cultural knowledge, and extensive research I completed on naming practices. My investigations were conducted in the villages of Mbale, Vigina, Inyali, Tsimbalo, Chango, Gavalagi, Viyalo, and Endeli—all in Vihiga county, Kenya, the geographic and political space that most coincides with the ancestral home of the Maragoli.

Naming Power Banked in Motherhood The social, political, and economic capital embodied in a name informs practices of reciprocity, codes of belonging, and has implications for different forms of personal and group memory in indigenous Maragoli practice. This renders kugulika umwana ilieta, the bestowing of a name on a child, or lilanga umwana ilieta, the naming of a child, a weighty endeavor. Even in a practice like “kusimika mazi,” a seemingly chance name selector, the implications of factors like the length of time it took a child to “accept” a name, and, especially, who participated in the process must be critically contemplated. Luvai explains that “Mwana yagonanga amadiku gavaga naho ganne ma vasimika amazi (1986, 17) translating to “Three to four days after birth, they would plant (prepare and set up) the water for the

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naming ceremony.”1 Water would be delivered on kituva (a wooden bowl), which an elder poured onto lubago, an earthen bowl. On this, the elder performing the ritual set a cooking stick and swiveled the lubago as he/she and others called out names. If the lubago stopped moving, for whatever reason, the belief was that the right name for the child had been arrived at, which would be the name called out at the moment the lubago stopped swiveling. The child was then bathed in the water on the lubago. Where this practice was used, the resulting name was accepted as the primary name of the child. The names called out by those present during the ceremony were those of dead relatives of either of the child’s parents (Luvai 1986, 17; personal communication, June 2006). The location of women in the kusimika mazi naming ceremony begins an appreciation for women’s access and influence in naming processes. What appears to be a chance naming procedure reveals, at closer examination, that the power of choice exists and is controlled by those proposing potential names. No particular deliberation goes into the selection of the name at the actual naming ceremony, but prior to the instance, reflections on worthy names suited for all relevant considerations would be held by those present at the event. What is significant to this study is that at this ceremony, because of the high involvement of the mother and other mothers in the first few days of a child’s life, there would likely be more women present than men. The presence of primarily women in the early days of a child’s life in indigenous communities also influenced naming in cases where names were based on characteristics revealed by the child. The Maragoli believe that some children participate in their own naming. “Tsinyinga tsindi yivulangwa ni imbala yo mundu wakuza” (Luvai, 18). This translates to, “Sometimes a child would be born with the same birthmark or scar as someone who was deceased.”2 Such a birthmark is known as ingulikwa, a naming sign. Mannerisms of newborns, if they are evocative of those of a deceased relation, also could serve the same purpose as ingulikwa, as do characteristics simply demonstrating a baby’s unique personality. Distinctive characteristics unrelated to anyone also offer ideas for naming the child. Upon observing the baby for the days before the naming ceremony, community members may determine whether the child exhibits characteristics similar to a person who had passed on that could be 1 2

 My translation.  My translation.

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perceived as a naming sign. Because the mother, her helpers and social mothers spent the most time with new children, they could influence this type of naming, activating mother-agency. The following are examples of names given to children, which embody characteristics they present: Kagoha Vukinu Buyanzi Agayanzi Bunoru

given to a smiling child given to a playful child given to a happy child given to a happy child given to a child inspiring sweetness, or an attractive child Kageha/Kegehi given to a child small in build Kadi given to a child small in build Kanyangiza given to a child who is troublesome Chimbiru given to a dark-skinned child, from imbiru, the word for soot Vodembeke given to a weakling Because of their proximity to the child right after birth, the mothers provide most of the information on peculiarities revealed by the child. As a result, however, a mother could subvert the process by providing inaccurate information to benefit her child’s naming and score them a desirable name; in doing so, she could positively impact the child’s future through expected nominative determinism.

Naming and Erasing Mothers, like my grandmother did, also manipulate processes of naming as ritual erasure to ensure survival of children and families. Such protest goes beyond the realm of the living to the spirit world. In the same way that through nominative determinism, with the intention to ensure that children live up to a positive name, communities sometimes use names anticipating, or attempting to block certain possible unwelcome outcomes. Some deny their children attractive names, as a ruse to compromise their magnetism to negative forces like death. Unfavorable names are employed as tools to protest death or negotiate the potential passing of the children. The names reflect the presence of little hope of survival of the child, and at the same time, are applied toward generating hopefulness for survival of the child. Luvai expounds on this phenomenon:

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Amita manyingi aga Valogooli galange ni kivuni ligali […]. Amita gataliywi yaga na gavaana vivulangwa kolonda avakuzaa. Kunangwa lisuuvira lio kohona liavo liali likekeke. Yaga galondana ku vivuli va vaana vavo vahongera kukuza. (Luvai, 18) Many names of the Maragoli carried significant meaning […]. These referenced names are for children who were born following the death of siblings born before them. Therefore, hope for their survival was limited. This was the choice of parents whose children kept dying.3

Such names serve a double purpose. First, they aid the emotional survival of the mother and family following the anticipated early passing of the child. They protect the mother’s and other relatives’ emotional and psychological well-being. For mothers who have perpetually lost other children, undesirable names allow them to prepare for the loss emotionally and psychologically, and so self-protect from the expected pain should they lose the new child. This protection of the mother extends beyond obvious emotional security. In indigenous Maragoli society, a mother losing many children would lose favor in the community, and she would be treated with suspicion and this contributed to the high investment in this use of negative tagging. Additionally, “ugly” names, like those listed below, represent parents’ derision of the grim reaper: Mudoola one who is picked (suggests not belonging, lying around) Chavulimu one who belongs to the bush/a wild creature (suggests one who doesn’t belong among humans/the living) Anzira one who belongs to the road (suggesting one who leaves, a wanderer) Lwegado a pretender (suggesting a pretend child with no intention of staying around) Atigala the one who was left behind but intends to follow those gone (could also be a sign of hoping that this one stays left behind) Amalaveve one who destroys their people Mbiti one who is passing by Gwekoliza a pretender (like Lwegado) Chiluka one that runs away

3

 My translation.

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When harnessed to cheat death, “ugly” names purpose to make the bearer of the name unappealing to the spirit of death. These names, a direct contestation of the power of death, symbolically locate the parent in direct battle with the spirit of death and assume elements of performativity. Where most names are used to gain familiarity with a person, in this case, names are informative and many of them actually function to extricate as a way of protecting the child and the mother. More examples follow: Gundu an ugly creature/thing Malova dirt/soil Luguki dust Gavishi things have gone bad Gudahenzwa one not to be looked at Godoshi lump of mud Chimbiru vessel with soot Masagati trash from cut down undergrowth or shrubs Malulu presenting bitterness or pain The criticality of the process of naming a child is demonstrated by the fact that it was, in indigenous Maragoli practice, almost unthinkable to name an unborn child. This was in part rooted in the belief that such an act could plague the child to death. An already identified human entity can be called on by death. To ensure the child’s survival, names in indigenous Maragoli communities were only applied after birth, where the living had some control or riposte, including rituals such as “negative naming,” to protect the child. The Maragoli also believed that the wrong name could have dire consequences for the child and family. Therefore, not even knowing the sex or character of the child, the people attached high risk to naming a child before birth. Pre-natal naming may evidence a disadvantaged future or life for the child—as the belief goes. The child could be born with another’s less impressive characteristics, or more disastrously it could jeopardize the child’s unique characteristics if they end up living up to the characteristics of someone that they were not intrinsically similar to or had more potential for greatness than. In effect, therefore, the child would never grow up to be the individual they were meant to be. Naming before birth also took away from the mother and society the chance to exercise the full power of the naming institution as illustrated in this

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chapter, and from the child, the right to “reject” a name should they need to. The Maragoli believe that sometimes children reject names (Kazira Boge, personal communication, July 2006). Umuganda gwe Miima Gyia Mulogoli, the Collective for Maragoli Customs and Traditions, explain in their publication, “Inyinga yindi umwana niyalilanga ahanyingi ma vivuli vamanya ndi sivamuguliki ilieta lienyeka mba” (4). This translates to, “There were times when the child would cry ceaselessly, and the parents would then know that they had given the child the wrong name.”4 Naming waits for birth because there is no way for an unborn child to communicate the refutation of a name. Further, they believe that should the child have brought with them a distinct naming sign, this would be missed in pre-birth naming. This rule would be waived in situations where first sons and daughters take the names of their paternal and maternal grandparents, but still, not knowing the sex of the child means that actual naming does not happen before birth even in this scenario. Twins also have societally pre-assigned names, Malongo for the first twin and Makwana for the second. Processes of name acquisition enjoy the extensive consideration and investment showcased in the foregoing because names often determine spaces occupied by humans as social and political players. Family, lineage, and clan names often determine one’s realm of operation, as well as how they are received and treated in society. As mothers of their sons, paternal grandmothers held/hold some of the keys to lineage belonging through having jurisdiction over certain naming customs. The grandmother often provides a name for the child, marking an added layer of acceptance into the family. Declining to provide a name that acknowledges the child translates to a failure to admit not just the child, but also the mother’s legitimacy in the home and in the family. A grandmother who is against embracing a certain child into the family fold, thus, has the option to refuse to provide a name. The denial of such a name signals a loss of capital on many levels. A mother whose child is denied a name could lose honor in the larger society and also forfeit potential sway in the home where her child could have enjoyed lineage rights. If a grandmother’s protest succeeds, the child may lose their birthright. Unlike the stigma of a “bad mother,” in some communities today, which is only the individual’s to bear, such a stigma in Maragoli indigenous practice implicates her family

4

 My translation.

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and community, elevating the need for security by mothers in having their children recognized by the children’s paternal families. Such recognition, conferred by the grandmother on behalf of her son and the community, means a child abe na vandu (has people, or comes from people, a family)—belongs to a group, a family, a clan. The statement “mbe na vandu” (I have people) means one has currency to expend socially, and politically, and bodies to draw from economically, politically, and socially, and galvanize influence. Grandmothers, paternal or maternal, brandishing mother-agency, sometimes deploy principles and practices of the institution of naming to cement individuals’ fates in the home by imparting names selectively and deliberately. Per the society’s customary beliefs, if a grandmother denies a child a name, then the child’s right to inherit anything in the home, including lineage, could be forfeited. Refusal to grant a name is also a way for the grandmother to communicate that they do not believe the child belongs to their lineage—that the parentage of the child is in question. Ideally for a protesting grandmother, whatever the reasons, the child’s relationship to the family is severed before it has begun, notwithstanding a valid biological relationship. Most women who engage(d) in this kind of protest have claimed to be acting in the best interests of, or to protect their sons, or their larger families. Some who provide a name, could use the choice of name to make the statement that they had done so under duress. A name, for example, like Chavulimu, translated as “a thing of the bush/wild animal” or “one that does not belong among human community” could present the bearer as unwanted. I offer an example of this in the narrative that follows. In 1997, Kavulani staged a sit-in in someone’s compound around Majengo shopping center, threatening to come back every day until the matriarch of the home “gave her” a name. Kavulani was on a mission on behalf of her sister, who was still recovering from a high-risk pregnancy and birth and whose fiancé’s mother was against the union of the two young new parents. The child’s grandmother had therefore declined to name the child, a move that summarily would deny the newborn baby a place in her father’s lineage, and possibly all other attendant privileges. For hours Kavulani camped in the front yard of her sister’s future mother-in-­ law’s home. She did not receive a name on the first day. She returned the following day and repeated her threat to continue her sit-in indefinitely. Conceding Kavulani’s resolve and her own son’s disapproval of her stance, the unwilling grandmother eventually provided a name for her son’s

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daughter. The name she submitted translates to “the disconnected one.”5 This delivered to Kavulani and her sister that which they sought (Kavulani,6 personal communication, June 2006). In the case of “the disconnected one,” while the grandmother conceded that she did not have the muscle to stop the union, she registered that her hand had been forced in accepting the child and the child’s mother into the family. She argued in her protest that the mother of the child was not good enough for her son because her family were not wealthy, and that the child and a possible marriage between the parents would compromise the standing of her son and her family in society. For this grandmother, it was also her way of accusing her son’s partner of being less than moral, sexually speaking, even though it was common knowledge that her claims were unwarranted. The will of two mothers, both exercising mother-agency, collided. A mother, like that of “the disconnected one,” who succeeds in getting a name, even an unattractive one, for their child, avoids being the bearer of a child without a name. Such a mother would be a mother of a child without a father as recognized by his lineage, which would have occasioned a family’s disgrace. Although she would not suffer the same stigma as her married niece, the mother of “the disconnected one,” my mother experienced a similar denial of a name from Guku. My mother had borne mostly girls; my father’s family wanted more sons, and for this reason, my grandmother declined to name my two youngest sisters as a way of registering her desire for my mother to exit her family. In Maragoli society, the name for a child born after twins is Kisia, the name my sister bears. My mother’s “choice” was forced because, until that point, in her own expression of mother-­ agency, she had resisted a number of culturally defined naming practices. For example, among the Maragoli, the first twin is typically named Malongo, and the second, Makwana. Mother used neither for me nor for my twin sister. She also did not give any of her children my father’s name. When Guku, who had become increasingly hostile and demanded my mother’s eviction from her son’s home, refused to name my last-born sister, my mother was prepared for this outcome. She gave her last-born child the Maragoli name, Buyanzi, meaning “happiness.” So, my last-born sister’s names translate to Melody Happiness. My mother explains that those names were necessary for her survival and that of her children, and 5 6

 Her name has been changed to protect her privacy.  Her name has been changed to protect her privacy.

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the future she envisioned for them (Muhonja, personal communication, November 13, 2005). A few weeks after she chose those names for her last-born child, my mother departed from her marital home. Grandmothers’ influence on acceptance into a lineage, and so the bequeathing of family and clan names, can also be observed in the practice of “shaving the first hair,” an honor reserved for, and controlled by the paternal grandmother or her surrogates. With this ritual, they mark and affirm the offspring of their sons. In indigenous communities, so esteemed was the shaving ceremony that one did not accept gifts for carrying out the act, because they received the honor of representing the lineage. Shaving, therefore, represented clan and family naming. The act of shaving the first hair officially accepted the child into the family, and the family and clan name were bestowed upon them. Luvai elaborates on this in the following quote: Kutula kale nu mwima gwa Valogooli kolola ndi livegwa lio kutanga lio mwana wivuliywi, likolerwi hango hanga musatsa. Kali mukali ave niyatsia kwivulira wavo, kuduuka lwa madiku gaduuka agavaloli mwana avegwe lisu, mwana aletwe hanga musatsa kovegwa. (Luvai, 18–19) Since time immemorial it has been the practice of the Maragoli to see to it that the first head shaving a child receives after birth is undertaken at the father’s ancestral or family home. Even if the woman has the child while she is in her natal home, it is required that when time comes for the first shaving, she should make the trip to her child’s paternal family’s home for the shaving ceremony.7

He adds, Kali mwana ave niyivuliywi inda-simba kuduuka aletwe hanga muyai kovegwa lisu. Kali niiva mukana oyo sialitsiaho lukali, navutswa alete mwana yatse kovegwa mayirane naye. Lidiku lio kutulitsa nilio lio mwana yavegangwa lisu. Yaga gaveeye ku mukali oveeye hango hehe. (Luvai, 19) Even when a child was born out of wedlock, the child had to be taken to the father’s family home for the shaving. Even if the mother of the child had no intentions of getting married in that home, the child still had to be delivered to the paternal family for the shaving ceremony and then the mother could 7

 My translation.

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once again leave with the child. When a woman lived in her marital home, then the shaving ceremony was carried out on the day the child was presented to the public.8

Declining to shave the first hair communicated denying the child admission into a family, and the family name—the child would not “have people.” Mothers enjoy the honorable teknonym of “Mama Vuyu,” meaning “the mother of somebody.” Vuyu would be replaced by the child’s name, for example Mama Besi. Because of this, when the child received the name of the family, part of that relationship was transferred to the mother. A new connection was created between the mother and the child’s paternal family. The mother, then, had opportunity to forge her own relationships with the child’s family, with or without the child’s father’s presence or consent. The mother of the child—a child already acknowledged as part of a family line—had some power to leverage. Women often used this position to carve out spaces for themselves and their children within families and access to property or other forms of support. A look at the temporal positioning of this shaving ceremony is telling. Barring any contentions, the child was revealed and presented to the public as a member of a certain lineage on the day of the shaving. The ceremony of shaving and its weight and connection to naming are reflected in a ritual that follows the passing of someone in Maragoli culture. According to indigenous practice, two or three days after the burial, the community hosts lovego, a shaving ceremony. “Nilio lidiku liavamaliritsanga miyinzi jo mundu wakuza. Vavoola amagovi gege. Lidiku lialondangaku liali liokuturitsa amasu” (Luvai, 39). The translation of this is, “It is the day they complete the deceased’s business. They resolve the deceased’s debts and commitments. The next day, members of the deceased’s family shave their heads.”9 This statement explains that on this day, matters related to the deceased’s life and passing, including issues of debts and property, are advanced and completed. Typically, close relatives shaved their heads bald in honor of the deceased the day after these tasks are accomplished. Many families still practice this, and some are satisfied with a simple gesture like the trimming of eyebrows, a beard, or their s­ ideburns. Some families no longer practice this while others allow family members to opt in or out of the ritual. The size of the ceremony depends on the 8 9

 My translation.  My translation.

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deceased’s standing in society and on their age. For example, if the deceased is a young unmarried man or woman, no elaborate ceremony is necessary because there are no matters like property or marriage related affairs to be resolved. The lovego symbolizes the conclusion of the dead person’s journey on earth, and they are free to move on into the realm of ancestors. The shaving of the head and naming in terms of identifying with a family or a group at the beginning of life and at the end of life confirms its worth. In this context, it becomes a process that marks the recognition of one’s membership in a lineage or family, their entry and symbolic departure, as Avalogooli would say, “niyakamala miyinzi jije,” meaning “when they have completed their business on earth.” Only then, can others be named after them. As with the shaving at the beginning of life, refusal to participate in lovego could be used as a tool of protest. Thus, the naming institution maintains its significance in life and beyond the grave, affecting not just the living, but also their relationships to those who have passed on into ancestry. This determines what become named bodies. Here, I refer to bodies that initially bore the names before their demise and those who assume the names when they are born and named. Both these bodies take on new essence once the naming happens.

Names Re(Creating) Histories Named bodies present new significations and values. The process of naming, therefore, as my grandmother used it, affected the space, cultures, and histories of individuals, lineages, and generations. The expansion and continuation of lineages is often captured in, and supported by, the carrying forward of names. While names do not replace lineage, they often allow us to mark and track family lines. Guku named her children after people from her family. Her grandchildren would expectedly name their children after people of their parents’ generation because it is typical to name children after people one knows/knew. Selected names reflect the name assigner’s aspirations for the child, and so the people that children are named after are of desirable character or achievements. For this reason, the name-gifter knows or knows of those named after. So, predictably, they are often people from the two generations preceding that of the gifter. In foregrounding the names of her natal family, Guku ensured that they were the ones symbolically written or carved into memory and history and became the primary people to provide names for the family’s future generations.

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Our grandfather’s family’s names were essentially erased from the collective memory of our generation. Such de-naming causes historical editing, creating new records that could be irreversible. Guku’s choice had the larger effect of ensuring the survival of her family’s history. My father, had he been named per traditional guidelines as the surviving first-born boy, would have taken the name Elolo, after his paternal grandfather. This was the rightful name from Ivumasero, the home of Guga’s clan. Essentially, this would have been my last name, had my mother assigned the family surname to her children, which, in an act of exerting her own mother-­ agency, she did not. I heard the name Elolo for the first time during my research for this work. Such is the power of de-naming and ultimately erasing individuals and even groups and networks of people. The impact of Guku’s action to ensure the survival of her family was magnified by the fact that the Maragoli are a patrilineal society, meaning that she interrupted the marking of a particular patriline. Guku’s disruption extends further. When time came to name my mother’s children, for this was her honor as the grandmother, my siblings and I—those she gifted names—all received names from her family. None of us carry the name of anyone from Guga’s family. My first knowledge of his extended family I received in the process of this research. We, however, can tell quite a bit about the people we were named after, her family. In the next generation, as our children name their children after us, our grandmother’s family’s legacy will endure. Along with naming and de-­ naming, there is renaming that occurs to and within lineages, relationships, histories, and memories, as explored above. While naming could be seen as an individuating process, it also creates collectives as people identify with shared names. Having infused two generations with her family’s names, ensuring, deliberately or not, that these were carried forward through future generations, Guku birthed a renamed collective, interrupting the naming and recognition of another group.

Conclusion Names contribute to the ordering of society through signifying and classifying, and, like Guku, my mother, and the others featured in this chapter, Maragoli mothers, grandmothers, and other mothers have historically deployed their mother-agency, making the most of cards they hold in the game of naming to ensure access to different forms of capital for their children and families. They use names to negotiate relationships and

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positions in social institutions, and craft power relations, identities, destinies, and legacies. Names and naming, therefore, are instruments for manifesting mother-agency. As other culturally endorsed modes of resistance fade, names and naming remain a resilient and effective tool accessible to mothers.

References Luvai, N. (1986). Miima jo Mulogooli [Customs of the Maragoli]. Henry Chakava Press. Umuganda gwe Miima Gyia Mulogoli (Collective for the Customs/Traditions of the Maragoli). (1996). Ilivilukiza Lyio Mwana [Raising a Child]. Vihiga Cultural Society.

Akan “Soul Names” as Archives of Histories and Knowledge: Some Preliminary Thoughts Kwasi Konadu

Introduction Akan “soul names” possess a ubiquity as kente cloth in global marketplaces, and yet they have been rarely studied as archives of histories and knowledge. These patterned fe/male names for each day of the week have naturally caught the attention of linguists, who approach them from the perspectives of syntax, semiotics, and as recourse from which to draw dehistoricized “ethno-linguistic” data.1 Less visible in the literature are 1  See, for instance, Kofi Agyekum, “The Sociolinguistic of Akan Personal Names,” Nordic Journal of African Studies 15, no. 2 (2006): 206–35; Samuel Gyasi Obeng, African Anthroponymy: An Ethnopragmatic and Morphophonological Study of Personal Names in Akan and Some African Societies (München: Lincom Europa, 2001); idem, “From Morphophonology to Sociolinguistics: The Case of Akan Hypocoristic Day-Names,” Multilingua 16, no. 1 (1997): 39–56.

K. Konadu (*) Africana & Latin American Studies, Colgate University, Hamilton, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_7

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studies from historical linguists and virtually absent are historians who have probed them as (re)sources for historical reconstruction. This chapter argues Akan “soul names” (akradin) function as indices of historic and cultural content and, viewed from this perspective, archives of indigenous knowledge. Our guide in making this case comes from one of the earliest documented “soul names” of an African woman recorded as Adua (Adwoa). In what follows, I advance three related views: histories of Akan (and African) peoples can be decoded and made more intelligible according their own logic by paying attention to names as archives of knowledge; this knowledge can offer new perspectives on pre-nineteenth-century colonial and Christian encounters, and how African peoples engaged them over time; and, finally, a historicized study of names provides an additional method for reconstituting cultural forms, norms, and meanings throughout their elongated histories.

“[They] Call Themselves by Heathen Names” In September 1572, a Portuguese official stationed at the São Jorge da Mina fortress on the Gold Coast (present-day Ghana) wrote, I rejoice that they [the Catholic priests] have put into effect the saying of mass at a certain hour, and have taught the blacks the stations of the cross; and I believe that eventually there will be a roll-call, as is done in many parts, including Spain, which seems to me very necessary because the blacks are an indolent and careless people; and also so that they can hear their Christian names repeated, because I understand that all the other [converts] after leaving the company of Christians and returning to their village, call themselves by heathen names, [for instance,] the man named Joanne being known as Tabo and the woman [named] Maria as Adua [Adwoa].2

There are several stories packed into this observation, the least important of which concern Europe or Portugal. That the converted “blacks” should “hear their Christian names repeated” echoes less indoctrination or even Christian proselytization. Proselytization was woven into a colonial project, where fortified coastal enclaves settled by Portuguese nationals were governed by political allegiance to Portugal and its laws and customs. This exercise of power, however tenuous and partial, explains why 2  António Brásio, ed., Monumenta Missionaria Africana (Lisbon: Agência Geral do Ultramar, 1952-88), 3: 90–91. Hereafter, “MMA.”

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Portuguese overseas personnel and officials in Lisbon claimed the São Jorge da Mina and its adjoining lands as “our district” and why the anonymous official distinguished the “company of Christians” from “their village.”3 That village was Adena, situated on the west bank of the Benya lagoon. The Portuguese called it “the village of two parts,” since Adena and the São Jorge da Mina fortress stood on land claimed by the local polities of Fetu and the Eguafoɔ. According to oral histories, Adena was the outgrowth of an earlier village named Anomansa or Anomee founded by a hunter named Kwa Amankwa before the Portuguese arrived in 1471. For the Portuguese, then, a return “to their village” meant defecting from Christendom and a relapse into its demonic inverse, including “heathen names.” Christian conversion was situational and incomplete, but the real or imagined ideological control the anonymous official and the Catholic priests saw as “very necessary,” in any colonial encounter, was thwarted when Adwoa spoke or heard her name. Indeed, her name is a rare specimen among the sixteenth-century records for Akan interaction with the Portuguese empire, when Portugal enjoyed something of a trade monopoly vis-à-vis their European adversaries on the Gold Coast. The name Adwoa, more importantly, has its own story. Tabo seems to be Tabi, a personal or praise name corresponding to Agyei.4 Though the meaning of Tabo as a personal name is less clear, there is no doubt about the name Adwoa. Adwoa remains the “soul name” (kradin) given to an Akan female child born on Monday (Dwoada). Rarely is this kradin tampered with or altered. Though we lack every detail of this Adwoa’s life except her soul name, we know she would have undergone a naming or “out-dooring” ceremony (abadinto) on a week after the day of birth. Soul names and the process of naming were requisite parts of personhood, and guides for achieving a person’s mission (hyɛbea) in the temporal world. Soul names reflect an individual’s human purpose in life; said another way, they index the particular “soul” revealed on a day, assigned to a specific person. Adwoa’s abadinto would have taken place at her father’s house, after waiting a calendar week (nnawɔtwe) to ensure she came to stay on earth (Asase Yaa) and would not prematurely return to the ancestor’s abode (asamandoɔ) to her spiritual mother. Until the Monday after her birth, Adwoa the infant would have been regarded as a stranger 3  See, for instance, John W.  Blake, Europeans in West Africa, 1450–1560 (London: The Hakluyt Society, 1941), 96, 133. 4  A. A. Opoku, Obi Kyerɛ (Tema: Ghana Publishing Corp., 1973), 77.

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(ɔhɔho) and thus greeted, woaba a tena aseɛ (“now that you have come, sit down [and stay]”), to wish her a long life (nkwa soɔ). Before the scheduled day of the abadinto ceremony, items such as palm wine or an alcoholic drink (nsa), cups (nkuruwa), water (nsuo), mat (kɛtɛ), calabash (koraa), and broom (ɔprae) were gathered for the girl child. Boys would have a cutlass (nkrante). Early in the morning of the scheduled day, two elders of high character from the father’s family would have been sent to retrieve Adwoa and her mother from the mother’s house. One of the elders—a woman for a girl child, and a man for a male child—is chosen to perform the ceremony. Adwoa’s mother would then bathe the infant and both would dress in white cloth and stay indoors until the ceremony begins. Certain sacred beads (e.g., bɔdɔm, ahenewa, and abobɔe) are placed on the child, and marks made with white clay (hyire) and specific to this ceremony are drawn on the child and mother. Just before daybreak (anɔpa-­hema), close relatives and friends of the mother help in the preparation, as the ceremony starts with an opening libation (mpaeɛ) poured by an elder who announces the occasion and its purpose. The family (abusua) of Adwoa’s mother would have provided the drink used for the opening libation, which is poured at every doorstep and the main entrance to the house. Adwoa would have belonged to one of eight matrilineal clans, each associated with a sacred animal (akraboa) and a basic character—Ɛyoko (falcon; patience), Asona (raven; wisdom), Aseneɛ (bat; diplomacy), Aduana (dog; skill), Ɛkoɔna (buffalo; uprightness), Asakyiri (vulture; cleanliness), Agona (parrot; eloquence), and Beretuo (leopard; aggressiveness).5 The father’s family provides the drink for the second libation. After this libation, Adwoa would have been taken out of the house, stripped naked, and then placed on a prepared area of the ground or on a comfortable cushion. Early that morning (anɔpa), when all guests have arrived, a female or male elder of the father takes the child to her or his lap and both the water and the alcoholic beverage are poured into separate cups. Naming the child is the responsibility of the father’s family. It is quite likely Adwoa’s name would have been provided by her father (agya) and the officiating female elder would have spoken something to this effect: Yɛbɛfrɛ wo Adwoa ne asekyerɛ din yɛ yɛwoo wo Ɛdwoada 5  The Akan mmusua (matrilineal clans) are associated with an equivalent group of stars the Akan identify as the original ancestress (aberewa, “the old woman”) and her six or seven children. That constellation is called Aberewa ne ne mma (“the old woman and her children”).

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(We will call you Adwoa and this name means your [feminine] soul decided to come to this earth on a Monday) Ɛfiri nne rekɔ yɛbɛfrɛ wo Adwoa (agyadin) (From today onward, we will call you Adwoa [and at least her patrilineal clan/family name—agyadin]).

The name Adwoa is even more revealing. On its own, and without any other details in the documentary record, we know Adwoa was born on one of six Mondays on the Akan calendar consisting of 378 days, organized into nine cycles of 42 days. This cycle or adaduanan was sub-divided into six weeks of seven days each. The root of Adwoa’s name—dwo—is shared by the day on which she was born—dwoada—and this root term also linked her to an ɔbosom (spiritual force) which the Akan conceptualized as a soul or emissary of their Creator (called Onyankopɔn, among other praise names).6 These abosom (sg. ɔbosom, “that which serves an unlimited purpose”) were deeply integral to notions of personhood and culture. Those abosom located at the foundation of the calendar and the naming system were recorded by lexicographer J.G.  Christaller in the nineteenth century: “The seven days of the week are named after seven personal beings or Genii called Ayisi [Awusi], Adwo, Bena, Wuku [Aku], Yaw [Awo], Afi, Amen.”7 Widely held is the idea that these abosom shape the persona and basic conduct of each soul name bearer. Those born on the same day were thought to share similar qualities and personal challenges. The Sunday-born is a leader society looks upon for guidance and leadership and s/he is appropriately known as obue-akwan, “clearer of the way.” However, they are very inquisitive and tend to be easily pulled into a thing of interest. The Monday-born, such as Adwoa, is a calm person (okoto), peacemaker (adwo), protector, and supplicant, but have such a confidence that they tend to be unreceptive to advice external to their own. The 6  The Akan conceived Creator is realized as part and parcel of an unfolding process of creation and this may explain why the Akan acknowledge first but almost never pour libation to their Creator. As manifestations of the Creator, the abosom reside in specific locales and permeate the ocean (εpo kεseε), rivers (asu), lakes (atare), streams (asuwa), mountains (mmepɔw), forests (akwae), trees and plants (nnua), and microorganisms and animals (mmoa) that exist in the temporal domain of Asase Yaa (“earth”). These natural features are part of creation and, by extension, Onyankopɔn—one of several “praise names” for the Akan Creator. 7  J. G. Christaller, Dictionary of the Asante and Fante Language Called Tshi (Basel: Basel Evangelical Missionary Society, 1933), 599.

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Tuesday-born, like the Monday-born, has some arrogance and is known as ɔbarima, “manly” or “courageous”; but once tempered, they tend to be nurturing and achieve a balance between strength and compassion (ogyam). The Wednesday-born is a champion (ntoni, atobi) of the cause of others and thus a hero, but s/he can be mean-­spirited (obrisii, “dark hearted”) and tenacious. The Thursday-born is courageous and aggressive in a warlike manner (preko), and thus tend to be very guarded, judgmental, and appear to be ungrateful (aye-anya-nya, “one who suffers from ingratitude”). The Friday-born is an adventurer (ntefo-a-ɔkyin, “stubborn one born to be a wanderer”) and indecisive and thus take time to settle, but are highly motivated and competent. Lastly, the Saturday-born tends to be talented (atoapem), wise, and problem-­solvers, but also very sensational (nya-beasa-wo, “the sensationalist”) and often have a very healthy appetite.8 Through the optic of her kradin, the spiritual and temporal persona of our guide Adwoa is revealed against the backdrop of the ɔbosom with which she was associated (dwo) and the praise name (okoto) which functioned as shorthand for her temperament (see Table 1). “The [Akan] celebrate every week the day on which they are born,” observed eighteenth-century Danish clergyman Christian Oldendorp, “for instance Monday. On that day in the morning before washing themselves, they grind up [a plant] … in water and take a mouthful of the water three times and every time they spit out the water they pray to Jankombum

Table 1  Soul Names, Guiding Forces (abosom), and Praise Names Abosom ɛda (day)

ɔbarima-din (male)

ɔbaa-din (female)

Mmmrane (“praise names”)

Awusi Adwo Bena Aku Awo Afi

Kwasiada Dwoada Benada Wukuada Yawoada Fiada

Kwasi Kwadwo Kwabena Kwaku Yaw (formerly Kwaw) Kofi (formerly Kwafi)

Akosua Adwoa Abena Akua Yaa Afia

Amen

Memeneda

Kwame

Amma

Bodua (protector, leader) Okoto (calm, humble) Ogyam (good, humane) Ntonni (advocate, hero) Pereko (firm, fearless) Okyin (itinerant, adventurer) Atoapem (ancient, heroic)

8  On some of these personal qualities, see Kwame Gyekye, An Essay on African Philosophical Thought: The Akan Conceptual Scheme (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1995), 172.

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[Onyankopɔn].”9 For Adwoa, the Monday-born female with a cool and peaceful character but with episodes of ingratitude, this morning ritual affirming her connection to her Creator and the ɔbosom anchored in her soul (name) and day of birth would have been no different. Adwoa would have been taught this and other ritual practices, after her introduction to the world, beginning with her naming ritual. After Adwoa received her kradin, the female elder would have then dipped her forefinger into an alcoholic beverage-filled cup or used a leaf and afterward placed droplets on Adwoa’s tongue and uttered three times, sɛ yɛka se nsa a ka se nsa (“when we say that it is intoxicating drink [symbolic of untruth], say that it is intoxicating drink”). The elder does the same with the water: sɛ yɛka se nsuo a ka se nsuo (“when we say that it is water [symbolic of truth], say that it is water”).10 These tasting rituals advise Adwoa the infant to seek and tell the truth and to distinguish it from falsehood as she strives to live a righteous and ethical life (abrabɔ). If there are other names after the kradin, those names usually derive from consultations with spiritualist-healers (ɔkɔmfoɔ; ɔbosomfoɔ), an elder or ancestor of the father’s family of high character (suban pa), or particular circumstances surrounding the child’s birth. Some birth circumstantial names include Anto (“did not meet”) and Yɛmpɛwo (“we don’t want you”), for a parent, usually father, passed before child’s birth; Bɛkoeɛ 9  Christian G.A. Oldendorp, Historie der caribischen Inseln Sanct Thomas, Sanct Crux und Sanct Jan, insbesondere der dasigen Neger und der Mission der evangelischen Brüder-Unität Herrnhut, Erster Teil, eds. Gudrun Meier, Stephan Palmié, Peter Stein, and Horst Ulbricht (Berlin: Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde Dresden, 2000), 386. 10  Kofi Agyekum, professor of linguistics at the University of Ghana (Legon), recounts below (in English translation) the adinto ceremony of his daughter held in June 1985  in Kumase. The form and text is strikingly similar to the “general” form outlined above for Adwoa. Professor Agyekum’s daughter, Afua Ataa Boakyewaa Agyekum, was named after his mother, a female twin born on Friday. The elder officiant of the adinto ceremony said the following: “Baby, you are welcome to this world. Have a longer stay, just do not come and exhibit yourself and return. Your mothers and fathers have assembled here today to give you a name. The name we are giving to you is Afua Ataa Boakyewaa Agyekum. You are named Afua because that is the day your soul decided to enter into this world. We are naming you after your grandmother Afua Ataa. Your grandparent is Ataa because she was born a twin. Her real name is Boakyewaa, the feminine form of Boakye. Remember that your grandmother is a twin and therefore a deity and sacred figure that must be kept hallowed. In view of this, come and put up a good moral behavior. Again we are attaching your father’s name Agyekum to your name. Follow the footsteps of your father and come and study hard. When we say water, let it be water, when we say drink let it be drink” (Agyekum, “Sociolinguistics,” 217).

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(“came to fight” [born during tragedy/war]); Humuu (born at time of harvest festival); Dwira (born at time of new year yam harvest festival of purification); Sika (born during discovery of gold); Afiriyie/Baayie/Abayie (born during time of abundance, wealth and peace); Brɛnya (born when mother had been declared barren); and Onyina (born underneath a silk cotton tree). If Adwoa was born in a sequence of children, she would have had an added name signaling her birth order: Piesie (first born; lit. “erupt from an anthill”); Manu, Mεnsa and Mansa (female), Anane/Annan, (A) num, Nsia, Nson, Nwɔtwe, Nkroma, Badu/Beduwaa, Duku, Adunu, and Adusa. If Adwoa was a twin, she and other would be called Ata (male) or Ataa (female). A child following twins is called Tawia, then comes Nyankomago, Atuakɔsεn, Abobakorowa, and Damusaa.11 In line with the “soul name,” Adwoa was guaranteed a second, family name (called agyadin since it derives from the father’s patrilineal clan) if no peculiar circumstances or deceased person from whom to her name exists. Such family names are clan names based on twelve patrilineal clans (ntorɔ/ntɔn))—rather than the complimentary eight matrilineal clans (mmusua; sg. abusua) to which all Akan children belong. These names are given by the father in consultation with his parents or wife, and, in earlier times, with family or community spiritualists. Each of the twelve ntorɔ or ntɔn has a “soul day” (kra da), or a specific, and usually overlapping, day on which certain rituals associated with the ntorɔ/ntɔn are performed. Thus, in Table 2, each of the following patrilineal clans represented has their own day of observance (kra da) where members ritually cleanse their soul typically near a body of water, exchange greetings with specific responses (nnyesoɔ) among those sharing the same ntorɔ/ntɔn, uphold a set of taboos or avoidances (nkyiwadeε), respect a sacred animal (akraboa;

 Agyekum, “Sociolinguistics,” 217–27.

11

Yaa aku/ ɛsɔn (and Yaa anyaado) Yaa awisi Yaa ahenewa (and Yaa amu) Yaa amen (and Yaa anyaado) Yaa anyaado Yaa opeafo

Bosompra (Pra river that Wednesdays flows through Asante to the coast; a family and a state ɔbosom)

Sundays

Saturdays

Tuesdays

Bosomtwe (sacred lake in Asante; a family ɔbosom)

Bosomafram (Afram river)

Bosomnkεteaa (river or sea; it is combined with Bosompo (sea) ntorɔ/ntɔn; it is a family bosom)

Nnyesoɔ Yaa aburu

Kra da

Bosommuru (Muru river Tuesdays in Akyem or Adanse; a family ɔbosom)

Ntorɔ/ntɔn

Table 2  Akan Ntorɔ/Ntɔn (patrilineal clans)

Leopard

Crocodile

Python, mouse

Akrammoa

Palm wine, goat, Ɔkwakuo cattle, antelope, crocodile Dog, dove, tortoise, Hippo-­ potamus

Cattle, dog, ɔkwakuo (Mona monkey), asokwa (a bird), corn, palm wine, Tuesday dancing White fowl, black snail, antelope, water yam, ɔkwakuo, tortoise, leopard, carcass ɔkwakuo, snail, wild dog, tortoise, antelope

Akyiwadeɛ

Proud, audacious

Liberal, kind, empathetic

Humane, kind, empathetic

Tough, strong, firm

Respectable, distinguished

Suban

(continued)

Amponsa, Anokye, Peasa, Awua, Afram, dame, Afrane, Ɔtwe, Akwaa Dakwa, Boadu, Bonsu, Apea, Ayim, Kusi, Poakwa, Osei (Ɔsɛe), Otutu, Ayimadu, Okurofa

Agyeman, Asare, Amoako, Ofori, Boaten, Kwaakye, Adu, Boakye, Oti, Opoku, Amankwa, Boahene, Safoa, Akyeampɔn, ado Ofosu, Gyadu, Kwatia, Boafo, Boate, Atakora, Ɔsafo, Anteadu, Agyei, Akyaw, Aniapam, Ɔkyem

?

Agyadin

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Thursdays

Kra da

Fridays

Bosomayensu (Ayensu river; a family ɔbosom) Bosomsika (“gold/ currency”) Bosomakɔm (associated with spiritual [ɔkɔm] mediumship) Bosomkɔnsi (associated with ɔkɔmfoɔ’s work)

Akyiwadeɛ

Palm wine; Tuesday Tortoise dancing

Virtuoso

Fanatic

Fastidious

Truculent

Chaste

Eccentric, jittery

Chivalrous

Suban

Adu, Oben, ado, Anim, Akɔmaa, Asuman, Ankomahene ?

?

?

Sakyi, Ampɔnsa, Otieku, Aboagye, Sɛkyerɛ, Ataara, Antwi, Akuamoa ?

?

Agyadin

a Krete is supposedly an ɔbosom venerated in Aburi, the Akuapem region of eastern Ghana. See A. C. Denteh, “Ntorɔ and Ntɔn,” Research Review 3, no. 3 (1967): 92 fn. 5, 96; Pescheux, Royaume Asante, 296; Opoku, Obi Kyerɛ, 23

?

Tuesdays

Wild hog or boar Monitor lizard Dog

Goat

Leopard

Python

Akrammoa

Palm wine, spotted animals

Ape, carcass, kyɛnkyɛn (bark cloth) Yaa Spotted animals, ahenewa palm wine, tortoise, snail Yaa afi (and Water yam, black Yaa ɔpeo or snail, monitor opeafo) lizard, boar ? White hen, antelope, black snail ? Mixture of food

?

Nnyesoɔ

Tuesdays (or ? Fridays)

Fridays

Fridays (or Tuesdays)

Bosomafi (earth ntorɔ/ ntɔn; a family ɔbosom)

Bosomdwerɛbe (a cave; a Sundays family ɔbosom)

Bosomkrɛtea

Ntorɔ/ntɔn

Table 2 (continued)

128  K. KONADU

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pl. akrammoa) which members taboo, share basic character (suban), and assume one of several patrilineal clan names (agyadin).12 Those clustered within the same patrilineal clan—marked by one of the ntorɔ/ntɔn above (see Table 2)—would possess one of the several agyadin or paternally derived family names, as the name which follows their kradin. All the ritual practices and observances, including the agyadin, would have been bequeathed by the father. We have no way of knowing the agyadin or ntorɔ/ntɔn of Adwoa, but if we speculate further, Adwoa might have been associated with the Bosomnkɛteaa/Bosompo ntorɔ for it is linked to the ocean where Adwoa and presumably her family lived and where she would have purified her soul (kra) on all six Tuesday on the adaduanan calendar system. The veracity of this association between Adwoa and an ntorɔ/ntɔn is not what is important here; rather, this exercise in probability allows us to role-play what would have happened during Adowa’s naming ceremony and thus anchoring her in family and community life. In this world of probability, Adowa would have responded to others sharing the same Bosomnkɛteaa/Bosompo ntorɔ with “Yaa anyaado or opeafo” and learn to bathe her soul on Tuesdays by the ocean. She would have learned to avoid dogs, doves, and tortoises on Tuesdays, but regard the Hippopotamus, appropriately called a “sea horse,” as sacred and not to be harmed or killed. This Adwoa would have been socialized to be proud and audacious—the basic character of Bosomnkɛteaa/Bosompo ntorɔ—and would have been given an agyadin such as Dakwa, Boadu, Bonsu, Kusi, Poakwa, Otutu, Ayimadu, or Okurofa. Let us call her, for the sake of argumentation, Adwoa Bonsu. Bonsu, meaning “whale” or another sea animal spouting water, seems appropriate in this context. 12  In addition to interviews and conversations with knowledgeable Akan peoples over the years, I have also consulted the following with regard to the patrilineal lines in the incomplete Table 1: Agyekum, “Sociolinguistic,” 218; T. C. McCaskie, State and Society in Precolonial Asante (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 170–72; Gerald Pescheux, Le Royaume Asante (Ghana): Parenté, Pouvoir, Histoire, XVIIe-XXe siècles (Paris: Karthala Editions, 2003), 293–98; A. Abu Boahen, E. Akyeampong, N. Lawler, T.C. McCaskie, and Ivor Wilks, “The History of Ashanti Kings and the Whole Country Itself” and Other Writing by Otumfuo Nana Agyeman Prempeh I (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); A. A. Opoku, Obi Kyerɛ (Tema: Ghana Publishing Co., 1973), 20–23, 26–30; B. S. Akuffo, Tete Akorae (Accra: Bureau of Ghana Languages, 1970), 71–74; E. R. Addow, Edin ne Mmrane (Accra: Bureau of Ghana Languages, 1969), 6; Thomas Yao Kani, Akanfoɔ Amammerɛ (Accra: Bureau of Ghana Languages, 1962), 54–62; Kofi A. Busia, The Position of the Chief in the Modern Political System of Ashanti (New York: Oxford University Press, 1951); Christaller, Dictionary.

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After the naming of Adwoa Bonsu, a mat would have been placed on the floor or ground. The child then elevated three times, placed on the mat naked and with a broom in her hand, and afterwards covered with a calabash. After a few seconds, the calabash was removed. This process symbolized the ethic of hard work, preserving a household and family, and working with her future husband. If it were a boy, a cutlass was placed in his hand; the cutlass symbolizes a similar work ethic, providing for and protecting his family, and working with his future wife. Adwoa Bonsu would then have been presented to her community, hence, the common translation of the naming ceremony as “out-dooring,” since this would have been the first time she was taken out of the house. A final libation was poured to consecrate the ceremony, and blessings for the child and her family were articulated along with requests for the child to be an obedient, truthful, and righteous member of the community. Thereafter, Adwoa would be addressed by their name and her ears would receive what family and community members expect of her. Songs of praise would have also been sung to the child. Those in audience bearing gifts such as money (sika) or clothing (ntadeɛ) offered them to the family of the newborn, while the father presented gifts to the mother and child. General feasting with singing and dancing then followed, providing festive closure to the abadinto ceremony and the welcoming of Adwoa Bonsu to her new world.

“They Pay Regard to the Day of Birth”: Forms and Meanings in a Naming Culture Somewhere between the Georgian calendar years of 1616 and 1620, Samuel Brun, a German who worked in the Dutch West India Company on the Gold Coast, observed, “As soon as a mother give birth to a child, the father [would] call all his neighbors together; they lay the child on the leaf of a tree (for they have no cushions) and drink over the child’s body, so that the wine drips on it. As soon as it begins to scream, they give a name according to the scream the child lets forth, such as Corankin [Korankye], Quaku [Kwaku], Apeidaba [Afia?], Jafury [Gyamfi?]. They pay regard to the day of birth, too.”13 Located some 12.5 miles away at Adena and perhaps an elderly woman by 1620, Adwoa Bonsu would have easily recognized whatever veracity lied in Brun’s observation while he was 13  Adam Jones, German Sources for West African History, 1599–1669 (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1983), 88 (emphasis added).

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stationed in Fort Nassau at Mori and certainly in the name “Quaku” (Kwaku)—male whose “day of birth” is Wednesday. But Adwoa would not have found strange the presence of other non-Akan, even non-African, names among the same individuals who bore one of the fe/male soul names. “[W]hen we [the Dutch] came to them,” Brun continued, “they gave [their children] Christian names, such as Peter, Paul, John etc. This is very pleasing for them, as if they were being very highly honored. They now give their children Christian names of their own accord.” Since Adwoa was archived in the Portuguese record as “Maria” and by her “soul name” Adwoa, we can be sure the likes of Kwaku or Peter, depending on their level of interaction or interests shared with one or more European trading company, would have undergone some version of the abadinto ceremony Brun described and assumed a Christian name in the company of Europeans. For some indigenes, the deployment of Christian names even served to underscore stature and power among their own, and that they were deserving of not only the names but also the titles which the powerful in Europe bore. In effect, Brun’s observation of the akradin and Christian names around the first two decades of the seventeenth century and Adwoa’s kradin and Christian name recorded more than four decades earlier suggest continuity in the use of akradin among a new cast of European first names. Earlier in the mid-sixteenth century, a few African elites on or with access to the coast and its commerce assumed Christian names, but as an overture to establish or maintain trade relations with Portugal and other European nations. In 1557, the governor of the São Jorge da Mina fortress wrote to the Queen of Portugal: I had to [send] a [Portuguese] man to the kings of Acanes Grandes [“Big Akan”] and the Acanes Pequenos [“Small Akan”] to get them to mend relations and open up their roads to this fortress. This man spent more than eight months there and reconciled these kings and made them friends, and he opened roads that had been blocked for many years. As a sign of reconciliation and friendship he brought to this fortress a son of each of the kings. The son of the King of the Acanes Grandes is his oldest son and heir, and is called António de Brito, the António de Brito who used to be [Portuguese] captain here [between 1543 and 1545] having once visited him. These hostages I received at this fortress very warmly, and I ordered them to be given their customary food.

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After these roads had been opened up and all was completed, there happened to come here a brother of the King of the Acanes Pequenos, and over a black whom he killed in this town a great fight broke out…. To have this set right also cost me afterwards a great deal of trouble, and in bringing the matter to a peaceful conclusion some expense. Dom João [baptized ruler of Fetu] also helped in this, and now I have everything settled and all runs well. After these ships came to port, the wife of António de Brito came here to be with him. I warmly welcomed her and soon made her a Christian, and she took the name Dona Catarina, in recollection of Your Highness, and I and Cristovão d’Oliveira were her godparents.14

Located in the forested interior, “Akan” signaled a non-ethnic but linguistically and culturally related group of peoples claiming to be indigenes, not migrants, settling the forest and its fringes for several millennia. These peoples were also the principal merchants who held a monopoly on the sixteenth-century gold trade through a commercial network that included many of the coastal polities. Fetu, a reference to the polity and its people, were less than 9 miles away from the São Jorge da Mina fortress and Adena, where Adwoa presumably lived. Both Fetu and Adena were nodal points within the Akan trading network, and the meaning of renaming rulers, local officials, or even non-elite individuals under Portuguese protection would not have been lost to Adwoa. Having been baptized and assigned the Christian name Maria, Adwoa would have known through observation and experience that Portuguese colonial claims to overseas land and peoples could only become reality through ideological colonization—“renting” land on which to maintain a fortified presence, but enacting subjugation through baptisms, chapels, renaming, bribery, military force, and the symbolic power and prestige derived from membership in the Portuguese empire. The imperialist John II, who ascended the Portuguese throne in 1481, proclaimed himself the “Lord of Guinea,” which most notably included his West African base of commercial operations at Sao Jorge da Mina, and some decades later an anonymous reporter and an official in Portugal’s 14  Instituto dos Arquivos Nacionais/Torre do Tombo (IAN/TT), Corpo Cronològico (CC), pt. 1, maço 101, no. 25, Letter of Afonso Gonçalves Botafogo to the Queen, 18 April 1557. See also A. Teixeira da Mota and P.E.H. Hair, East of Mina: Afro-European Relations on the Gold Coast in the 1550s and 1560s (Madison: African Studies Program, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1988), 64–66.

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Council of State pushed for an all-out colonization of the Gold Coast, from Akyem to Nkrãn (Accra).15 The king’s claim was meaningless outside of Portugal and a settler colony was unrealistic against the backdrop of a tropical climate and its diseases, sovereign African polities which competed with each other and the various Europeans along the Gold Coast, and the inability to coerce the producers and distributors of the gold which kept the Portuguese in the region. These realities forced the Portuguese on the Gold Coast to use a mixture of force, fraud, and overtures to get powerful merchants, such as the Akan, to open the paths upon which the gold traveled to the coast and to maintain this unstable cooperation through Christian baptisms. The Portuguese tacitly, if not explicitly, viewed baptism, renaming, and ongoing (though haphazard) indoctrination as rituals of submission to Portuguese overlordship. The Africans had other ideas, even among those who acquiesced. In 1503 the Portuguese baptized Sakyi (“Sasaxy”) of Fetu “through the great cleverness of the [Portuguese] captain” and renamed him Dom João (effectively erasing his “African” identity and memory in the historical record), but the “Xeryfe,” a principal figure of neighboring Akatakyi, only entertained the idea of baptism.16 These actual and potential conversions, whatever their full meaning to the targeted, were part of a mutually attractive commercial package generally formed between Portuguese and African ruling factions.17 The price of Portuguese support included an acceptance of Christianity and its God, “especially where Portuguese troops or shipments of arms were requested” and where the Portuguese viewed their protection or support of a sign of overlordship.18 The Sao Jorge da Mina fortress and the village of Adena were placed under the 15  Blake, Europeans in West Africa, 1: 18; Brásio, MMA, 3: 89–113; John Vogt, Portuguese Rule on the Gold Coast, 1469–1682 (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1979), 122. 16  Blake, Europeans in West Africa, 1: 95; ANTT, CC, parte I, maço 4, doc. 32, Letter of Diogo D’Alvarenga to King Manuel I, 18 August 1503; CC, parte I, maço 3, doc. 119, Letter of Nuno Vaz de Castello to King Manuel I, 2 October 1502. This letter notes de Castello’s arrival and reception at Mina, and as well as his visit to Xarife (Xeryfe) of Komenda and perhaps the “king of Efuto [Fetu]” as well. 17  Brásio, MMA, 1: 191. On the Portuguese courting African rulers while Duarte Pacheco Pereira was governor of the Mina fortress and town, see ANTT, CC, parte II, maço 85, doc. 200 (20 November 1519), CC, parte II, maço 87, doc. 30 (21 January 1520), CC, parte II, maço 88, doc. 137 (3 April 1520), CC, parte II, maço 89, doc. 80 (7 May 1520), CC, parte II, maço 89, doc. 82 (8 May 1520), CC, parte II, maço 90, doc. 13 (7 June 1520). 18  Ivana Elbl, “The Portuguese Trade with West Africa, 1440–1521” (PhD diss., University of Toronto, 1986), 226.

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Portuguese king and both were referred to as “our city” and “our village of Mina” from 1503 onward; the overlordship, effectively, carved out a geographically small but economically profitable colonial enclave between the late fifteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Adwoa lived in the village but likely worked in the fortress and was certainly known to Portuguese officials residing in the fortress. That the likes of Adwoa was a hindrance to Portuguese ideological conquest and its contemplated colonial project provides a measure of these processes: few Africans on the coast and proximate to the Portuguese, including Adwoa, practiced the Christian faith and even the inducement of cash rewards to Portuguese captains at the fortress for each convert failed as most converts did not remain so.19 With the exception of a few baptized rulers and their sons, the killing of all the Augustinian clergy but one in the decade the anonymous official wrote about Adwoa suggests that Christianization was as strong as the waning Portuguese presence and power on the Gold Coast.20 If Adwoa was a young woman in the 1570s, the elder Adwoa, if alive by the 1630s, would have witnessed the ouster of the Portuguese from the Gold Coast and new European competitors, but also the persistence of a naming system which featured the widespread akradin in the face of as many alternative names (and identities) as there were Dutch, British, Swedish, Brandenburger (German), French, and Danish nationals on 350 miles of contested Atlantic coastline. By the 1670s, Adwoa would have likely made her transition from the temporal to the ancestral world (asamandoɔ), while European dominance on the Gold Coast littoral would have shifted from the Portuguese to the Dutch and the British. Other than the line which includes her name(s) in the anonymous Portuguese report of 1572, we know virtually nothing of Adwoa’s life. With so many questions to ask about that life but with no way to answer them I have had to use her “soul name” to engage in informed speculation—with the goals of this chapter in mind—on a life she could have lived. We know her parents would have been married since marriage among the Akan is never fully consecrated or complete until a child is born. We can also be certain her parents were Akan peoples since, beyond her name, there is nothing in the records suggesting she was a  da Mota and Hair, East of Mina, 93; Vogt, Portuguese Rule, 55.  Vogt, Portuguese Rule, 56. See also Brásio, MMA, 1: 426, 444, 502, 519; 2: 351, 513; 4: 87, 136; 8: 185; Ralph M. Wiltgen, Gold Coast Mission History, 1471–1880 (Techny, Ill.: Divine Word Publications, 1956), 20. 19 20

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so-­called “mulatto” and since she lived in Adena and not the São Jorge da Mina fortress. Her mother would have spent the last month of her pregnancy with Adwoa in her (matrilineal) clan’s village—Adena—and would have delivered Adwoa the infant in her mother’s house (ofie), where no men, including Adwoa’s father, would have been allowed. The ntorɔ/ntɔn of Adwoa’s father, however, would have been invoked in the Afodie ceremony when Adwoa’s mother was six or seven months pregnant, further underwriting the inborn spiritual bond between father and child. Adwoa’s successful entrance to this temporal world would have been seen as evidence of her father’s ntorɔ/ntɔn taking good care of the developing fetus, and Adwoa’s mother would have observed the taboos and rituals of her father’s and her husband’s ntorɔ/ntɔn—in the latter case, for the benefit of Adwoa. During fetal development, the Akan claim one chooses—in a one-to-­ one conversation with the Creator—his or her mission to be achieved in the temporal world. Akan coded wisdom proverbially tells us, obi kra ne Onyankopɔn na obi nnyina hɔ (when one takes leave of Onyankopɔn, no one stands there). This negotiated life mission (hyɛbea) is realized as abrabɔ (“ethical ideal and existence”). Ethical existence is regarded as both personal and communal whereas one’s existential mission is individuated, but the community must safeguard its content. In effect, the elder who becomes an ancestor without fulfilling his or her hyɛbea would return to the temporal as many times as necessary to fulfill their mission. The elder who fulfills his or her hyɛbea becomes one of the “evolved” ancestors (nananom nsamanfoɔ), having “crossed the waters” from the mundane to asamandoɔ. Since the personhood of Adwoa, and all Akan persons, would have been constituted by her kra (imbued with hyɛbea and honhom, “breath of life”), sunsum (“spiritual personality”), and the blood (mmogya) of her mother and semen (ahobaa) of her father, each of these elements of the whole human being had their own destination at the time of death. The mmogya that formed the physiological bond between Adwoa and her mother, including the formation of her flesh (honam) and physical body (nipadua), became a corpse (efunu) that faded into Asase Yaa, the earth. Adwoa’s kra, which sustained her conscience and life, returned to the Creator. Her sunsum either perished or was transformed at death, where either it or the mmogya became an ancestral spirit (ɔsaman) that awaited rebirth through a woman of the same abusua or matrilineal clan. The distinctive, “soul name” pattern of which Adwoa’s name was a part persisted stubbornly into the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,

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and in the records of various European observers who had no particular interest or need to record them. French merchant and slaver Jean Barbot published his account in 1688 based on experiences—some first-hand, others through acquaintances—a decade earlier. Barbot made two voyages on French slaving vessels to West Africa between 1678–1679 and 1681–1682. Barbot’s data was geographically and socially limited to the coastal fringes, where African-European interactions—both coerced and free—were most intense and where he collected his information from residents, traders, officers, European agents, and local acquaintances. Around 1678, Barbot wrote: As soon as the Confoe [ɔkɔmfoɔ], or priest, has blessed the child, if we may so call it … the next thing is to give it a name. If the family be above the common rank, the infant has three names given it; the first is the name of the day of the week on which it is born; the next, if a son, is the grand-father’s name; and if a girl, the grand-mother’s; others give their own name, or that of fame of their relations. … The names for boys are commonly, Adom, Quaqou [Kwaku], Quaw [Kwao], Corbei, Coffi [Kofi], & c. and for girls, Canow, Jama [Amma?], Aquouba [Akua], Hiro, Accasiaffa [Akosua], and many more. Besides these names of their own for boys, they frequently add our Christian names, as John, Antony, Peter, Jacob, Abraham, & c. being proud of those European names; but that is practiced only by those that live under the protection of the forts on the coast.21

Barbot’s account underscores two major themes present during the life and afterlife of Adwoa Bonsu. First, the abadinto ceremony and the naming of children based on their day of birth remained as it did in the sixteenth century, if not earlier, under the aegis of the healer-spiritualist (ɔkɔmfoɔ). Second, the presence of both “soul names” and E ­ uropean/ Christian names is not at all surprising; rather, it is the qualification. The use of a European/Christian name in the place of or in addition to a “soul name” seemed a male preoccupation, but even so this practice was “only 21  Jean Barbot, “A Description of the Coasts of North and South-Guinea, 1678–88,” in Awnsham Churchill, A Collection of Voyages and Travels … (London: Messrs. Churchill, 1732), 244 (emphasis added). Among those in Accra, Barbot observed or was told circumcision occurred “at no place on the whole coast, but only at Acra; where infants are circumcised by the priest, at the same time that they receive their names.”

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by those that live[d] under the protection of the [European] forts on the coast,” as in the case of Adwoa and her village of Adena under Portuguese protectorate status. Certainly, variously ranked local rulers and their sons often assumed a European name in addition to their own, and since indigenous warriors, merchants, and clergymen were almost always male and who interacted most with Europeans and their ideologies, Barbot’s observation suggest a “gendered” naming tradition where it seems more Gold Coast men than women carried European names. This was indeed the case in the scant sixteenth-century records. But what is more remarkable is not only the gender-balanced nature of the “soul names”—where each day carries a fe/ male name sharing the same root term (e.g., Monday-born Adwoa [female] and Kwadwo [male]) indicative of basic temperament—but rather the ways in which this naming tradition shaped how Africans on the Gold Coast named themselves and the Europeans they encountered. Ludewig Ferdinand Rømer, Chief Merchant and slaver in the service of the Danish establishments on the Gold Coast, wrote in the mid-­eighteenth century: “Those Europeans whom the Blacks especially like are known most of the time by black [sic] names. It is a common practice that, when new Europeans arrive in that country they are each given a name during their first eight days, and it is amusing that the names they are given are rather well suited to their temperaments and the condition of their bodies.” In effect, the European was named as an Akan person would, using the same cultural understandings and criteria but without the meaning of incorporation into and obligations flowing from membership in both patrilineal and matrilineal clans. “Names are changed, too,” Rømer acknowledged, when the European changes his behavior. For instance, an Assistant at Christiansborg who spoke French and had to manage all the trade with the French captains carried on at our fort was called ‘Frenchman’ by the Blacks. Sometime later, on a number of occasions, he revealed that he did not lack courage. The Blacks then unanimously gave him one of the ‘great names’ of Oppoccu [Opoku], Tentjen [tenten, ‘the tall one’] Koko ([korkor,] the [bright one]). In nearly all the towns there are children who are called ‘Frenchman,’ and when you ask them why they do not call their children by that man’s [new] ‘great name,’ since they have named their sons after him,

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they answer that the son must first prove his virtue before he can receive the man’s ‘great name.’22

Finally, Rømer notes, “Little girls are sometimes called [but not named] ‘Madame,’ after a European woman.” By issuing “both bad and good names to the Europeans,” Africans on the Gold Coast employed their naming system within and outside their cultural world, and, in some ways, contested rather than yielded to the ideological or doctrinal subjugation various European nationals on the Gold Coast desired.

Conclusion As the story of the “soul name” pushed into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, from the likes of the Thursday-born Yaa Asantewaa to the Friday-born Kofi Annan, European/Christian names became more commonplace but contested as they moved beyond the coastline and into the villages, and as a more strident British imperialism paved the way for churches, colonial cash crops, and consolidated  foreign rule in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In the Americas, where we find Akan and Akan-descended peoples since the seventeenth century, the akradin intrudes onto the present, remaining persistent in some contexts and assumed by a range of African-descended peoples and morphing into last name positions or various phonetic permutations.23 For instance, we find individuals such as “Coffij” (Kofi), “Cokoe” (Kwaku), “Anna Maria Aba,” and husband and wife “Amboa” and “Adjou” (Adwoa) in early-­ eighteenth-­century Dutch America, and a range of Akan akradin in the Americas during the first half of the nineteenth century, decades after the British abolished transoceanic slaving across the Atlantic in 1807 (see Table  3).24 Those in the Akan homeland would also carry culturally authored names, for these names were not simply artifacts from a “past” 22  Ludewig Ferdinand Rømer, Tilforladelig Efterretning om Kysten Guinea—A Reliable Account of the Coast of Guinea (1760), trans. and ed. Selena A. Winsnes (London: Oxford University Press for the British Academy, 2000), 162–63. 23  For fuller discussion, see Kwasi Konadu, The Akan Diaspora in the Americas (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). 24  National Archives, The Hague, Tweede West-Indische Compagnie (WIC), 1.05.01.02 (Ingekomen brieven met bijlagen van Curaçao), 201–208, 213, 6 April 1703–16 November 1739. These are, of course, composite dates, covering not all—but most—volumes and dates in the range.

Adwoa (1) Abena (0)

Kwadwo (9) Kwabena (0); Kwamena (7); Kobina (2) Kwaku (7) Yao/w Quao, Kwao (6) Kofi (9)

Akua (2) Kwaku (15) Yaa, Aba (2) Yao/w Quao, Kwao (2) Afia, Afua Kofi (6) (2) Ama, Amba Kwame (0) (6) Akosua, Esi Kwasi (6) (2) Ama, Amba (3) Akosua, Esi (4)

Afia, Afua (6)

Akua (2) Yaa, Aba (3)

Adwoa (1) Abena (1)

Female

Kofi (1)

Male

Male

Firmec (1828)

Ama (2)

Aba (1)

Kwasi (10)

Kwame (20)

Kwaku (25) Yao/w Quao, Kwao (12) Kofi (24)

Adwoa (1) Kwadwo (0) Abena (2) Kwabena (2); Kwamena (1)

Female

Des de Fevreiro (1822) Male

Akua (0) Yaa, Aba (0) Afia, Afua (0) Ama, Amba (0) Akosua, Esi (0)

Kwasi (7)

Kwame (9)

Kwaku (6) Yao/w Quao, Kwao (2) Kofi (4)

Adwoa (0) Kwadwo (0) Abena (0) Kwabena (0)

Female

Akosua, Esi (0)

Ama, Amba (0)

Afia, Afua (0)

Akua (0) Yaa, Aba (0)

Adwoa (0) Abena (0)

Female

Voladorad (1829)

d

The “country” of the individuals named was “Mina janti” or “Mina Asante,” that is, Akan peoples originating either from the Asante heartland or between the “Mina coast” and the forested Asante region

c

The “country” for these voyagers was “Mina,” but clearly this trademark did not refer to the coast of Dahomey/Benin exclusively or most importantly, given the numbers and kinds of stubbornly Akan names. For instance, nowhere else in these registers of names for the enslaved did I find “full” Akan names such as Kwaku Mensa, Kwame Fuch (Buah?), Kofi Eson, Kwame Esa, Kwame Apea, Kwasi Kuma, and specific non-soul names (kradin) such as Amankwa, Nkansa, Sakyi, Okyere, Osafo, Onipa, Akyampon, Mensa, Nkrumah, Afram, Obosom, and Onyame

b

101 captive Africans disembarked at Freetown, Sierra Leone. Seventy percent among the group were male; the number of Akan male “day names” should be against the total number of male captives, estimated at sixty-nine or seventy

a

The names and numbers of individuals named in the table come from the combined searches of two related databases: the “Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade Database” [TASTD] (www.slavevoyages.org/tast/database/search.faces) and the “African Origins: Portal to Africans Liberated from Transatlantic Slave Vessels” database (http://african-­ origins.org/african-­data). I first searched the latter by known “day names” and then by vessels, selecting the sample used in the table and comparing the details of the “African Origins” database with the TASTD

Kwasi (3)

Kwame (0)

Male

Female

Male

Kwadwo (8) Kwabena (0); Kwamena (5)

S. Jos (1813)

Marquis de Romanab (1810)

Table 3  Akan “Day Names” from Captive Africans Procured East of the Gold Coast, 1810–1829a

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that was “traditional” and awkwardly existing in the “modern”; they represent a continuous present for history as human action simply accumulates and that accumulated knowledge shaped the names and the lives of its holders. Viewed from this perspective, the European colonial encounter beginning in the late fifteenth century was a process of securing coastal liaisons through commerce and Christian names, hoping these baptismal mechanisms would ensure dependency and place indigenous culture on inquisitional trial among the Africans encountered. But there was and is something in the underwriting effect of those “soul names” which did not (yet) yield to five centuries of colonial and missionary overtures. Today, many Akan culture bearers, regardless of their registered Christian names assigned from missionary or government schools, still hold that such names affect their lives in concrete ways. According to Kwabena Darko, who was interviewed by linguists Samuel Obeng in 1994, “Sɛnea yɛde wo to Temanmuhunu a, woremmɔ bra pa biara, na yɛde wo to Kɔɔayie a, ayie mpa wo fie da no, saa ara nso na sɛ yɛde wo to Afiriyie a, berɛ biara na siadeɛ di w’anim” (Just as one leads an unproductive life if one is named Sit-in-a-country-do-nothing, or one’s life is riddled with deaths [funerals] if one is named S/he-went-to-a-funeral, so does one have good luck in abundance if one is named He-came-at-agood-­time). For Ama Dapaa, also interviewed by Obeng, akradin remain markers of historical time and circumstances: “Na me nana-baa frɛ me Ama Kɔɔayie efisɛ yɛwoo me Memeneda; ɛda a ɔhene panin no wuiɛ no. Nso nnipa a yɛne wɔn bɔ afipam no frɛ me Ama Dapaa efisɛ saa Memeneda no yɛ dapaa” (My grandmother used to call me Ama Kɔɔayie “Saturday-­ born female person who went to a funeral” because I was born on Saturday, the day on which the big Chief passed away. However, the people in our neighborhood call me Ama Dapaa because that day was “Holy” Saturday).25 European colonialism, whenever we mark its beginnings, was not this great rupture between “traditional” and “modern” African societies nor, therefore, should its periodization of African history. Naming African histories “pre-colonial” or “post-colonialism” stands at odds with the histories of Africans like Kwabena and Ama, who are participants in a naming culture and a set of histories encoded in each “soul name.” If a study of Akan akradin through one specimen—our guide Adwoa—can reveal what has remained and what has been archived in a naming culture over five centuries, just imagine if the people for whom these names were designed begin to view them as critical markers of personhood and as new areas of serious study.  Obeng, African Anthroponymy, 1, 25.

25

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References Addow, E. R. (1969). Edin ne Mmrane. Bureau of Ghana Languages. Agyekum, K. (2006). The sociolinguistic of Akan personal names. Nordic Journal of African Studies, 15, 206–235. Akuffo, B. S. (1970). Tete Akorae. Bureau of Ghana Languages. Barbot, J. (1732). A description of the coasts of North and South-Guinea, 1678-88. In A.  Churchill (Ed.), A collection of voyages and travels. Messrs. Churchill. Blake, J. W. (1941). Europeans in West Africa, 1450–1560. The Hakluyt Society. Boahen, A., Abu, E., Akyeampong, N., Lawler, T. C. M. C., & Wilks, I. (2003). “The history of Ashanti kings and the whole country itself” and other writing by Otumfuo Nana Agyeman Prempeh I. Oxford University Press. Brásio, A. (1952-88). Monumenta Missionaria Africana. Agência Geral do Ultramar. Busia, K. A. (1951). The position of the chief in the modern political system of Ashanti. Oxford University Press. Christaller, J. G. (1933). Dictionary of the Asante and Fante language called Tshi. Basel Evangelical Missionary Society. da Mota, A., & Teixeira and P.E.H. Hair. (1988). East of Mina: Afro-European relations on the Gold Coast in the 1550s and 1560s. African Studies Program, University of Wisconsin. Denteh, A. C. (1967). Ntorɔ and Ntɔn. Research Reviews, 3, 91–96. Elbl, I. (1986). The Portuguese trade with West Africa, 1440–1521. PhD diss., University of Toronto. Gyekye, K. (1995). An essay on African philosophical thought: The Akan conceptual scheme. Temple University Press. Jones, A. (1983). German sources for West African history, 1599–1669. Franz Steiner Verlag. Kani, T. Y. (1962). Akanfoɔ Amammerɛ. Bureau of Ghana Languages. Konadu, K. (2010). The Akan diaspora in the Americas. Oxford University Press. McCaskie, T.  C. (2003). State and society in pre-colonial Asante. Cambridge University Press. Obeng, S. G. (2001). African anthroponymy: An ethnopragmatic and morphophonological study of personal names in Akan and some African societies. Lincom Europa. Obeng, S.  G. (1997). From morphophonology to sociolinguistics: The case of Akan hypocoristic day-names. Multilingua, 16, 39–56. Oldendorp, C.  G. A. (2000). In G.  Meier, S.  Palmié, P.  Stein, & H.  Ulbricht (Eds.), Historie der caribischen Inseln Sanct Thomas, Sanct Crux und Sanct Jan, insbesondere der dasigen Neger und der Mission der evangelischen Brüder-Unität Herrnhut, Erster Teil. Staatliches Museum für Völkerkunde Dresden.

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Opoku, A. A. (1973). Obi Kyerɛ. Ghana Publishing Corporation. Pescheux, G. (2003). Le Royaume Asante (Ghana): Parenté, Pouvoir, Histoire, XVIIe-XXe siècles. Karthala Editions. Rømer, L.  F. (2000) Tilforladelig Efterretning om Kysten Guinea—A reliable account of the coast of Guinea (1760) (Trans. S. A. Winsnes). Oxford University Press for the British Academy. Vogt, J. (1979). Portuguese rule on the Gold Coast, 1469–1682. University of Georgia Press. Wiltgen, R.  M. (1956). Gold Coast mission history, 1471–1880. Divine Word Publications.

Names Are Hisses of Divinity from Our Forebears: Exploring Names Through the Lens of Ntsiki Mazwai Zethu Cakata

Introduction What does it mean when children are demanding the meaning of their names? What exactly are they demanding? Asked Professor Tiffany Willoughby-­Herard who was a visiting scholar at the University of South Africa in the first semester of 2018. Willoughby-Herard’s visit came at a tumultuous time in South African higher education when students were demanding epistemologies that speak to the essence of who they are as Africans. What was evident was the fact that, that which had been made to exist merely as a body was demanding, rightfully, to exist as human. The students were demanding the recovery of their identities that have been made elusive by colonial invasions.

Z. Cakata (*) Department of Psychology, UNISA, Pretoria, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_8

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Names are a critical part of this elusive identity. As we know, names are among the first gifts a person receives upon arriving into the world and are interestingly among the first things the colonials inferiorised and attempted to erase when they invaded and settled in South Africa. To this day indigenous South Africans are still grappling with the task of reclaiming their names. Therefore, the issue of names with which Willoughby-Herard was confronted remains an infested wound for indigenous South Africans. I read her questions as an invitation to explore the meaning of African children’s demands for their true names. It will be argued in the contextualisation provided in the ensuing section that the de-naming of people, places and their indigenous knowledges was a deliberate colonising strategy. Thus, naming for colonials was an act of ownership and domination. The overall aim of this chapter is to deal with Willoughby-Herard’s questions by focusing on the significance of ukuthiya igama which the English speakers refer to as name giving. In this chapter, I reason that ukuthiya igama goes beyond just assigning a name to a person. Ntsiki Mazwai’s poem titled ‘Risen’ provides useful insights about the spiritual aspects this practice entails.

Indigenous Naming Practices Ukuthiya Igama (Naming) Ukuthiya igama is an IsiXhosa practice which launches an individual’s mortal journey. As indicated above, the English translation which is name giving does not aptly capture the essence of this practice. Ukuthiya does not mean giving; thus, ukuthiya igama entails more than just giving a name. It is rather a response to the community’s question: nithini ngalomntwana? (What are you saying about this child?). Nithini is derived from the word ukuthi meaning ‘to say’ or to express something. We can thus argue that kuthiya is to express something upon a person. It is to voice out or call a spirit for what it represents. It is a moment for the family to express the hints of the child’s essence. Such hints to the child’s spirit would have been provided during pregnancy through the mother’s behaviour, circumstances around that period and during childbirth. To bestow a name therefore is to announce the type of a gift the family has received. Ukuthiya is a language that makes the child’s spirit intelligible. It is an activation of the spirit with which the individual came. Ukuthiya igama is one of the cornerstone practices invoked in Wade Nobles’ concept of

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illumination of the spirit. Nobles (2015) defines illumination of the spirit as the process of acknowledging that the spirit is the foundation of all existence. This concept is based on African people’s understanding of human functioning as founded in spiritness (being of spirit). Illumination of the spirit is about what it means to be human and whom and whose you are and why you exist. Ukuthiya igama as an aspect of this responds to ‘why you exist’ and thus communicates one’s life purpose. The concept of ukuthiya igama is not exclusively found among isiXhosa-speaking South Africans but also among other abantu cultures known as Isintu. For example, the speakers of Sesotho language refer to this practice as ho reya while the Setswana speakers refer to it as go thaya. The suffix ya communicates that something is in motion; thus, ho reya, go thaya or ukuthiya means to set a person’s journey is set in motion. The task of excavating African epistemologies also requires that African concepts are explored from various contexts of usage. This is useful because in indigenous African languages homonyms often draw from the same source of meaning. For example, ukuthiya is also known to mean to create a harmonious balance of energies. This is evident when we speak about ukuthiya ikhaya which means to strengthen the home against energy imbalance. Thus, to give a name is to give a child that which will bring balance to her or his life. The meaning is made more explicit in the synonyms ukuqinisa and ukubethelela which both communicate an intention to make something firm. Ukuqinisa/ukubethelela/ukumilisa is to firmly put/ground something or make it stand firm on its roots. The concept of rooting a life is a crucial aspect in the cultures of abantu. It is considered as re-connecting the person to the source. While ukuthiya is at a symbolic or spiritual level there are complimentary practices that need to take place at a practical level. One such practice is the burying of the umbilical cord and the placenta into the ground. In some cultures, people would even mark the birth of a child by planting a tree. All these are meant to reconnect the child to the source. Available literature on the cultures of isiXhosa-speaking people places name giving among high order practices (Neethling, 2005; Mphande & Moyo, 2008). As illustrated through the concept of ukuthiya, a name communicates the child’s purpose; thus, a name giver is giving more than a just a name to the person. It is for this reason that Simelane-Kalumba (2014) urges her audience to study isiXhosa names and naming practices holistically to include various manifestations which are useful in broadening the understanding of cultures and customs from which the names

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originate. As Simelane-Kalumba (2014) points out, names cannot be divorced from other educational instruments that amaXhosa have used to transfer knowledge from generation to generation and to preserve local wisdom. Among amaXhosa, names and cultural significance have always been intertwined. Accordingly, names are forms of oral literature. If the basic function of literature therefore is to expand a person’s knowledge about a particular world, personal names could also provide clues about a person’s world of origin in the same way poetry and folklore do. Knowing a person’s name gives one access to that person’s cultural context. That is why language becomes pivotal. Personal names are usually metaphoric, proverbial and historical and that demands a grasp of the indigenous languages they are in for one to truly understand their meaning (Simelane-­ Kalumba 2014). Divinity African cosmology presupposes that life is divine. It is built around the principles that perceive spirituality and physical existence as inseparable. This means all aspects of African practices before the colonial disruptions were founded on a spiritual dimension. This includes naming practices. Hence, when speaking of names, the poet Nontsikelelo Ntsiki Mazwai proclaims that they are sighs or hisses of divinity from our forebears. To sigh or hiss is to exhale rather dramatically; thus, Mazwai is pointing us to the forgotten ways of understanding African names. They are spiritual exhalation from the ancestors. At this point I wish to connect both hiss and sigh to the word ukuthimla which is the isiXhosa word for sneezing. Ukuthimla expresses that which is not willed voluntarily. Ukuthimla in African cosmology transcends the biological bounds to denote an announcement of a spiritual presence. This re-connects us to ukuthiya. If names are sighs or hisses, they could also be sneezes of our ancestors. So, to say names are hisses or sneezes of divinity, we mean names emanate from a spiritual place, given by the ancestors. They should not be based on our conscious knowing because they communicate what is spiritually known about the child. Names thus connect the child’s body to its essence. Ukuthimla is the unintelligible which becomes intelligible through the use of words. Ukuthiya thus gives voice to the sneezes. To sneeze a name is to communicate its bearer into existence. Ukuthiya is to give words that would be the child’s voice to the world (word and voice as critical elements of naming are further explored in the upcoming sections). That is

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why self-naming as opposed to colonial imposed naming is important for a people. It allows the spirit to assume its due place.

Colonial Interruptions of Indigenous Naming Practices The spiritual rootedness of indigenous names seems to be something that the European invaders understood very well as such they made it one of the focal points in their disruption of indigenous cultures. The disruption of indigenous African names was done through the imposition of Western schooling system and christianity where indigenous South Africans were forced into acquiring English names which were dubbed christian names. This was in fact an act of de-naming and de-spiritualisation because among Abantu cultures in South Africa, people’s names serve a spiritual function. As indicated earlier, in isiXhosa cosmology, names reveal something about the person’s life’s purpose. Just as dancing and greetings connect amaXhosa to the forebears, names do too. Therefore, the de-naming was a deliberate act of disconnecting people from their spirituality and imposing a foreign way of [dis]connecting to ‘God’; hence, they called the names they inferred christian names and making people believe that these names were bringing people closer to the real ‘God’. This disrupted the naming practices of the pre-colonial era and the remnants of that are still evident in the present day. In South Africa today it is still very likely for children to be given a ‘christian’ name in addition to their indigenous names. Importantly, when giving indigenous names, there has been a noticeable trend of avoiding names with ancestral connotations. This is done by African parents in order to avoid subjecting children to scrutiny from their peers because their names sound backward. To this day, some Africans would rather have Western names whose meaning is not known than to have African names with the meaning they understand. Furthermore, some people would have ‘christian names’ translated into indigenous languages. Examples of such names include; Nkosinathi (a translation of Emanuel/God is with us), Nolufefe (Grace/Mother of Grace) and Lusindiso (a translation for salvation). These practices are the psychological effects of the colonial de-naming and de-spiritualisation through which European colonisers put indigenous South Africans. It is worth noting that it was not only personal names that underwent this kind of de-naming and de-spiritualisation. Every expression of African

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life was re-languaged resulting in the landscape being adorned with Western imagery and phenomena infused with Western essence. Consequently, the cord which connected indigenous people to their core was damaged. The landscape was adorned with names that affirmed white domination and the assumed supremacy of the coloniser which erased indigenous names that communicated indigenous people’s sense of being in the world. This de-naming has not been rectified despite the almost 30 years of democratisation of South Africa. The country itself —‘South Africa’—is still without a name while the majority of places bear names of the leaders of the colonial conquest. Indigenous knowledges were also intercepted in a similar fashion of de-naming phenomena through deliberate mislabelling, misspelling and mispronunciation of names. For example, names for indigenous healing were replaced with demeaning names such as witchdoctor for healers. This was part of the psychological warfare to remove indigenous people from their names which connected them to their spirit. It, therefore, did not come as a surprise that the revelation about naming came through the wisdom of a poet because praise poets according to isintu hold a divine place. They are referred to as amanyange which means they are ancient voices or healers. Prior to colonialism praise poets occupied a prominent status in the society because they were seen as intermediaries between the society and the spiritual world. It is believed that they are entrusted with ancestral divine messages.

Lessons from the Poem It is for the above reason that I decided to look into poetry to find out what could the current generation be demanding when they are calling for their African names. More often, the society and especially academia grapple with making meaning on subjects about which poets have already deliberated at length. The current displacement of praise poets as critical sources of deep knowledge has deprived the society of an important site of knowing. Poetry is often ahead of its time. For example, the poem Risen from which I am learning appears in Mazwai’s poetry collection, entitled Wena which was published in 2010. This predates the vehement call from students in South African higher education for a decolonised education which includes the return of their names. Using creative work to explain a societal phenomenon requires great care and caution because creative works such as poetry from an African

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perspective have their own ethos of application. It therefore becomes important to guard against utilising the Western lens. For example, in the process of developing this chapter I had to deal with the temptation of making Mazwai interpret the poem to us, the academic audience. This I could easily justify as an act of granting her a voice, but I would be ignoring the fact that the poem in itself is the voice. Poets and other diviners in isiXhosa culture are throwers of metaphors and that requires the audience to pick them up in a meaning making process. The usage of metaphors is a way of preserving the knowledge and guiding its dissemination. Mazwai is both an author and a performing artist and has therefore performed this poem on numerous stages in South Africa. Mazwai, who is known by the name Ntsiki Mazwai (a shortened version of her first name) in the public arena, considers herself as an overall creative with varied skills in bead work, singing and poetry. The name Ntsiki is merely a nickname with no colonial bearings. Mazwai has always spoken openly (both in media and through poetry) about the contradictions of growing up in a Pan Africanist home (both her parents were active in the Pan Africanist Movement) and attending predominantly white schools that taught the opposite of what she learnt from home. In a conversation I had with Mazwai about this poem, she revealed that it was the first poem she ever shared with anyone. She considers it her moment of awakening. It was her introduction to the world as a poet and it made her to confront her fears and most importantly the colonial miseducation about her identity. Mazwai stated that it is her lineage and her history that were a source of strength during this process of awakening and I consider this as one of the key issues the poem is challenging us to do. In this poem Mazwai is calling us, indigenous people of South Africa, to find our authentic sources of strength. This I view as a disruption of colonial [mis]teachings that perceive christianity as the only source of strength. By looking at her lineage and history, Mazwai zooms into sites of strength that were heavily demonised and marginalised by colonials. Mazwai also emphasises the importance of reclaiming of space by indigenous people. She indicated that in this poem she was claiming her place in the world and hopes that the poem would mean the same thing to black people of South Africa. Mazwai believes that, as indigenous South Africans ‘we need to rename ourselves and resurrect’. In colonised lands ‘re’ is an important prefix because colonialism demonised, distorted and destroyed what was. As seen by Mazwai, this is the moment to resurrect and give

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back names to that which colonialism attempted to kill. The poem for Mazwai is an affirmation of the place of indigenous people in the world. The poem: Risen 1. I refuse to surrender to fear any longer 2. I open my closets 3. To set my skeletons free. 4. This voice I have been given 5. Ntsiki speaks! 6. My mama named me ‘Blessing’ 7. So hiding from my light 8. Would be blasphemy 9. Anointed my name with divinity 10. The voice I have be given 11. Nontsikelelo has risen! 12. This poem, like a prayer, was written 13. To be said again and again and again 14. As I am rising 15. To deafen the sounds of fears, 16. That bang in my head 17. It’s time to claim 18. This voice I have been given 19. Ntsiki speaks! 20. No more punishment 21. I take responsibility 22. Recognise my vulnerability 23. Use the gift I was born with 24. These words that flow freely 25. The voice that is me 26. This voice I have been given 27. Nontsikelelo has risen!

Name as Voice The depth of this poem is in the interconnection Mazwai makes in line four between name and voice. Throughout the poem Mazwai insists on referring to her name as the voice she has been given. The association of name with voice is deeply rooted in isiXhosa epistemologies and rendered

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intelligible through languages. In the languages of abantu (such as the Nguni and Sesotho languages) name, word and voice are inseparable. For example, the Isinguni translation of the word name is igama. Igama is also used to refer to word. Remarkably, in Sesotho languages both word and voice are referred to as lentswe. Voice has a powerful place as we denote from the IsiNguni saying ‘umlomo ayadala’. This could be directly translated as ‘the mouth creates’. However, after taking a close look at the root word ‘dala’ I realised that the meaning could be deeper than create because dala means old/ancient. Thus, ukudala is to bring the ancient to the fore (or to render a person their old essence). It is to draw from the ancient and depicts how the African understanding of newness of life differs from the West. To speakers of isiNguni languages that which is new is also old. Importantly in abantu cultures all that is spiritual is considered ancient. This revelation is found in the naming of healers as abantu abadala (old spirits) and how isiXhosa language speakers refer to nature itself as indalo which is rooted in the word dala. Umlomo uyadala therefore means words have power to make manifest and is given form by voice. Lentswe/Voice is the power to bring something to existence. It is that which makes words intelligible and thus makes one’s essence accessible. Voice conveys a person to the world; thus, to give a name is to introduce the world to the child’s inner being. As shown above to both the speakers of the isiXhosa and Sesotho languages, voice is how one is communicated to life as a person. To have a name is to exist as who you are, to exist within your definitional prescripts. It is to draw from your intrinsic essence. Intrinsic essence as explained by Nobles (2015) is one’s spiritness which is more cosmological than religious. It connects the individual to all aspects that make her/ him who she/he is. Mazwai speaks as someone who has come to a realisation that her name is her voice and that has led to an undertaking to start using her voice. The first stanza therefore associates name giving with the bestowing of a voice and presence. The concept of voice is loaded with political meaning. As widely reported (Biko, 2004; Fanon, 1986), colonialism worked on silencing the black voice and treating the black as the body without any other faculties and that served to cement the place of the black as sub-human in a world designed for whites. Reclaiming voice is therefore laying a claim to one’s humanity.

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Ukulandela Igama Lakho In lines six to eleven, Mazwai invokes the principle of ‘ukulandela igama lakho’ which is found in isiNguni cultures. Ukulandela igama lakho means to follow the true meaning of one’s name. The Nguni people believe that you are named to become. Thus, Mazwai displays this understanding that to not become her name would be irreverent because her name is the light to her path. As Mazwai points in these lines, to follow the meaning of her name was to step into her light. This reconnects us to the concept of spiritual illumination. Mazwai in this poem arrived at the realisation that her name has illuminated her spirit. To illuminate the spirit is to imbue strengthening properties into a person. It is calling their essence to the fore; hence, the speakers of the Sesotho language refer to the name as lebitso, meaning that which you are called to become. The concept of ukulandela igama lakho as an aspect of walking in one’s light is also encapsulated in the Sesotho saying ‘[le] bitso lebe ke seromo’, which means a person’s name will shine on her character. It is its literal form that allows us to glean into the in-depth meaning of the saying. Literally, the saying cautions against giving a child a bad name because its meaning will shine upon the child’s character. In some Abantu cultures such as Sesotho, name giving ceremonies were conducted during the appearance of the full moon; thus, the names were presented to the moon so it could radiate its eternal light upon the child’s character. It was believed that whatever the name given, its meaning will follow the child, hence the caution against unthoughtful naming. This is where I draw the association of naming with light. The concept of ukulandela igama lakho threads well into what Mazwai laments in lines 24–26 about voice and word. Ukulandela means to follow which brings us back to the concept of voice being in motion. To follow means going after something which has already taken a direction. A person therefore moves to the direction her or his name has taken, thus following the spirit which your name illuminates. As lamented in the poem, Mazwai has resolved to follow the motion her name carries. Ukulandela igama lakho could be likened to listening to the voice that is your name and to allow it to manifest. A person’s name is invoked everyday as a reminder of who the person came to be. It is worth noting that, due to colonial interruptions of indigenous South African people’s lives, the concept of ukulandela igama lakho has acquired varying meanings. Since colonial invasions naming has been infused into the christian religion and

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ukulandela igama lakho has also been interpreted as following the wishes and the prayers of the name giver. This is due to the fact that colonialism displaced indigenous South Africans into survival mode. They have been reduced to being wishful and prayerful that the new life would effect change to their conditions. Prior to colonialism naming was borne out of certainty about the spirit the child brings. The future of the people was securely nestled.

Reclaiming African Names In lines 12–23, Mazwai appears to be responding to Willoughby-Herard’s question about the meaning of demanding one’s name. The demand for a name is the demand for self-definition. The name as word and voice are the essence of the person hence Mazwai sees her name as a template of her life journey. Claiming one’s name is to therefore put yourself back to path with your journey’s mission. By replacing indigenous names with what was called christian names, the coloniser was replacing a spiritual way of being with a religion that is foreign to indigenous South Africans. In this process indigenous South Africans were treated as mere bodies, their spirits were ignored and the spiritual symbolism of their names was discarded. This is a form of psychological violence that should not be overlooked as it served as building blocks for the erasure of indigenous people’s realities. By imposing colonial or christian names to indigenous people, the colonials imparted a purpose that was not of their (indigenous people’s) forebears but wishes of the colonial master. Simelane-Kalumba uses Zeka’s (1992) poignant words ‘what is heathen about African names and what is christian about European names?’ to question the ethical ground which gave Europeans the right to name that which did not belong to them. Isintu (a way of being of Abantu) follows strict ethics about naming practices and frowns upon naming what is not yours (translated to IsiXhosa as awuyithiyi into engeyo yakho). The unethical naming of indigenous children was therefore an attack on the African cultural system. It undermined the divinity of indigenous people. This condescending approach to indigenous South African’s divinity is also seen in the unethical renaming of space by the colonisers. To this day the names of South Africa’s public space depict the silenced existence of indigenous people. Public space names still bear symbols of colonial triumph while the very few places that have African names, the names are misspelled or bastardised. Names such as Tugela River and Kalahari Desert

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are examples of such bastardised names that replaced indigenous names which carried their own special meaning. The correct name for Tugela River is uThukela which is an isiZulu word meaning ‘a startling place’. It is a dramatically winding river which feeds from the feet of the mountain of Ukhahlamba (also changed to Drakensberg by colonials) and runs into the Indian Ocean. The startle could be attributed to the dramatic water falls but the history of this river’s name is not readily available as colonial naming eroded the significance of both the mountain and the river. Kalahari is the bastardisation of the original Setswana name Kgalahadi, which means the land of the great thirst. The erasure of these names was the erasure of not just the history but the cultural value these places held. This erasure was a way of ensuring that future generations of indigenous South African children do not know how their fore parents existed with nature. This was a deliberate colonial strategy to silence the existence of indigenous people in their own land. Mazwai in this poem reminds us of the importance of viewing names, in their totality, as a people’s way of granting themselves a voice. Naming, therefore, becomes a function of self-definition.

The Name Nontsikelelo Through this poem we are also reminded about how the imposition of christianity impacted the language use of isiXhosa speakers. A reasonable part of isiXhosa vocabulary today has assumed christianised posture as a result of translating the christian religion into isiXhosa. Most words lost their original use and were used only to communicate christianity. Colonialism did not only distort the vocabulary to make words assume a christian meaning but also a new vocabulary was formulated because some christian terms did not have equivalents in isiXhosa. While it is easy to treat this as a positive expansion of language, I wish to argue that it actually did the opposite. The introduction of these new labels stagnated the development isiXhosa because it replaced the culture isiXhosa was transmitting with a christian culture. This language erosion was part of the colonial strategy to rid isiXhosa speakers of their content. They were making a new person who speaks the coloniser’s culture in her/ his own language. The name Nontsikelelo accurately illustrates the argument made above. Nontsikelelo is generally understood to mean blessings because of the christian translation of the word blessings to iintsikelelo. Yet an in-depth look into the word ntsikelelo reveals a different meaning. Ukusikelwa

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(from which the word is derived) means to be set apart. Thus, Nontsinkelelo is ‘she who is set apart’. It derives meaning from the word ukusika which means to be cut out for a particular function. Such a meaning has been eroded and the word ntsikelelo has come to be associated with the christianity. These are the challenges the task of excavating indigenous epistemologies from indigenous languages poses. The task requires the cleansing of these words to rid them of the imposed christian meaning. Even though Mazwai veers away from attaching the meaning of her name to christianity, she still believes that it means blessing. This could be said about the majority of us, isiXhosa speakers. We no longer know the true meaning of the words we use and that causes us to unknowingly communicate the coloniser’s culture in our language. The consequence of this lack of knowledge about our language has been the distortion of African epistemologies. Christianity caused certain words to lose their cultural subjectivity and this has led to assumptions that words such as iintsikelelo carry the same meaning and application as christian blessings. As Simelane-­Kalumba (2014) states, words do not serve the same functions in Western and African societies. A point Mazwai clearly illustrates in her other poem (entitled ‘Miss What What’) where she writes, ‘our black names are sighs of divinity’, expressing the spiritual significance of names as divine manifestations from one’s protectors and healers who are the ancestors. In this poem Mazwai emphasises the importance of knowing one’s self as an indigenous person in South Africa.

Conclusion The children’s demands for their names should be haunting us to want to understand why we name in the first place. Once we get that we should evaluate whether or not we have been naming or participating in the de-­ naming and the de-spiritualisation of our children and thus of our nation. It should lead us to the reclaiming of the ancient ethos of illuminating the spirit of our children, re-connecting them to their roots and giving them a firm backbone so that they grow to be upright. To demand one’s name is to heed metaphors of poets such as Mazwai. It is a call to dig deep within in search of our true purpose. It is also a realisation that our names are purpose. Mazwai reminds us to let our forebears release sighs of life on to our land, to self-define and do away with colonial definitions that do not reflect our essence as Africans. This should be done in ways that will

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remind the indigenous people of their purpose and demand names that remind them of their triumphs and buried histories that the former president of South Africa Thabo Mbeki (1996) (in his ‘I Am an African’ speech) urges Africans to dig up and hang as jewels on the African crown to remind them of who they are.

References Biko, S. (2004). I write what I like. Picador Africa. Fanon, F. (1986). Black skin, White masks. Pluto Press. Mazwai, N. (2010). Wena. African Perspectives. Mbeki, T.  M. (1996). I am an African. Retrieved May 21, 2016, from http:// www.anc.org.za/show.php?id=4322 Mphande, L., & Moyo, T. (2008). Naming in Nguni languages: The case of Ngoni in Northern Malawi. LWATI: A Journal of Contemporary Research, 5, 103–127. Neethling, B. (2005). Naming among the Xhosa of Southern Africa, studies in Onamastics. The Edwin Mellen Press. Nobles, W. W. (2015). From Black psychology to Sakhu Djr: Implications for the further development of a Pan African Black psychology. Journal of Black Psychology, 41, 399–414. Simelane-Kalumba, P. I. (2014). The use of proverbial names among the Xhosa society: Socio-cultural approach. Master’s thesis, University of the Western Cape. Zeka, J. D. (1992). Iingcambu zobuXhosa. Juta Gariep (Pty) Ltd.

Decolonial Epistemologies in Indigenous Names of the Bakiga of Southwest Uganda Tushabe wa Tushabe

The 1996 film Nelson Mandela: Son of Africa, Father of a Nation, directed by Jo Menell and Angus Gibson, begins with Mandela narrating his encounter with a female teacher, Miss Mdingane, on his first day of school as a young boy. Miss Mdingane asked Mandela what his name was. Mandela said his name was Rolihlahla Madiba Mandela. According to Mandela, Miss Mdingane replied, “‘No. I don’t want that one. You must have a Christian name.’ So I said no, I don’t have one. Furiously, she said ‘from today, you must be Nelson.’ That’s how I added Nelson, not given by my parents.” Mandela’s experience epitomizes for many of us colonized indigenous people how our indigenous names have been erased and replaced with Christian/European names. Our new names memorialize the presence of Christianity and colonial legacies in our land and our mind; they have become part of our vocabulary, our thought, and our languages.

T. wa Tushabe (*) Department of Human Sexuality Studies, Widener University, Chester, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_9

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Language is a window through which one comes to understand the structures of a culture’s philosophy and value system, and the histories of relations that give meaning to things, behaviors, gestures, and names. In this chapter, I am particularly interested in the meanings of names and naming practices in African cultures, particularly among the Bakiga of southwest Uganda. Often, the meanings of names in African cultures are religious1 and, in this sense, evoke the cosmological grounding through which communities give significance to relations, inter-subjective experiences, epistemic assumptions, historical struggle, and place. Language animates this cosmological grounding whereby peoples in particular cultures cultivate a self in community, generate and absorb teachings and meanings, and enact communal practices informed by histories experienced in all their continuities and discontinuities. Understanding the meanings enacted through language within a culture can illuminate one’s family tree and insight about heroic people and heroic acts, or tragic events in a family’s history, and might reveal health and political trajectories. Thus, names act as a repository of knowledge creation methodologies. Like many indigenous communities around the world, the Bakiga of southwest Uganda take names and their meanings very seriously. Names are central to their history, culture, wellbeing, community, and language. Language is important to knowledge creation for the Bakiga; therefore, it is important to analyze how indigenous Bakiga language has continued, or discontinued, to be a source of knowledge creation, and how this dynamic shapes their lives. Thus, I proceed on the premise that Bakiga language has shifted focus from indigenous to colonial meaning-making through names and naming processes since the colonial scramble of Bakigaland between Germany, France, Belgium, and Britain (1897–1900), the eventual British takeover of the land (1900), and introduction of Christianity (1898).2 In this chapter, I examine this shift of focus from indigenous to colonial meanings of names, even as the Bakiga continue to speak their native language, Rukiga. More specifically, though not in totality, Rukiga is spoken colonially in some respects, and when indigenous language is spoken colonially, colonial erasures of indigenous life become part of our memory. The shift, which is clear with a decolonial lens, shows the tragic truth of 1  John S.  Mbiti, Introduction to African Religion. 2nd ed. (Oxford: Heinemann Educational Publishers, 1975), 28. 2  Paul Ngorogoza, Kigezi and Its People. Kampala: Fountain Publishers, 1968.

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how imperialism shapes experience and self-knowledge in the language expressed and stories told through names. The imposition of Christianity in Bakigaland reorganized name-language configurations and produced parallel epistemic significance to relations of self in community and of the indigenous history, including how people think about the past and future. Thinking of names in relation to language and knowledge creation, I focus on name-meanings to highlight two important points: (1) name-meanings in the Bakiga culture narrate a sense of self and community that unveil practices of remembering and forgetting inscribed within the names and self-knowledge cultivated within that community; and (2) decolonization is the only process to simultaneously engage colonialism and imperialism in the construction of critical understandings of the underlying relationships between colonialism, Christianity, and indigenous knowledges. This move helps us see both micro and macro levels of possibilities for enacting liberation and disbanding colonial practices of erasure of indigenous peoples and their histories, cultures, languages, and humanity. My analysis of remembering and forgetting practices through names and their meanings further reveals constructions of a sense of community lived from within—indigenous—in relation to their external Christian and colonial formations. Through an analysis of names, and the colonial and Christianized changes enacted through shifts in indigenous names and their meanings over time, I examine Bakiga epistemologies accessed and obstructed through indigenous and Christian names, respectively. Further, I emphasize decolonial epistemic practices that aid us in living with the contradictions generated by indigenous endurance of colonial erasure, as well as through indigenous determination to cultivate possibilities that enrich and harness one’s search of meaning in community and the world. In the context of indigenous names among the Bakiga of southwest Uganda, the underlying meanings of names tell a story of cultural memory and the people’s histories. Cultural memory creates history as a process of remembering and aids us to better understand the role of colonial practices in indigenous name-meanings. Decolonization, then, pushes us to see through the shift of what has been systemically silenced and erased in indigenous ways of being. Conversely, the shift as inscribed in new naming practices reveals encounters between indigenous epistemic systems with colonial and Christian practices. To critically understand the role of colonial, imperial, and Christian naming practices among the Bakiga, we must expose cultural belief practices rooted in both indigenous and Christian religious naming practices. My interest in name-meanings, though focused

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on the significance of the shift in epistemic intelligibility and translatability, the politics of survival, and the cultivation of the self within community, is actually not only an academic endeavor, but also a personal and a political struggle. As such, I necessarily begin from the familiar to narrate my political and personal journey of healing. In telling this story, I attempt to simultaneously expose, as well as understand, the politics of religion, and, in the words of Jeannette Marie Mageo, of “personhood, cultural identity and meaning, for real people in real places.”3 While some might think that colonization ended when African nations obtained independence from their colonizers, colonial legacies have probably become more palpable in co-opting resistance and trouncing minds so much so that indigenous relations to cosmologies become an unrecoverable past for some, or a real space of survival for others who pursue meaning with them.

Indigenous Relations to Cosmologies In Philosophy and Traditional Religions of the Bakiga, Benoni Turyahikayo-­ Rugyema illuminates the philosophical and epistemological relation between Nature and death among the Bakiga. According to Turyahikayo-­ Rugyema, Nature or Ensi (the earth and all living things), Eiguru (the Sky, Sun, and Water), and Okuzimu (the world below) are sources of life and knowledge. These cosmological beings participate in the cycle of life, and by virtue of being a part of this life cycle, they are immortal the cycle is continuous, never ending.4 As Turyahikayo-Rugyema further elaborates, Bakiga’s sense of immortal life was kept alive through the active interactions of human beings with the cycle of cosmological relations: Eiguru where the Energies of creation dwell, Ensi where the terrestrial plane and all living mortal creatures live, and the Okuzimu home of those who have gone into Spirit.5 Although the burial home of the lifeless body is underground, the concepts of “the world above” and “the world below” do not refer to particular physical space where the dwellers of that space are fixed. Rather, while spatially those places seem to be separate, they are spiritually interactive with each other and with the world on earth where living 3  “On Memory Genres: Tendencies in Cultural Remembering.” Jeannette Marie Mageo, ed. Cultural Memory: Reconfiguring History and Identity in the Postcolonial Pacific (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2001),1. 4  Benoni Turyahikayo-Rugyema, Philosophy and Traditional Religions of the Bakiga in South West Uganda (Nairobi: Kenya Literature Bureau, 1983),73. 5  Ibid.

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human beings carry on their daily activities. It is on earth that Nature becomes the center of spiritual growth and renewal through the interaction of the three spaces in the cycle of life. This interactive relation disallows the separateness of spaces, and it informs the forward-looking of a spiritual journey to the next status in life (i.e. life with ancestors after death). Since for the Bakiga, “life exists here [okuzimu] in the spiritual and religious sense, there is life after death as personified by the living-dead.”6 To see them as active and life-giving in community, those who have gone into Spirit are lived and experienced in communal spiritual sensibilities enacted in practices of remembering through rituals—of healing, birth, marriage, naming, passage, reconciliation, ceremony, harvest, and sowing, rain, death, renewal of humankind, and more. To cultivate one’s spiritual life, a person learns to keep active communication with other spiritual worlds by interacting with the cosmological energies accessible in language, names, friendship, and ritual as practices of remembering. These practices are part of rituals that maintain balance in life. As Turyahikayo-Rugyema asserts, “[T]here is some interaction between [hu]man and these cosmological worlds. [Hu]Man dwells in the middle plane at the fulcrum of the universe.”7 Understanding one’s place within cosmological relations means to see how the presence and practice of religion pervades every aspect of Bakiga life. This then sheds light on real effects of the shift in names and their meanings on people’s relations to self and community, whether those shifts pertain to the names of the living or those gone into Spirit, since colonization and Christianization. Because religion in African cultures “developed together with all the other aspects of the heritage, it belongs to each people within which it has evolved.”8 Thus, loss of indigenous religion equals the loss of people’s language and its memory. Importantly, the loss of indigenous names also equals not only the loss of religion, but also the denial and erasure of the culture within which that religion is practiced. Religion, then, functions as a communal rather than individual practice, and that means all aspects of life inform us about both the community and the individuals in it. Since, according to indigenous thought among the Bakiga, names and processes of naming are religious and religion is part and parcel of everything that Bakiga do, names and processes of naming  Ibid.  Ibid. 8  Mbiti, 14. 6 7

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undergird cultural memory, indigenous epistemic systems, and cultural identity. With the arrival of colonization and Christianization, however, names and their meanings among the Bakiga have taken on narratives of missionization and have, thus, shifted from the so-called “pagan” and “primitive” practices of indigenous Africans to Christian, Western names and practices of remembering. That is to say, the shift simultaneously engenders a determined distance from indigenous cultural identity and a (supposedly) closer proximity to Western and Christian cultural identity. Within this shift, conversion to Christianity constitutes the gateway to the future and rescues Christian converts from entrapments of their “pagan” past. While their past represents them as victims of their ignorance, darkness, religious cults, and as beings lost-never-to-be-found, Christian converts find the future embodied in Christianity to symbolize an orderly and hopeful scheme to eternal happiness—heaven.

Embodiments of Hope in Heaven as Erasure from Memory of Indigenous Histories Christian missionaries did not spread their religion in Bakiga region simply by virtue of its appeal. Having had British colonial administration pave the way, Christian missionaries “used a combination of material gifts and missionary preaching to win over the masses.”9 Churches, hospitals, schools, and roads were constructed, but their construction also meant that people were dislocated and forcibly resettled from their land. These infrastructures were built after enormous bloodshed and psychological terror during anti-colonial wars. The British administration responded to people’s resistance with public hangings and imprisonment. In fact, Paul Ngorogoza notes that the first hanging as punishment to ever occur in the history of Bakiga people was in 1923.10 People were prohibited from practicing their cultures spiritually or religiously, philosophically or morally, in language, or in interpersonal relations. For example, institutions such as churches, hospitals, and schools were not simply symbols but rather establishments where people’s minds were trained to gravitate toward Western culture and colonial goals, including religious and moral training of the unquestioning and uncritical mind. Bible “teachings were based on the ideals of submission and humility” as “embodied by the Sermon on the Mount,” 9

 Turyahikayo-Rugyema, 136.  Ngorogoza, page?

10

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and “exemplified in the ‘Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.’ (Matthew 5:5).”11 While the missionaries were taking away people’s land, culture, humanity, and language, with the help of colonial administrators, they emphasized the gospel as blessing the humble and poor for their future inheritance of the earth. Yet, for unexplained reasons, no Catholic convert was allowed to possess or read the Bible; only the priest and the catechist had the authority to interpret its contents. Catholic converts could only hear the word, ask no questions, and sing Latin hymns, which were unintelligible to them.12 Other teachings included respect for the priest who “incarnated the very image of God on Earth,” and personal visits to the priest “in order to confess their sins before him.”13 The practice of confessions bore a double-edged sword. The priest was to be feared, as he implicitly represented a surveillance machinery of who sinned the most. For example, one is not allowed to have communion if she or he has not had confession. Missing communion is a public admission that you have sinned. Moreover, “if you visited the priest for confession too often, you would appear to be a habitual sinner, and would therefore fall out of favour with the Catholic Church.”14 In other words, habitual sinners enrolled themselves into candidature for hell and not heaven. The goal was to “do good” and confess sins seasonally (any time one has access to a priest or whenever Mass is offered; in preparation for Lent and Advent seasons and before celebrations of Easter and Christmas days; and The Assumption of Mary—August 15) to appear like a good Christian, resolute for heaven. The encouragement to “do good” did not mean that the missionaries understood indigenous cultures or realized that “doing good” was a substitute for an absent ethic. Rather, as anti-colonial scholars have shown, colonizers’ ignorance of indigenous cultures aided to practice colonial elimination of indigenous languages, cultures, and humanity. In Bakigaland, neither Protestant nor Catholic missionaries were at all interested in Bakiga culture and language or what Bakiga people had to offer. Turyahikayo-Rugyema observes that the missionaries imposed their language (structure and episteme) of the Christian culture, as they simultaneously imposed erasure of Bakiga language and religious culture. This is  Turyahikayo-Rugyema, 136.  Ibid. 13  Ibid. 14  Ibid. 11 12

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particularly notable in the Catholic faith, in which converts were asked to cram (memorize) things in Latin, making greater impositions and demands on the Bakiga.15 To become members of either the Catholic or the Protestant group, prospective members had to subscribe through the Christian ritual of baptism. Furthermore, Catholic missionaries demanded candidates to stay at the mission post for six months without return to their family, while being trained in the faith, culture, and language of Catholicism. Protestants, on the other hand, did not have the same requirement but had candidates attend lessons at the parish once or twice a week for six months.16 To become a member of either the Catholic or Protestant group, as Turyahikayo-Rugyema explains, one had to forsake his or her indigenous name and assume a Christian name, which took precedence. Accordingly, “[a]s soon as one acquired the new name, his own original surname sank almost into oblivion since it was associated with paganism, for example, some of the Roman Catholic Brothers and Sisters have no African names.”17 Names became one of the ways by which Christianity penetrated African cultures to impose practices of forgetting indigenous sense of community, which includes ancestors, one’s culture, language, self, while remembering instead only Christian ancestors and practices. Christian converts may not know the meaning or the history of their Christian name, but they are instructed to celebrate the feast of the saint after whom they are named. As a result, names of Christian converts reflect themes of “salvation and redemption,”18 taking a notable distance from indigenous philosophies of life and death. Due to the new naming system and name meanings, Bakiga are forced to sever relations with their indigenous religious practices, which Christian missionaries had not bothered to study and understand, but instead had hastily marked such practices as pagan, satanic, and devilish. Turyahikayo-­ Rugyema further elaborates that “instead of studying the roots of traditional beliefs intelligibly and unemotionally, the missionaries simply chose to ignore them dubbing them flagrant ‘paganism.’ Because the missionaries failed to listen to the people with open minds, they also failed to recognize that the Bakiga had a name for their god, Nyamuhanga.”19  Ibid., 137.  Ibid. 17  Ibid., 138. 18  Ibid. 19  Ibid., 140 15 16

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Nyamuhanga, as are all cosmological beings, is believed to be present and active in people’s lives. People can cooperate with the cosmological beings to determine their individual and communal course of life. In fact, Nyamuhanga, the indigenous name for the creator, the generous giver, is the only one of the Bakiga cosmologies that has been allowed to enter the doors of Christianity. Nyamuhanga, like any other cosmological being, was not a cult god (though missionaries dubbed all gods cults); rather a being, part of the cosmological world that was believed active in people’s lives according to Bakiga religious belief. Nyamuhanga was conceived as a creator, who is entirely good. Mary M. Edel, an American anthropologist, who spent years in Kigezi studying the Bakiga, observed that Bakiga’s relation to Nyamuhanga “antedates the introduction of Christianity. This god had many names. Sebahanga, the most popular derived from hanga, to fashion or shape, as is Ruhanga, the name Christians now use for God.”20 While Nyamuhanga was not limited to one identity, one role, or one place, the assimilation of Ruhanga into Christian conceptualization of God has limited the role that god can perform. Ruhanga is now viewed as a big Man who created all things in a logical order in a period of six days, dwelling in the heavens as he watches over everyone’s actions. Also, He is a God who predetermines one’s course of life, a belief Christian converts express in moments of despair as “that’s God’s plan,” or “as God wishes.” This new conceptualization of god shifts radically from an indigenous sense of a god who actively works with (and not watches over) the people in daily phenomena. Edel shows that Nyamuhanga’s active presence in people’s daily lives was as expansive as expressed in other names: Many other names were also used; these are praise-names, referring more or less explicitly to noble attributes of the god: Kazoba, ‘the one who makes the sun set’; Rugaba, ‘the one who gave everything on this earth’; Kazoba talenga [sic], referring to the fact that god does not fail to fulfill a promise; Biheko, the one who carried everyone on the back (emphasis added).21

People’s names and names of cosmologies not only expressed the multiple relations through their multiple identities, but also emphasized the

20  Mary Edel M. The Chiga of Uganda. 2nd ed. Abraham Edel, “New Introduction” (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 1996), 159–60. 21  Ibid., 160.

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connectedness to everything that is believed to be part of the history of the Bakiga. Because the episteme and histories enacted in names was not self-­ explanatory to Christian missionaries, they assumed that the Bakiga “concept of divinity began and ended with the spirits of one’s ancestors, and that people were consequently mere animists.”22 The missionaries’ inability to see and appreciate Bakiga’s conceptions of god led to cultural clashes that have sustained practices of forgetting Bakiga cultures and names and their role in community. This is not to say, however, that these cultural clashes have abated. Rather, these cultural clashes are lived in people’s daily experiences, in their families, in the language they use to communicate with each other, and of course, in public institutions such as the family, government, church, and school. In fact, the work of decolonization speaks to the enormous resistance to imperialism and colonization that permeates public institutions. What is different about new approaches to decolonization is that, as Africans and other indigenous peoples of the world continue to reclaim their humanity, they no longer have interest to respond to colonizing knowledge; rather, they engage, to borrow from Linda Tuhiwai Smith’s succinct title of her book, “decolonizing methodologies” that also challenge the colonizing mind to decolonize itself, because colonization has damaged all of us in enormous, albeit different, ways. A decolonized mind (emerging from either a colonizing history or colonized history) must decenter colonizing knowledge and find non-­ colonial and anti-colonial alternative knowledges in order to “propose solutions to the real-life dilemmas.”23 The struggle to assert and claim one’s humanity is an ongoing struggle for indigenous peoples of the world due to the ways our histories and knowledge systems have been and continue to be brutally subjugated. As this chapter is about name-meanings among the Bakiga of southwest Uganda, I would like to share examples from my village and family that typify practices of hope in heaven and erasure of the pagan past from memory. As previously noted by Turyahikayo-Rugyema, the introduction of Christianity in Kigezi, the land of the Bakiga, required that converts abandon themselves and the familiar into the new values that represented ironically “cultures that see.” Colonizers and Christian missionaries came  Ibid., 141.  Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. (New York: Zed Books Ltd., 1999), 151. 22 23

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to Africa proclaiming civilization while destroying civilizations that they found; they claimed to bring the light of freedom and morality, and democracy, while they went about destroying practices of freedom, morality, and democracy that existed among the people. It is rather incomprehensible that colonizers and missionaries claimed to “see” when they could not and did not have the humility to acknowledge that their sight was a missing piece to the puzzle of civilization. The imposition of colonial language was among the most powerful tools that Christianity employed to enforce processes of self-­abandonment. Christianity’s imposition of colonial language was the most important tool used to mark as “primitive,” “barbaric,” “pagan,” and “animistic” Bakiga ways of living and practicing their culture.24 Such identifications of things and concepts of concrete and abstracts with which people made meaning in life created fear and shame in the colonized, and those who were made to convert to Christianity and forced to distance themselves from their indigenous life. Distancing themselves from indigenous life meant forgetting or, at least, practicing a forgetting that, as it was hoped, would provide an enlightened way of living today and tomorrow. “Seeing the light” is a phrase that has become a proclamation of faith and a euphemism for the fear and shame animated by Christian interpretations of indigenous peoples and their cultures. “Seeing the light” are not merely words used to replace fear and shame one is forced to feel, but the internalization and ultimately the recognition of that fear and shame based on Christian perception. This is powerfully illustrated during my time in Kanugu district where I was doing research with women for another project when I witnessed a woman approach another woman about some herbal medicine to treat her epileptic child. Overcome by fear that fellow Christians would rebuke her and read her knowledge and use of herbal medicine as “paganism,” the woman who had been approached for the herbal medicine immediately responded to the distressed mother, “ahaaa, nyowe ndi ow’omushana, eby’omwirima nkabirugaho,” meaning she had “seen the light; I do not do things of darkness anymore.” This incident reveals the depth to which the Christian colonial message of “seeing the light” has been absorbed. A simple mention of herbal medicine, which is a well-­ known indigenous resource to treat illness, is immediately associated with the pagan religious practices and thus dismissed as a practice of darkness among the indigenous for whom it enables their wellbeing. The forgetting  See especially John S Mbiti and E.B. Idowu.

24

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of indigenous culture, epistemology, and language through names also pervades matters of health because language is the basis for epistemic structures. Nowadays, those seen walking the forest become easy suspects of doing “things of darkness.” Nevertheless, some will risk such colonial Christian misconceptions or refuse to give credence to these misconceptions because they cannot afford, in their right conscience, to continue participating in practices of self-forgetting and self-erasure. In indigenous ethos, Bakiga walked forests, visited rivers, water sources, waterfalls, mountains, stayed up to watch the moon, found a good view of bright and colorful rays of sunrises or sunsets, went to hilltops to watch the rainbow, or give the rainbow uninterrupted space “to drink water,” as my grandmother would advise us as children. Bakiga people visited all these and other beings of Nature, not because of interest in tourism or exploration to subdue them, but rather as journeys of coexistence and healing, and to reconnect and communicate with other cosmologies. Some of these journeys were seasonal, for a cause, spontaneous, or abrupt, communal or individual, with different age groups or a mix of age groups. And whatever the occasion, the journeys in the forest or to the mountain and hilltops, to the rivers and waterfalls, were journeys that played a big part in completing a full cycle of cosmological connection. The Bakiga believe, as do many indigenous communities of the world, that all Nature’s elements provide “us with a sense of nourishment, empowerment, and recognition.”25 With a limit to this philosophy since colonization, families have witnessed shifts in language that evokes indigenous philosophy of the cosmological relations. The shift is inscribed in names and their meanings. It is sad to acknowledge that some may not even be aware of the dramatic shifts in language and name-meanings within their own families, especially younger generations, due to the fact that indigenous history may no longer be regarded as useful sources of knowledge creation for a particular person, a family, or community.

25  Malidoma Patrice Somé, The Healing Wisdom of Africa: Finding Life Purpose Through Nature, Ritual, and Community. (New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher/ Putnam, 1999), 299.

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Practices of Remembering and Forgetting Ritual On many occasions, my father, who was Catholic, called to memory in conversation, prayer, and offering of Mass for all family members who have gone into Spirit. Not a single time did he include his father, Karabamu, who went into Spirit unchristianed. My father did not refer to Karabamu by name or indigenous practice of any kind. That is why I deliberately refer to him by his name, Karabamu, because remembering Karabamu by name re-members him to my family, re-makes Karabamu a member of our family and part of our history and memory. To re-member Karabamu brings healing to my colonized fragmented body, history, and family. Remembering Karabamu is my attempt to understand the politics of religion, to reclaim indigenous knowledge, language, and names. Karabamu fought in the anticolonial wars of Ntokibiri (1914) and Nyindo (1915–19) in Kigezi region, and refused to convert to Christianity. Raised to embrace the memory of our ancestors, as my grandmother, mother, and aunts in my family did, it did not seem right to me to not remember Karabamu, my grandfather, to forget him as though he never lived and never was a member of our family. The multiple dynamics of forgetting enacted by my father and of remembering Karabamu enacted by my grandmother, mother, and aunts, and of remembering all Christian family members who had gone into Spirit, made it clear to me at an early age that something was not right. I was six (1976) when I asked my grandmother regarding Karabamu’s whereabouts. But I did not delve into deeper understandings of these dynamics until I was doing research for my doctoral dissertation in 2006. From indigenous knowledge creation, Bakiga know that those who have gone into Spirit are not gone from us in totality; they only transition to a different form of being, which enables them to remain part of our community and of the cosmologies. In that sense, those who have gone into Spirit must be included in community and family practices of remembrance and celebration. This is why, in a conversation with my father, I asked him why he never talks about his father or offer Mass for him like any other member of our family who has gone into Spirit. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, my father told me, “[T]iheine onyijusyaga”—no one ever reminds me.” I understood my father’s answer because many years prior, my grandmother had told me that the reason why

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Karabamu was not living with us was because he rejected Christianity and decided kuguma mwitaka ryabo—to stay in their soil.26 For my father, remembering Karabamu who rejected Christianity diminishes his chances of getting into heaven as his newly acquired spiritual and religious beliefs instruct him. These beliefs act, for my father, as an instrument of power that not only controls his sense of shame and guilt should he fail to distance himself from “pagan” practices, but also to perceive the memory of his father as sinful, a break-away from God. To say “no one reminds” him shifts the blame onto an unnamed other person (or multiple people). This misdirection reveals the conflict and wounds that occur when we are unwilling to own up to the reality of living with the contradictions generated from our endurance of colonizing processes. Of course, it was no one’s responsibility to remind him of his own father. Rather, it was his duty as a good Christian convert to forget his father who embodied “pagan” spirituality. Remembering Karabamu in conversation, prayer, or the offering of Mass would have meant that my father accepted and acknowledged the presence of Karabamu in Nature with other ancestors, that he believes Karabamu transitioned to the world where all ancestors’ spirits live, and that Karabamu is present in Nature and not lost to the past. To do this would be to acknowledge as a legitimate indigenous epistemic ethos and cosmological relations that reveal Bakiga’s awareness of how they are intimately connected to creation and Nature. With this acknowledgment, my father would have to open his eyes, senses, emotions, mind, and heart to Karabamu’s memory and presence in Spirit and Nature. He would teach his children all about their grandfather, Karabamu, and urge them to remember him and to pass on this knowledge to future generations. Remembering Karabamu is to keep his spirit present to our “emotional remembrance” in our community and the community of our ancestors. 26  My grandmother deliberately used the plural ryabo, their, to teach me the indigenous relation to land, and to distinguish it from the new term “ekibira” or “ekishaka” which refers to land, an economic property or commodity for individual ownership and exchange for money. In Bakiga sense, a mention of the word eitaka evokes community and the cosmologies. For those who still embrace this relation to soil appreciate the sense that your people’s voices and Spirits are there with you in the soil, as community. In fact, some families adhere to this sense of soil as community and do not sell their soil to anybody at all, no matter how much people are stripped for cash. Selling community soil seems as though you are selling your ancestors, throwing them away from your life. That said, the “civilized” families would sell land like any other commodity with the goal of making profit.

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Theorizing the significance of emotional remembrance of our ancestors as recognition of their presence, Malidoma Patrice Somé reminds us that listening to the voice of our own emotions is the start to a communing of a people. Listening to our emotions allows us to know our emotional self, and affords us the ability to balance our emotional, intellectual, and spiritual wellbeing with Nature. The cultivation and awareness of this balance opens up for an active connectedness with the spirits. As Somé elaborates, [T]o be active in this world, however, spirits need to enlist our cooperation and help. In order to crack open something in yourself, to allow you to be aware of the presence of ancestor’s spirits, you have to walk into nature with your emotional self, not with your intellectual self.27

Somé is not applying the Cartesian dichotomy of the self—between body and mind. What Somé means by “walk into nature with your emotional self, not with your intellectual self” is that when an indigenous person is in the presence of Nature, it is not a project, or a goal to be accomplished. Rather, it is a process of communing with the ancestors, with the cosmologies, with Nature as a journey of reunion and healing. This type of interaction necessitates that ears must hear, eyes must see, nose must smell, body must feel, and the sojourner’s entire being must be humbled to commune with the cosmologies in Nature. While my father’s remembrance of Karabamu would have acknowledged Karabamu’s immortality, such acknowledgment would have come at a greater cost to him and his anticipated life with Abraham, Moses, and the angels in heaven. My father’s new set of religious beliefs does not allow him to mix the two worlds—the Christian and the indigenous. Co-existence of the two worlds is also impossible in my father’s new life as the Christian world surreptitiously erases the indigenous world. Like other Christian converts, my father was taught that indigenous religious beliefs are pagan because they do not acknowledge in their ethos the God of the Bible, or of the Torah, or of the Koran. Indeed this teaching has enormous effects on indigenous way of life and processes of knowledge creation. Because Bakiga names are religious, and religion encompasses everything, a practice or a forgetting

 Somé, 54.

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of one aspect is simultaneously a practice or forgetting of all aspects of Bakiga culture. The Bakiga hold on very strongly to the idea of immortality, which is realized not necessarily in bearing children, but in rituals of remembering. The concept of immortality is rooted in the Bakiga’s Spiritual life. In Bakiga belief, there is life after death in okuzimu, but this life, as Turyahikayo-Rwigyema asserts, springs back to community on earth where its presence is felt, known again with other cosmological energies.28 For this process to happen, the people in community must actively remember the person. This life that springs back in community on earth intricately positions the person gone into Spirit within the interactions between the world above (Eiguru, not heaven) and life on earth (Ensi). There is a sense of free mobility between worlds, which communicates experience of death as transition. Indeed, the Bakiga also seriously regard borders imposed by the inevitability of death. Death takes away the physical active life on earth; however, the borders are negotiable with the cultivation of the belief in immortality through remembering rituals. The three worlds are bordered and permeated by energies that move back and forth in the material and immaterial living and knowing. These energies are themselves energies of healing wounds of loss of life on earth, loss of history and healing of pain, broken friendships, bad thoughts about another, and so on and so forth. When the Bakiga remember a person who has gone into Spirit, they not only remember the character, the words of wisdom, and acts of kindness, but they also remember a person’s name—something my father could not do. Remembering, thus, is an element with which to defeat the inevitability of death. Remembering is a pursuit of immortality, and it functions as a process through which a person gone into Spirit returns to life in community. Thus, my father’s response that no one ever reminds him of Karabamu makes Karabamu not only mortal but a being that never existed at all. M. Jacqui Alexander elaborates that remembering is rooted in the “cosmic duty” and is renewed through our connections and reconnections with the new and old lives in the chaos or order between “tradition,” colonialism, and Christianity (italics added).29 The cosmic duty is a healing process of our woundedness, as well as a celebration of who we are  Turyahikayo-Rugyema, 73.  M. Jacqui Alexander, Pedagogies of Crossing: Meditations on Feminism, Sexual Politics, Memory and the Sacred (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007), 260–261. 28 29

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through a practice of re-membering that re-makes members of the cosmic community by bringing to memory the forgotten.30 My father’s inability, or refusal, to remember that he is forgetting indicates he is actively participating in forgetting that he is forgetting, thereby putting Karabamu’s life and his status in community in what Somé describes as “a diaspora of a struggling self adrift in the vast sea of anonymity.”31 This diasporic self rests on modern identities that are couched in nationalist authenticity that has uncritically assumed colonial and Christian legacies as “African traditions.” This route might be the best way for some while negotiating the contradictions arising from interactions between indigenous and colonial religions and cultures. Because if the new religion teaches people to abandon their indigenous belief systems, doing just that means that one abandons ritual and community and the language that informs them. Because, as Somé correctly puts it, ritual, community, and healing in the indigenous world are so intertwined, to speak of one of them is to speak of them all. To remember all of them is to make whole the broken parts of our spirit, mind, and body. “Ritual, communally designed, helps the individual remember his or her purpose, and such remembering brings healing both to the individual and the community.”32 One can only imagine what kind of rituals constructed for my father possibilities of healing the woundedness imposed by colonial and Christian forgetting of his own parent, while encouraged at the same time to remember Christian ancestors, the saints, whom Christian converts have never seen or whose histories and families they have no knowledge. For my father to mention the name Karabamu even without acknowledging that it is his father and my grandfather would have removed Karabamu from the land of anonymity. However, this is impossible for my father to do because he does not remember the language of ritual that initiates or invites communing with cosmological energies in an indigenous way. The activities and rituals of remembering Abraham, Moses, and the saints, for example, are enacted and acknowledged by a language of his new religion, which simultaneously institutes a language of forgetting indigenous spirituality and relations with the cosmologies. My father could not remember Karabamu, because in Bakiga indigenous episteme, life after death does not go to heaven; it joins the world of Spirit and  Ibid., 261.  Somé, 5. 32  Ibid., 36. 30 31

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returns to Nature and the community on earth through ritual. To use language of “heaven” after death is a direct rejection of indigenous philosophy of life, which includes death as an experience of transition into Spirit and back to Nature and community. Everyone in colonized Africa who has obtained formal education, converted to Christianity, or interacted with inherited colonial institutions has “learned that indigenous rituals in Africa are devilish and inspired by Satan.”33 For that reason, those who have fully accepted the colonial interpretation of African cultures see in a similar way that African indigenous rituals are devilish. While studying Bakiga, Edel was interested in the meaning of the new moon and omuganura—the season of eating a new harvest. To her surprise, not even some of the most educated Bakiga were willing to give a philosophical explanation of the presence or absence of or the relationship between certain cosmologies, for fear of being read as pagan. She explains, “[T]he absence of cosmological interest leaves this gesture [of the relationship between the moon and new harvest] much of a puzzle. Not even the philosophically minded of my Chiga friends could so much as guess at its significance, either as to what might be expected from it or as to the relation of the moon to other spirit forces.”34 Edel captures precisely the effects of colonial and Christian erasures of indigenous religious practices as expressed in the absence of their episteme in the minds of Bakiga philosophers with whom she interacted. Thus, to understand the effects of colonization and Christianization on Bakiga culture, we cannot conclude that Bakiga, in general, have no knowledge of cosmologies, even among philosophers. Rather, we need to be more open to understanding and scrutinizing what colonial institutions—whether through health, political government, education, or religion—have done to indigenous epistemic systems and a people’s relation to self, history, and community. What we must appreciate about Edel’s revelation is that while it is true that Bakiga philosophy never involved the notion of Satan or Satanism, having been taught that indigenous practices are indeed Satanic, and having accepted Christian teachings, even a philosopher who has not traveled the journey of decolonization will shamelessly shy away from confronting the colonial “Truth.” Such a philosopher cannot see that the concept of Satan is essentially a European import and will continue to identify indigenous spirituality as Satanic, equating this  Ibid., 7.  Edel., 161.

33 34

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identification with the Christian Satan.35 For the convert, the shift from indigenous religion to Christianity impels a forgetting and erasure of indigenous language and meanings inscribed in indigenous names. This process of forgetting and erasing, from memory, indigenous language and name-meanings also enacts a shift from re-authoring the past, to authoring the present and the future based on episteme of “cultures that see.” The colonial and Christian practices of forgetting indigenous cultures are detached from any feeling of loss and knowledge of it as having ever happened at all. Because the new language and meanings embedded in new names distance themselves from indigenous pasts, either in terms of its loss or in reflections of its continuity, they embody a loss of that past in the absence of its telling. The absence of, or the shift in, the dynamic erases certain epistemologies and introduces other epistemologies that shape the search of meaning, a sense of self, and its place in community. The absence or shift can be recognized in the focal point embedded in the meanings of indigenous and Christian names. Some people may not experience the loss either because these epistemologies were hidden from them, or they have worked very hard to forget them. In either case, we do not get a sense of loss, but we can know that, within the context of forgetting, the search of meaning through that loss becomes irrelevant. The comfort in the irrelevance of the loss is what keeps us trapped in colonial epistemologies of our cultures, histories, languages, and ourselves through shifts in our names, which impact our epistemic systems. Names My maternal uncle was named Mazig’embwa at the name-giving ritual, three days after he was born in 1902. I did not know about this name until 1985 when my uncle gave testimony during his birthday celebration before a huge congregation of Christians, and men and women of God, about the presence of the light in his life. This was not the typical crowd for birthday celebrations; it happened to be the same birthday of the parish priest with whom they were friends. And since Mass is the highest offering of the Catholics, the two friends took advantage of Sunday Mass to celebrate with fellow believers.

 Turyahikayo-Rugyema, 140.

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As mentioned above, indigenous names among the Bakiga are repositories of history, memory, knowledge, joy, or sadness. Mazig’embwa followed a long line of eight stillbirths, miscarriages, and early childhood deaths. His parents, still observing indigenous practices, believed in communing with their ancestors who had gone into Spirit and receiving an insight about tragedy in the family through the journey of healing. The literal meaning of Mazig’embwa is as follows: [a]mazi means feces, “g” in this case operates as a preposition, “of,” and embwa simply means a dog. Putting the words together, the full meaning of Mazig’embwa becomes dog feces. Now to understand the significance of the name, we have to ask some existential question: why would parents who experienced child-loss after child-loss for a long period name their precious child “dog feces?” To answer this question, we must elaborate the philosophical understanding of community and what maintains community, since, among the Bakiga, people thrive on the interconnectedness of relationalities. In African cultures, birth and death are two interrelated experiences of a person’s journey of life in community.36 One’s birth, though directly experienced by the mother, is a communal and not an individual experience. That means that a child’s birth begins in community. The experience of birth reawakens, within the community, a collective interest in itself through the newly born. That is, “when you are born, the village takes a closer look at its own dynamics to figure out where you fit. In the same way, death spurs the village to take a collective interest in what it has lost, why death has occurred and what it means, because the village has lost one of its important members, and therefore death also is an occasion for collective ritual (italics added).”37 In this context, then, Mazig’embwa is an articulation of the emotional self of the community. Because through emotional articulation of the self, community members commit to be present to themselves and to one another through experiences of birth or death. And “when emotion is missing,” Somé says, “usually we are missing as well, unable to be fully present either to ourselves or to one another.”38 Mazig’embwa creates space in community for the history archived in it. It expands beyond unanswerable questions the possibilities abundant in life.

 Somé, 310.  Somé, 310. 38  Ibid. 36 37

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In many African cultures, death is a result of some occurrence—death is caused, even when it results from an accident. Based on colonial policies of relocation and institutions of political borders among the peoples of Rwanda, who are scattered brothers, sisters, and cousins of the Bakiga, death is believed to appear in a kind of a spirit,39 which will take someone away due to a disorder within the community. In the two communities, it is important to know the cause of death by scrutinizing all possible causes, and through communication of community members with the spirit in a language accessible and intelligible to both the people and the world of ancestors. This is not difficult to do or to understand, since those who have gone into Spirit were and are still members of the cosmological community. One example here is Mazig’embwa. In the name Mazig’embwa, the sense is that the spirit will not want a stinky, smelly, ugly human being. While the spirit did not tell the community exactly what needed to happen, the child’s name in this case operates as a channel of communication with the ancestors. And going further, the name Mazig’embwa serves as an archive of a family’s tragic experience over many years. In this archive, we come to know what happened, when, how, and to whom. We also come to know the community present during the time, what was going on politically, in public health, and in spiritual development of the community. All things interconnected come to knowledge, archived in the name. According to my uncle’s narrative at the birthday celebration, his “parents were of darkness; they still believed in indigenous ways.” But when he converted to Catholicism, he changed his name to Mugambagye and left the old ways behind. The name means one who speaks well. In Mugambagye, one who speaks well is not necessarily about the person who bears the name or anyone in the family, but rather extends to and gravitates toward the God of Abraham and of the Bible. The name bearer is only a vessel of articulation of the good God who saves lives. In that sense, Mugambagye severs relations with Mazig’embwa and its indigenous ways of knowing. The shift from Mazig’embwa to Mugambagye discards one history and authors a new one, without any relation at all between the two. Therefore, Mazig’embwa is not only erased as a name, but its erasure removes any possible referent points from the family’s archive of its history. Memory and even possibilities of knowing that history are buried in oblivion. In indigenous ways, one who is not familiar with the history inscribed in a name would be prompted to ask what a  Mbiti, 116–7.

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name means in hearing it. Then, the name bearer or those who are familiar with a name’s history would narrate it. Christian names, on the other hand, do not readily prompt any curiosity or interest in knowing the history behind the names as all names in Rukiga given to Christian converts invoke God’s image, and carry no particular history other than the image of God. Such names when expressed colonially in Rukiga include: Akampurira, He heard me; Tumusiime, let’s thank Him; Tumukunde, let’s love Him; Byamukama/ Kyomukama/ Komukama/ Kamukama, of or belonging to the Lord; Twikirize/ Tukamwikiriza/ Tukeikiriza/ Kwikiriza, we accepted Him; Muhangi/ Komuhangi/ Kyomuhangi/ Byomuhangi/ Owomuhangi, of God, belonging to God, the Creator. All these names are in Rukiga language, but they are not indigenous. They do not express anything about indigenous cosmologies. What they tell us is only about God, revealing the shift from indigenous epistemic systems to colonial and Christian epistemic systems through language, practice, and name meanings. Mbiti’s research across Africa also exposes similar shifts in many cultures. Among the Baganda in central Uganda, for example, Mbiti observes that the name “Muwanga means ‘the one who puts things in order.’”40 But since indigenous peoples in Africa did not believe in a singular universal god, the single trajectory of god inscribed in the meaning of new names tells us that the focus is on God and away from the many interconnected relations among the cosmologies in indigenous ethos. Beside Rukiga names that express the colonial and Christian shift in indigenous language, a person might have a Western name, which automatically carries on the focus on God in heaven and the colonial memory of the “cultures that see.” Such names might be Akampurira Joseph, Kyomuhangi Deborah, Byamukama Robert, Kyomukama Priscilla, Twikirize Angela, and so on. What we have in the two names is a total erasure of indigenous cultures. You will also find people with only Western names. One’s full name could be John Jacques, Davidson Paul or Paul Davidson, Jamie Allen, Mark Edward, George Lucas, Mary Margaret, Mary Goretti, Bruno Onesmus, Thomas Jean-Jacques, and more. These names act as an archive of the missionization of indigenous cultures, and are closed to indigenous epistemologies and cultural practices. Erasures are clear.

 Ibid., 28.

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Conclusion What is important to see here is how indigenous encounters with Christian missionaries and colonizers culminated the legacy of the politics of difference, whereby institutions of Bakiga indigenous religious practices were seen as “Other.” “Otherness” is continually constructed in language, religious, and social practices of not only erasures and silences, but also of healing, knowledge creation, and self-determination. Thus, we might see indigenous gods and goddesses as other or as “local” while seeing the gods of Christianity and Islam as universal; the “Otherness” of indigenous religious communities as “cults” instead of as assemblies, or congregations, or communities; the “Otherness” of their state of advancement as being “primitive,” the practice of this “Othering” of what is different and the foundations that inform one’s sense of self in community on one’s body will always carry colonial erasures of other and nurturance of the damage done to us if we do not engage seriously in processes of decolonization and healing. Edel gives evidence to this phenomenon. Because religion has undergone drastic suppression in recent years due to the British ban of the religious aspects of the Bakiga, “[t]he result is that no one dares to wear the most ordinary charms; ghost huts have disappeared; diviners are no longer openly consulted; and religious and magical practitioners have laid aside their spirit ‘horns’—though they may continue to cherish and even to feed them in private.”41 Edel’s description of what she sees, or does not see, fits within the framework of Christian teachings, in which African ancestors and divinities are equated to things like “ghosts.” Edel is sympathetic as she sees people’s retreat from their ways as doing things in private or in secrecy. For those who have lived the wounds of colonization and are determined to seek the good in indigenous knowledge like the mother of an epileptic child discussed about know that their practices are resistance to colonial and Christian erasures of indigenous epistemic systems. That is endurance. Moreover, it does not make sense that when Christians worship in the privacy of their church it is not seen as secrecy; however, when indigenous people go to the privacy of their shrine, it immediately is seen as secrecy. The colonized, those with subjugated histories, cannot assert themselves in meaningful ways when they entertain fear of being misinterpreted or having their knowledges marginalized. Our knowledges must be  Edel, The Chiga of Uganda, 129.

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first to lift ourselves out of colonial depths of self-erasure into decolonial possibilities of being and knowing through our languages and names.

References Alexander, M.  J. (2007). Pedagogies of crossing: Meditations on feminism, sexual politics, memory and the sacred. Duke University Press. Edel, M., & Edel, A. (1996). The Chiga of Uganda (2nd ed.). Transaction Publishers. Mageo, J. M. (2001). On memory genres: Tendencies in cultural remembering. In J. M. Mageo (Ed.), Cultural memory: Reconfiguring history and identity in the postcolonial pacific. University of Hawai‘i Press. Mbiti, J.  S. (1975). Introduction to African religion (2nd ed.). Heinemann Educational Publishers. Ngorogoza, P. (1968). Kigezi and its people. Fountain Publishers. Smith, L. T. (1999). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples. Zed Books Ltd.. Somé, M.  P. (1999). The healing wisdom of Africa: Finding life purpose through nature, ritual, and community. Jeremy P. Tarcher/ Putnam. Turyahikayo-Rugyema, B. (1983). Philosophy and traditional religions of the Bakiga in south West Uganda. Kenya Literature Bureau.

Tell Me Your Name and I Will Tell You Who You Are: The Construction of Names in Angola and the Colonial Influence Florita Cuhanga António Telo

The Starting Point […] somewhere beneath the dead ashes of the past there are always embers impregnated with the light of resurrection. (Ki-Zerbo, 1982)

For this article on the history of naming practices in Angola, I purposely focused my approach on a Kôngo society1 in a geographically,  Kôngo society (or societies) refers to the historical constituent or satellite societies of the former Kingdom of Kôngo, as referred to in the historiography and ethnography. In: Luena Pereira 2008, 29. Uíge was part of the Kingdom of Kôngo’s territory. The term Bakôngo refers to the natives of the Kingdom of Kôngo. 1

F. C. A. Telo (*) Department of Interdisciplinary Studies on Women, Gender and Feminisms, Center for Human Rights and Citizenship, Catholic University of Angola, Luanda, Angola e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_10

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ethnically, and culturally specific region, now an Angolan province, named Uíge.2 I chose to work in this region and with this specific ethnic group because I am part of it and I am familiar with some of the practices; thus I had easier access to primary sources, which consequently made it rather challenging to maintain objectivity in the approach. The Bakôngo are considered the third largest Angolan ethnic group, with the Ovimbundus and the Ambundus being the first two, respectively. From the geographical point of view, the Bakôngo have usually been limited to northern Angola, composed of the Cabinda, Zaire, Uíge provinces (which are the focus of this article) and a northern part of the Bengo province. However, there are already many studies proving that KiKôngo, for instance, is spoken in several parts of Angola and is not restricted to those provinces. Therefore, the geographical demarcations serve only as starting points. In addition, similar to other ethnic-linguistic groups in Angola, the KiKôngo and the Bakôngo populations are widely dispersed throughout Angola as well as the former possessions of the Kingdom of Kôngo, namely, the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Republic of Congo Brazzaville, and Gabon. According to Luena Pereira (Pereira 2004, 14), the Kingdom of Kôngo was formed during the fourteenth century, and the Portuguese established their first contact with them on the west coast of Southern Africa in the late fifteenth century. It was at this time that Christianity was introduced and adopted by the Kôngo royal elite. The political organization of the Kingdom of Kôngo, according to Angolan historian Patrício Batsíkama (Batsíkama 2011, 29–37), was founded on a tripartite basis constituted by three main lineages: the Ñzînga; the Nsaku; the Mpânzu. From the Nsaku lineage came the priests and the elders or presbyters (religious and/or from the Magic traditions) who exercised the functions related to the consecration of administrative-executive authorities and were responsible for diplomacy, the Constitution, and the judiciary and legislative branches. The Mpânzu were tasked with responsibilities related to war, the security of the Court and the country, and the right to vote.

2  The Uíge Province is located in the northern part of Angola; it is bordered on the north and east by the Democratic Republic of Congo, former Zaire, and on the south by the Provinces of Zaire and Bengo.

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Finally, the Ñzinga lineage was tasked with administrative, judicial, and limited political functions, and the executive branch (both limited). Note that lineages in this context should be understood in the sense given by the Kingdom to these terminologies, and not in the narrower, modern sense. Thus, family was understood as having no end, consisting of all members of a given lineage, who might not necessarily be blood relatives in the current sense of the term. Here, kinship is symbolically established as the foundational landmark of social organization, that is, the consideration that the three lineages forming the Kingdom came from the same relative.3 From this perspective, the concept of family includes extensive communities of individuals originating from the same stem. Just as God is powerful for Christians, who become brothers by having Him as their point of origin, so it is with the Bakôngos in relation to their common ancestor (Telo 2012, 38). In this regard, the Kôngo social structure, their clan-based organization, and their set of matrilineages have remained the Kôngo’s core features, although they have undergone certain superficial changes, explains Luena Pereira (2004, 77), depending on the contexts into which the group is inserted. In her research, Pereira offers the example of an urban context, such as that of the country’s capital, Luanda, where a significant number of Bakôngo lives. Still, according to her research, the foundation of kinship lies in the Kanda (or Nkanda), which is the kinship group organized according to maternal lines and descending from a common ancestress. Kanda defines the exogamous group, which is usually associated with the clan (mvila), although it refers more to the local group than to the clan, which is defined by a larger lineage and does not imply exogamy. Kanda, by definition, comprises the living and their ancestors (Pereira 2004, 77). According to Batsíkama (2010, 292), the word Kanda (or, as he refers to, Ma-Kanda)4 holds various meanings, including kinship, family, lineage, tribe, gender, and nature. Analyzing its etymological origin and the relationship with similar words in other Angolan languages, the author concludes that from an etymological point of view, kânda would be a political institution and not only a social one, of kinship; that is, Ma-Kânda is also a political and social institution, in addition to meaning kinship. It is in 3 4

 On this topic, see “As origens do Reino do Kôngo”, Batsíkama, 2010.  The plural form of Kanda.

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this sense that I will use this word because it is more in keeping with the meaning given by my interlocutors.

Who Are We: Onomastics in a Bakôngo Family In a recorded conversation with three members of my Bakôngo family— Mr. Luís Monteiro (Nukala, 73 years old), Mrs. Lídia Zombo (Malundama, 66 years old), and Mrs. Ana Telo (Kimbolo, 56 years old)— I sought answers to the central question of this article: How were names assigned within the Bakôngo group they were part of?5 It is important to note that the conversation with the two ladies occurred at the same time, in Luanda on May 23, 2017, whereas the dialogue with Mr. Luís took place on February 10, 2017, in the Uíge province. From now on, I will only use my interlocutors’ KiKôngo names. I begin with my interviewees’ descriptions of the origins of their own names. Kimbolo and Malundama, two sisters, explain: Kimbolo—it means bread, is the name of my father’s grandfather, it is his KiKôngo name. My mother explained to me: I am the namesake of my father’s mother, I am his grandmother, even when my father was alive, he never called me another name, he only called me grandma. Malundama—the KiKôngo name Malundama means, “it is hidden”. The brother [the youngest one] has the KiKôngo name Nkita, which means war [and was registered with the name Ramos António Zombo].

On the other hand, Nukala states: I am old Nukala’s namesake, he is my father’s brother, Nukala; he is called Tuaka Kaka, which means “let’s be alone, without making confusion”, so to avoid saying tuaka kaka, they chose Nukala. It’s like your father [my biological father, Nukala’s younger brother], his name is Kanana, his is the namesake of our father’s father, Mbissa Kanana, then he’s Kanana.6 5  Lídia António is Ana Telo’s older sister, both are my mothers: big mother and little mother, respectively, according to the order of birth. Luís Telo is an older brother of my biological father Firmino, both are my fathers: big father and little father, respectively. 6  As Isabel Telo described, I, too, as a namesake to my paternal grandmother, am called mother by their children (my parents). In turn, my sister and I call my two-year-old niece “mother”; she is the daughter of my older brother and has the same name as my mother. My younger sister, who is my maternal grandmother’s namesake, is called “mother” by both my mothers (her daughters).

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Kanana, is our father’s father, our father is called, although he is Monteiro, he is called Mbissa Kanana, so his father is old Mekanana. Now my name, Nukala, means to be, tuaka tuakala kaka, let’s be alone, in KiKôngo language, Tuakala Kaka “without problems”, so it was the name of my father’s brother. (Nukala, 2017)

The rules, as we can note from these first reports, are simple: the children were named after close relatives, especially in a direct line (father, grandmother, great-grandmother). Thus, Kimbolo and Malundama teach us: “in the old days, the names were given by the family, it is not like now, the person looks up in a newspaper, in a dictionary or anywhere he goes, and chooses the name he likes and names his son, in the old days, the names were decided with the family” (Malundama 2017). In practical terms, it means that, for example, the father will name his brother, that is, he will give his son the name of his uncle, or his mother’s name, or his aunt’s name. Therefore, following the lineage, you can’t give a name that is not within the family to the son or nephew; that is, the child’s parents will name it after a family relative, which may be the mother’s brother, the father’s brother, or the grandmother’s name. The lineage of Kimbolo here, in my view, refers to consanguineous relatives who are linked by both blood and ethnicity. Complicating this is the fact that many colonial traits have joined local cultural symbols, as in almost all colonized regions, thus emerging a fusion. I will not speculate as to what degree this was harmful, but it certainly gave way to new social configurations not originally present among the Kôngo. However, elements of the clan and Kanda conceptions are clearly present. This is what Luena Pereira (2004, 78) affirms when she mentions, for example, the loss of political power, the weakening of the traditions that govern succession and inheritance of land, traditions that are peculiar to the Bakôngo cultures. Pereira cites influences such as colonization, population displacement, and the urbanization process as the predominant reasons for this change. To those influences I would add the preponderant role of the church, especially the Catholic Church, in the past and present within these groups, which reinvent themselves incessantly, trying to maintain aspects of their traditional culture even in the face of repeated attempts at annihilation.7

7

 The three interviewees declare themselves Catholics.

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In turn, Nukala explains the problems that arise when families try to register their children with governments that may not understand their cultural traditions: “The problem of names, when we talk about a person’s name, is that now … in order to give a name, they [government authorities] have to know what it is”. The interlocutor is referring here to the government’s legal requirement that not just the chosen name but also the meaning of the name must be specified. Moreover, even this does not ensure success, as the government may ultimately decide not to register the child with the name chosen by the family and/or parents. I will return to this later. Nukala goes on, “in the old days, the person had to have a namesake. Where the old men left, no name could be given without a namesake.” In other words, the rule is that the name the child will receive should be that of someone in the community or in the family, regardless of whether the person giving the name is dead or alive. They are forms of naming that are inherited from their ancestors. Nukala continues, “for example, you [the author of this article] are old Cuhanga’s namesake, your father’s mother”. The word Cuhanga means “to do” and comes from “Cuhanga Kua Nzambi”, which means “God made you”. Nukala’s father was named after his paternal grandmother whose name was Mezulu, which means “it’s heaven” in Portuguese. This mention of god must be understood in the sense of divinity, and not necessarily in the sense of the Christian god, because according to the interlocutor, “before religions arrived, they [the ancestors] already put God’s word into practice, it is like Uncle Zé, Frazão’s father [who is called] José Nzambi; Nzambi means God in Kikôngo, and he was named Jose Nzambi” (Nukala, 2017). Nukala goes on to explain that in the cultural context into which he was born: The family was the clan, it is called clan in Portuguese, in Kikongo it is Kanda. Kanda was the mother’s family; it is the tribe of the mother’s family where he [Nukala’s father] was born. It is what we are, what you are [referring to the text’s author], you are from the maternal side of the Kinjango tribe where the mother belongs. The father [the author’s father] is from Kikamuanzo, that is our tribe. But we [Nukala and his brother] were born in Kikaiungo. So, according to these clans, people who came after [or were born] had to be named [after someone else in the national language]. Now there are these names in Portuguese, for example, Luís is already in Portuguese, Monteiro, Firmino. (Nukala 2017)

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The interlocutor refers to the clan, Kanda, tribe, and family categories as if they were synonymous; strictly speaking, each has its own specificities, as mentioned in relation to the concepts of kanda and family. However, from the perspective of the Bakôngo cosmogony, they all have the “Being” at the center. These names were given so as not to lose the lineage. By the name, the person who has already died remains alive through his namesake: people will know him through his namesake. Even your children, your grandchildren will always know this, that after all this name came from our father’s mother and so goes as far as it can. (Nukala 2017)

Once again, I understand that when my interviewees speak of the lineage, it is the history of the group (the kanda and the clan), much more than the ties defined by consanguinity or affinity, that they seek to perpetuate. This history is transmitted locally among the hundreds and thousands of subgroups that make up the Bakôngo ethnic group. However, although traces of “pure tradition” are still present, in a way it has been mixed with other ways of giving names, especially with the civil registration legislation in force in Angola, as well as the parent’s willingness of giving other and/or new names to children. Within this context, Luena Pereira concludes in her research that among the Bakôngo, a person can have several names and receive others throughout her life. The first name, in KiKôngo, is given at the time of the child’s birth and is chosen according to the circumstances that surround the birth, but in general, the name is the beginning of a proverb that refers to this event (e.g., Lufankenda, Mavakala). The second name often honors an important person, a benefactor, a godfather, a priest, a pastor or is the name of a grandfather, grandmother or one of the father’s relatives. This name, which has lately been a Western name, can be given at the time of baptism, becoming a public or more ‘official’ name. Often, as an adult, the individual can still adopt a third name, not infrequently due to religious conversion or circumstances in his life. (Pereira 2004, 85)

I was able to identify in my interlocutors’ accounts some dimensions of the naming practices described here. In a preliminary way, one of them exemplifies these practices when speaking of her sister, who was named Malundama upon her birth but was legally named Maria Lydia, because,

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as Kimbolo explained, “Our father had a Portuguese friend, when his daughter was born, he named her Maria, but she also has a Kikôngo name, Malundama” (Kimbolo, 2017). The interlocutors placed no emphasis on names given according to circumstances surrounding birth, because this tradition was not common within their particular groups. However, despite the barriers sometimes encountered when trying to officially register a child with this sort of name alone, in many regions of Angola this naming practice is common. Throughout the nation, different forms of naming coexist, but within the tradition of each Bakôngo subgroup, one form is generally preferred over the others. All forms, however, tell a common story: Prior to colonization, naming trajectories were more endogenous; after colonization, traditional naming practices were diluted by new cultural influences. Post-colonization, for instance, a child does not need to receive the entire name of his or her ancestor in order to be considered a namesake, in the same way that, in many cases, it is not necessary that the child’s most often used name be identical to the one registered. However, everyone in the family knows that “such person is so-and-so’s namesake”. Another peculiarity that I identified empirically in the names of some Bakôngo individuals before the colonization is a lack of the sort of paternal surname, common in Portuguese cultures, that is transmitted to the wife and children. In the Bakôngo society, which is matrilineal par excellence, even after this colonial distortion we can still find female surnames, such as “Pombal Maria” or “Arlindo Isabel”, just to exemplify two prominent names in Angolan society. Past and Present Evaluative Principles: The Necessary Reflection Before colonization, the rule of naming after living or deceased relatives (consanguinity, kanda, clan) was seen as a way to keep those people present, especially those who were no longer alive. However, this has not changed much at present, although there are some “manipulated” transformation trends, as will be demonstrated below. Due to the social dynamics that characterize any human group, it can be said that even in the past, not all people named their children strictly following the aforementioned rules. However, such situations can be exceptions that prove a rule, also demonstrating the social heterogeneity. The biggest concern in this context relates to the fact that there is a tendency to deliberately change the way children (among the Bakôngo)

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are named in Angola, based on colonial stereotypes, sometimes supported by some State institutions. For example, also where you [the author of the text] are, no one gave you a name, there was no child named Florita, and there had to be. For example, if Zé [the author’s brother] or Toni [the author’s brother] or Luís [the author’s brother] had a child, they should name it after their sister, it is the symbol so that that name won’t disappear or die. The same thing with our fathers, and the same thing with our mothers. (Nukala 2017)

In other words, it is necessary to keep the flame of traditions alive in each generation of the family, a tradition that has been inherited from our ancestors from time immemorial, but without neglecting the “natural” dynamics of each period. It is interesting to note that in my own family, we must go back four generations, to my great-grandparents, to find ancestors who experienced purely traditional naming practices unaltered by colonial influences. My grandparents, my parents, and my own generation all experienced both pre- and post-colonial realities. Specifically, my generation inherited the full names of their respective namesakes, but those names represent a mixture of names of Kikôngo origin and names that were introduced after the arrival of the Portuguese, especially through baptism. For most members of this generation, their Kikôngo names do not appear in their formal birth records; however, those names are known and used in the extended family and, sometimes, even outside it: For example: Maria, your grandpa gave the name Maria, you will also give this name when you have a child, but it is a name that already came with the colonization, while Zolana’s name is a Kikôngo name, from the Bantu culture, and it means in Portuguese ‘we love each other’. Kiesse did not come from the colonization, it is a name specific to the Bantu culture and means “joy”. (Malundama, 2017)

Personally, I have always found it strange to be considered another person’s namesake, but not to have that name officially registered. However, this feeling dissipated when I understood better the meaning of official birth records and the meaning of the birth of a child within a family—meanings that still differ greatly. In the second case, most families

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maintain the naming traditions; in the first, they are only complying, sometimes grudgingly, with a legal rule, which is mandatory. My brothers, my sister, and I inherited our registration names from our respective , namesakes in Portuguese and English. Nevertheless, the Kikôngo names, except mine, have become “house names”. For example, my eldest brother is my maternal grandfather’s namesake, whose registered name was António Zombo, but my brother only inherited the name António. At home, however, we all know he is also Zombo, and many relatives and friends of the family call him “old Zombo”, his Kikôngo name. More recently, one of my nieces was born, and she is my mother’s namesake—Malundama (Lídia)—but when she was registered, she only received my mother’s Portuguese name. The same happened to another nephew, my father’s namesake, his grandfather. The child was only registered with my father’s Portuguese name; none of the Kikôngo names of the three interlocutors appears in their official registration. In part, this trend is rooted in what could be described as an inferiority complex on the part of the respective namesakes and the parents, some fear about how registering the children with KiKôngo names might be perceived. In Angola, stereotypes and hierarchies persist regarding names and national languages. There are no official incentive policies that support the preservation of our traditional cultural heritage. In the absence of incentive policies and with a biased State propaganda, concern among some ethnic groups about the direction that this situation may take in the near future increases.

The State and the Church: The Civilizing Slavery Colonial Mission There is no name that exists without a namesake; new names began to appear when we participated in the census, so they already changed them. (Nukala, 2017)

The census mentioned by the interviewee was undertaken to provide a way to enforce the “indigenous tax”, described by the Legislative Decree

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No. 237 of May 26, 1931, as “an individual collection that concerns the indigenous inhabitants of the Colony of Angola” (Article 1).8 During this time, the Catholic Church and the Portuguese State merged into a single entity. Catholicism, with its bible, the threat of hell and the promises of paradise, opened paths that facilitated the enslavement and exploitation of human beings and natural resources by Portugal in the colonized lands. According to Luís Felipe de Alencastro (2000, 157–158) in the year 1548, at the request of King João II, a delegation from The Jesuits (The Society of Jesus) left on a mission to Mbanza Kôngo; however, missionaries and the king of Kôngo were at daggers drawn. Subsequently, engaged in a plot against the king of Kôngo, the Jesuits were expelled from the country and would not resettle in the region until 1618. For Luena Pereira (2004, 33), the contact with the Portuguese that began in the late fifteenth century brought Christianity, which was quickly adopted by the Congolese elite, which supported a strategy of concentrating royal power for the purpose of political reorganization of the Kingdom of Kôngo. This interpretation is supported by the fact that the sacrament of baptism was granted to the king and the most important families of the kingdom, but was not, in the beginning, available to the common people. The critical point for our purposes here is that the Christianization of Kôngo led to the change of names associated with baptism. This change began with King Ñzinna-Nkûwu, who was baptized in 1491 as John I; followed by his wife Nzinga â Nlaza, who was baptized as Dona Eleonora; and his son M’vêmba Ñzînga, baptized as D. Afonso I.9 Alencastre (2000,

8  The taxes collected from the Angolan indigenous people date from the time of the conquest and were regulated by the Decree of November 16, 1872, and by Provincial Order No. 30-A, January 14, 1920 (In: Preamble of Legislative Decree No. 237, of May 26, 1931 that approved the Regulation of the census and collection of the indigenous tax). 9  An interesting detail on the Christianization of the Kingdom of Kôngo: According to historian Batsîkama, it is said that [LR comment: delete “it is said that” if at all possible.] the King M’vêmba Ñzînga had converted to Catholicism in such a way that he ordered the building of churches, and he himself preached, even performed miracles, to the point of becoming more of a preacher than a king. The conflicts and riots against the slave trade were already raging at the time, but according to the author, M’vêmba Ñzînga sought to solve the conflicts between the members of Church who were interested in the slave trade and the constant reactions of the population through diplomacy. In fact, the king wrote several letters to the pope and the kings of Portugal, in order to put an end to those calamities (TELO, 2012).

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p. 278) also describes the baptism of Queen Nzinga-Â-Mbandi in 1621, and her re-naming as Ana de Sousa. Much of the history of the Kingdom of Kôngo was recorded through the perspective of the Catholic religion and its various evangelizing missions, with their self-proclaimed “noble mission to civilize” the peoples of non-Western cultures. González and Januário (2004, 11) explain that since the dawn of Christianity, the Catholic clergy was tasked with maintaining the civil registry, in which baptisms, marriages, and deaths were officially recorded. Initially, registration occurred exclusively within the churches. Only in 1911 was the civil registry established, along with the rule that everyone’s birth should be recorded there. By 1932, the civil registry code called for the closure of parish registers, which were originally intended only for Catholic citizens. A significant part of the indigenous population was registered through the ritual of Catholic baptism during the slave and colonial period. The changing of the names of the newly baptized supported the overall mission of the Catholic Church—“civilizing the gentiles”. The assignment of new names created, essentially, a new “indigenous” culture, one that was detribalized and therefore, in the church’s view, civilized. It happens, however, that in the Kingdom of Kôngo, people were identified according to their kanda or clan of origin. In some regions of the Uíge province, it is still so: when one asks your name, one actually wants to know your provenance, which can only be identified if one knows your Kikôngo name. This is also true regarding succession, in that names were given according to the lineage, and carried a spiritual function, too. Luena Pereira (2004, 41) asserts that religion was for a long time central to the political and social organization of the Kingdom of Kôngo, precisely because in its traditional structure the chiefs carried out their political power legitimized by a sacred power conferred ritually, that is, “the language of power is one that refers to the sacred, to the capacity of manipulation by chiefs and priests, the powerful forces coming from the other world”. Here I adopt the term “religion” referring to the idea of spirituality to include the so-called kimbandas, healers, and other deities. As a result, the direct intervention of the Catholic Church, especially the action of Jesuit priests in the Kôngo territory, was much more effective in influencing the Kôngo than any kind of political or military approach might have been. For this reason, the church also carries a significant

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burden of responsibility for the conditions that allowed the implementation of the slave trade and colonization. In short, what was not achieved through physical coercion by armed forces, the Catholic Church accomplished much more effectively through spiritual manipulation. However, it cannot be denied that the Christianization of the Kingdom of Kôngo faced significant resistance. Some authors, such as Batsíkama (cited by Telo 2012, 39), understand that the introduction of Christian rules in the process of succession of the Kingdom led to constant wars that gave way to its disintegration and subsequent disappearance. It was a basic assumption of the colonial system that the indigenous peoples of the Portuguese provinces in continental Africa were less civilized than their colonizers. As a result, the colonial powers felt a need to establish an adequate legal order to enforce their powers and duties (Ferreira and Veiga 1957, 11). Angolan nationalist Mário de Andrade (1997, 34) pointed out that the logic of the colonizer’s thinking was based on three pillars: to evangelize, to secure civil administration, and to pacify the “indigenous”. Thus, besides the Status of Indigenous attributed to all indigenous peoples, there were still those indigenous who, for being distinguished from the common black race or being a descendant, were considered as having assimilated, having adopted European lifeways, provided that they cumulatively met the following conditions, as outlined in Article 1, No. 2 of Legislative Decree No. 237 of May 26, 1931: (a) To have completely abandoned the customs and traditions of the black race; (b) to fluently speak and write the Portuguese language; (c) to adopt monogamy; and (d) to practice a profession, art, or trade compatible with the European civilization, or have income obtained by lawful means sufficient to provide for food, including sustenance, housing, and clothing, for themselves and their families. Therefore, the indigenous people were treated under a special statute, specifically, the “Statute of the Portuguese Indigenous” which had several legal grounds, most importantly the legislative act of 1954.10

10  Previously, some matters were regulated by the political, civil, and criminal Statute of the indigenous people of Angola and Mozambique approved by Decree No. 12,533 of October 23, 1926; the Decree No. 16,473 of February 6, 1929, on the political, civil, and criminal Statute of indigenous peoples; and the Regulation of the census and collection of the indigenous tax of May 26, 1931.

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The indigenous status is special to the subjects of law and depends on a set of qualities, circumstances, or situations pertinent to the individual or groups of individuals, according to the comments by Ferreira and Veiga (1957) on the Statute of the Indigenous of 1954, which established in its first article No. 2 the following: “indigenous people of the said provinces are the individuals of black race or their descendants who, having been born or habitually living in them, do not yet have the education and individual and social habits presupposed for the full application of public and private law of Portuguese citizens” (Ferreira and Veiga 1957, 14). According to Martinez (2008), the creation of a special juridical regime for the indigenous, which prevailed throughout the period of Portuguese occupation, had the primary purpose of removing their rights and freedom and keeping them as indigenous, that is, excluded. If, on the one hand, the special regime should aim at respecting the specificities of the occupied areas, for instance the customs and traditions of those populations, on the other, that was not what happened. For there were implicit purposes which succeeded, in particular, the denial of rights deriving from citizenship and the ratification of the inferiority under which the relationship between the two peoples had been built. On the pretext of “civilizing” the indigenous peoples, a concept present in most of the legal texts promulgated in the colonial period, Portugal undertook its governmental policy based on the perceived inferiority of native people and their cultures and the superiority of Portuguese or European culture, as it is referred by the legislation of that time. All the actions by the colonial State aimed at detribalizing the indigenous, but only “those who wanted it”, emphasized the Statute, while at the same time making access to administrative positions and colonial school, among other benefits, dependent on this detribalization.11 Detribalization was based on the cumulative fulfillment of the 11  Ferreira and Veiga (1957) elucidate, in a commentary to article 12 of the 1954 Statute, the following: “[T]here are indigenous with diverse degrees of civilization: primitive indigenous completely integrated in tribal societies; indigenous in evolution, who although maintaining a primitive social organization […] already show a clear influence of the contact with Europeans and begin to improve their standard of living; detribalized indigenous, those who, educated in missions or living on farms, factories or cities, have abandoned tribal life and most traditional customs in order to adopt a standard of living in which the practice of European habits is mixed with a persistence of characteristic traits of the gentile, and who, for this reason, although already dissociated from the primitive tribes, have not ceased to be indigenous.” Emphasis in original.

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requirements already mentioned plus a further requirement: (e) not having been considered a refractory12 from military service or a deserter. The means of evidence admitted were, among others, certificates from administrators of the municipalities or circumscriptions where the person has resided in the last three years, according to Article 56 of the Statute. The ideology of detribalization of the indigenous was intensely linked to the economic question and had as its central purpose their internal emptying in a general way, being replaced by the “evolved” model of the human identified with the habits and customs of the colonizer, that is, the white Portuguese from the metropolis. It is within this context that we can come to understand the scope of the change of names via baptism. Since the first baptism in the Kôngo, that of the king, entire generations have had their names changed. In addition, most of the country’s localities lost their traditional names, to be replaced by names not in the native language. Even the country itself received a new name, derived from a region called Ngola, which was adapted to “Angola”. In their efforts to alter local cultural traditions, including the language, the Portuguese colonizers actively tried to understand them. Not coincidentally, one of the earliest translations of the Bible into the Bantu language was in KiKôngo. This knowledge required to produce such a translation resulted not only from maneuvers made by the priests, but also from the research of anthropologists in colonized Bakôngo territories. The in-depth research of missionary Léo Bittremieux in 1936 entitled “La Société Secrète des Bakhimba au Mayombe” explains the significance of names among indigenous peoples: “the name […] among the ancient Egyptians and many peoples is not a simple designation. The imposition, in fact, of a new name on an indigenous person represents, in a way, a change in individuality, especially among the adherents of indigenous secret sects” (cited by Martins 1948, 9). As I have already pointed out, the intention of the long colonial process was to transform the so-called indigenous—whose Being (considered not as Being at all, but rather as Non-Being), habits and customs were considered primitive and savage—into human beings identified with the Europeans. This was accomplished through, among other efforts, the changing of names, based on the colonizers’ belief that doing so would 12  Refractories are citizens who have enlisted but did not attend the selection process for military service.

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allow a new individuality to be (re)born—One would cease to be Nukala (at least in terms of official registry) and would become Luís. What the colonial administration did not expect, however, was the possibility that a double dimension of the “indigenous” (being one thing in the streets and another at home) could also extend to names. Many indigenous Kôngo bore names in KiKôngo and names in Portuguese, and sometimes, it was even possible to register them this way. Also, at one point there was the “freedom” of the parents to choose the names that they wanted to give their children. However, the acceptance of these names was dependent on the arbitrary power of the official or priest who performed the registration. Kombolo said: “Monteiro is diminutive for Telo, when the old woman went to register it was misunderstood because old women did not pronounce the word well, so the white man found it convenient [to register] whatever was [in] his head, so we become Telo”. In the same vein, Nukala explains how he and his brother both received Portuguese names, on the one hand, because the country had been colonized by the Portuguese, and on the other, because “it has always been like that, the white man has changed things”. And he goes on to explain that: “Kanana [which would be his brother’s name], they said Firmino. I was [registered, they asked what was the name, it was said Nukala, but they said], it is no longer Nukala, it is Luís” (Nukala 2017). It appears that this process has not escaped the colonial logic of assimilationism, with the imposition of the adoption of names in Portuguese in some local communities, often through physical, material, or symbolic coercion. The Christianization of the indigenous people affected significant portions of the population. Personally, I remember that my little mother, when I was a child, still participated in Bakôngo religious rituals. Over time, she grew apart, becoming more passionate about her faith in the Catholic religion to the point that she now completely denies her own past religious practices. The legal possibility that indigenous people could make a “free decision” to become assimilated and therefore citizens was a fallacy. Indigenous people were treated as “primitive”, their lands were often expropriated, their labor was cheap, virtually free, and they were burdened by heavy taxes, which made the idea of freedom a mirage. In addition, access to school was conditioned by the “acceptance” and effectiveness of the process of assimilation. The indigenous way of teaching, like everything that

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came from them, was belittled or disregarded for any purposes. The most effective means of escaping traumas and exploitation was to allow oneself to become assimilated, though this hardly qualifies as doing so by one’s “free and spontaneous” will. As a result, many indigenous people began to adopt in public settings the habits and customs that the colonizers considered to be evolved, while at the same time, in their homes, they maintained their own customs and traditions. Similarly, children were increasingly registered with Portuguese names, leaving their name in the national language as their second or “house” name. The house name is often the child’s real name, the one that fulfills traditional naming rituals. However, it is neither used at school nor included in the register. Such bifurcation has serious ramifications on the psyche, for whenever our identity loses authenticity, we miss the opportunity to learn more about ourselves, our languages, and our habits, customs, and worldviews. Clearly, in the context of extreme physical, psychological, and symbolic repression, like that which exists in colonized cultures, it is difficult to state precisely where the free will we are said to have today begins and ends, if indeed it exists at all. According to Kamabaya (2014, 102), colonialism assumed various forms of political oppression, apartheid, sociocultural contempt, and economic exploitation, and this system was based on two basic rules: (1) European interests always took precedence over the interests of Africans whenever there was a need to make a choice; and (2) colonies existed to provide profits to their European owners, and not to the benefit of Africans.

Independent Angola and the Utopia of Freedom Throughout this chapter, I have explored the current realities facing those who make up the national cultures and various ethnic groups in Angola, with emphasis on old and newly imposed traditions surrounding the act of naming. It is important to state, however, that with independence and establishment on November 11, 1975, of a government considered to be progressive and nationalist, Angolans believed that things would improve for the nation’s indigenous cultures. Such a hope, unfortunately, did not materialize. In practice, many colonizing processes have remained unchanged, including birth registration of adults and children.

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The relationship of the independent Angola with its past still needs a profound reconciliation that must be built—with the necessary adjustments—on the idea of a transitional justice as a non-judicial process and mechanism of truth-seeking, a reparation program, institutional reform, or an appropriate combination thereof. Transitional justice should further seek to take account of the causal elements of conflicts and the related violations of all rights, including civil, political, economic, social, and cultural rights. According to the UN secretary (2010, 3) “by striving to address the spectrum of violations in an integrated and interdependent manner, transitional justice can contribute to achieving the broader objectives of prevention of further conflict, peacebuilding and reconciliation”. A sign that things are not as well as they should be is the increasing proportion of Portuguese speakers in the country, and the associated decline of national languages. Although the results are open to discussion, and I use them only as an indication of a reality that needs to be better explored, data from the last population census conducted in Angola (2014) demonstrated that Portuguese is the most spoken language, with more than 70% of the population speaking it (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1  Most spoken languages in Angola. Source: Instituto Nacional de Estatística, Angola, 2016

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The continuation of past assimilationist colonial processes into the present has caused problems that have never been resolved. Dya Kasembe (2011, 113) states that most black politicians who went to white universities dreamt of liberty and liberation, but once in positions of power, they suffered from vertigo; they became disoriented and began to exhibit an accentuated complex that she called MIFI (Physical-Intellectual Inferiority Disorder). Thus, she continues, when they studied, their nationalist enthusiasm was nothing more than a way to escape their colonized condition. It did not reflect a desire to rebuild the human being who had been humiliated and offended for centuries. Ultimately, they realized that they did not control their own history, not even the power of liberation to which they aspired. Onomastics and Post-Independence Legislation In the case of naming practices, two specific laws have been approved since independence, with only one being still in force. It is worth noting that these legal rules are mandatory and general, applicable to all persons in Angola. A secondary place is reserved for customary law, which is valid only insofar as it does not contradict the legal rules regarded as formal. Law No. 10/77 of April 9, 1977, established new rules for the act of civil registration, thus revoking all prior (colonial) legislation. Its first article establishes that the full name will consist of a maximum of four simple grammatical terms, of which only two may correspond to the forename, and the rest to the surname; and in its second paragraph, that the forenames or at least one of them shall be national. According to the Constitution, Angola’s official language is Portuguese, with national languages being placed in the category of “other languages”, along with English, French, and others. In this context, what sense should be given to the term “national” provided for in that Law? Would it include the “other languages” or just the “official one”? Furthermore, also in the referenced article, the fourth paragraph establishes that “[s]urnames are mandatory and will be chosen from those belonging to the families—paternal, maternal or both—of the parents of the registrant”. If they do not have a surname, “it will be chosen by the declarant, preferably according to the official before whom the declaration is given”. However, the first paragraph of the first article was revoked by Law No. 10/85 of October 19, which gave it the following wording: “the full

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name will consist of a maximum of five simple grammatical terms, of which only two may correspond to the forename, and the rest to the surname”. In this case, only the number of grammatical terms was changed, from four to five. On the other hand, the second article of Law No 10/85 establishes that “registry officials can only refuse the choosing of names that are manifestly inappropriate in the light of the dignity and seriousness that should pervade the naming of persons”. However, a refusal can be challenged through hierarchical appeals. Of all this, I want to highlight only two points, considering that some problematic parts of these legal formulations have already been challenged throughout this article. The first point has to do with the requirement surrounding the number of terms. This is complicated in a land where diverse ethnic groups reside, including among themselves. Also, regarding their origins, it ignores the necessity to congregate and minimize the effects of the colonial distortions aiming at the homogenization of populations. A general norm is created that neglects the particularities of each group and which only reproduces the colonial rules of naming. In practical terms, this requirement may simply be making adjustments, corrections, or changes in the composition of the names, in order to adapt it to the formal rules, often contradicting the parents’ wishes. On the one hand, by doing so, there is the risk of violating the fundamental right that parents have of choosing a child’s name, in addition to the repercussions it may have at the cultural level. On the other hand, it is also important to emphasize that families have faced this imposition by unofficially using a name that is “not suitable to the legal rules”—those are the “house names”. Therefore, I expose the second point: the legislation speaks of the use of simple grammatical terms in the composition of names, but what does this mean in practice? Within colonial logic, the names of the indigenous represented their bond with the tribe, which was deemed primitive, wild, non-human. The language of the blacks made them an object of repulsion; hence the legal requirement that the people adopt the Portuguese language in the colonial period—it was a basic requirement for conditioned “humanity”. Even today, mainly in Luanda and in provincial capitals, we witness how many people have trouble pronouncing names in national languages, especially journalists, opinion makers, rulers, and others in positions of power. This reflects an even more perverse reality.

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An article by Zawua (2008), titled “Angolan-Style Racism and Inter-­ ethnic Relations”, offers an account that I can completely relate to, for having experienced it: The Face of Racism in Angola: In my time of educational initiation, then known as “pre-cabunga” and first grade, it was much more common for blacks with some African name to feel ashamed and “inferior” at the time of roll call in relation to the mulattoes and blacks with full names in Portuguese, because for the rest of the year they would be the reference of the class and, in some cases, even mocked at school for carrying some stronger brand of being an African: the name and or even scarifications on the face, “native names that until today in some localities and registry offices continue to be rejected in favor of Western names”. (Zawua 2008)

In my childhood, during the late 1980s, in the school where I was studying, the students and teachers were all black. The roll call was the most terrifying time for me; teachers completely mispronounced my name, and my fellow students, at that moment, would always laugh. I know for a fact that in the lists of students my name was always misspelled, something that even today still happens in many public agencies, including Angolan educational institutions. I got several funny nicknames from my classmates, and even from some teachers, because of my KiKôngo name. For that reason, until the end of high school, I would never write my entire name, abbreviating it: Florita C. António Telo. Only during high school was I able to get rid of this shame that I believed to be my name, and began to understand better the dynamics of racist and colonial social, political, and economic relations, thus assuming an attitude of acceptance and recognition of my Self as an Angolan and African black woman. I think of present-day well-known figures in Angola who have resisted this, including Makuta Nkondo; Bukamiana Ndomanuele; Wyza Nkendy; Ntoni-â-Nzinga; Nkuwu-a-Ntynu Mbuta Zawua, and Cuhanga, among others. Reverend Daniel Ntoni-â-Nzinga, a much-respected figure in Angola, with whom I had the opportunity to share a table at a conference in Luanda at the Education College of the Agostinho University on April 11, 2017, shared his experience regarding the theme I have been discussing. The reverend had his registry made during the colonial period under the name of Daniel Ntoni-â-Nzinga.

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However, when he had to renew his identity at the registry office in the Uíge province, he had a surprise: in the new document, there was a “correction” in the spelling of his name to make it more understandable within the Portuguese logic. This generated a complaint, dispute, and much debate between himself and the official, and the reverend had to explain in detail the origin of his name, along with its meanings. He was not obliged to do so, but felt compelled to. In the end, good judgment prevailed, and a new identity card with his name written correctly was delivered to him.13 The implications of this post-independence action-omission by the State are enormous. For example, Luena Pereira (2004, 86) refers to the diversity of names that one has throughout one’s life in the Bakôngo culture, which can cause misunderstanding in Angola upon the return of exiled citizens who used new names when they renewed their documents. This change of name signaled a profound change in their lives, on the occasion of their return to their native country. It could also have led, however, to an accusation of forgery of identity cards. As a law graduate, I have heard women from all social strata express concerns about whether it is legal for some registry officials to reject names consisting completely or in part of terms from national languages, or to require the inclusion of a Portuguese name. The law stipulates not only the maximum number of names. It also demands that the surname be chosen from among those belonging to the family, understood here as people bonded by consanguinity, leaving the final approval to the official’s discretion only if there are no family surnames. All this is because “people’s” names should always have surnames as a rule! But of what people are we talking about? What is “general” about this rule? The legislator ignored a crucial aspect while making the law: our history and the construction of our mentalities over time. Added to all this is the government’s official silence, so far, regarding our concerns. It is important to note that most of the holders of government and administrative positions within the state apparatus had access to some kind of colonial school education, and we have already seen here the requirements for 13  He was born in the village of Kilumbo in the Damba municipality, Uíge province. He has a PhD in Theology (Contextual) and Anthropology (Religion Sciences). He played a key role in the process that ended the civil war that lasted for 27 years in Angola, through the actions of the Inter-Ecclesiastical Committee for Peace in Angola (COIEPA), of which he is a founding member. He is a prominent public figure, a distinguished defender of the promotion and appreciation of Angolan cultures.

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this. We are, therefore, in the midst of an endless vicious cycle, the effects of which have been detrimental to the harmonious development of national cultures.

Final Considerations As a final consideration, I ask: how to face these processes that, somehow, deconstruct us daily, when State policy itself does not collaborate for this, when it does not ensure the (re)construction of references that invoke the appreciation of the Angolan/African Being? Most of us still aspire to be “assimilated”, in the hope of having access to the meager rights still granted today to a privileged group that cumulatively fulfills the requirements for access to a conditioned “humanity”. It is increasingly clear that there is a tendency to adopt/impose practices along the colonial lines; among the many reasons for this, it is noteworthy the ignorance or distorted knowledge of one’s own history, as Ki-Zerbo recalls: To live without history is to be a waif, or to use the roots of others. It is to renounce the possibility of being oneself a root for those who come after. In the sea of evolution, it is to accept the anonymous role of protozoan or plankton. African statesmen (and stateswomen) should interest themselves in history as an essential part of the national heritage of which they are custodians, the more so as, through history, they can come to know other African countries than their own, in a context of African unity. (Ki-Zerbo 2010, 57)

Therefore, the challenge posed especially to the new generation requires action in the sense of valuing and recognizing the endogenous forms of naming, without denying or disregarding external influences. It also means understanding the construction of the African being from a common root whose ramifications must converge toward the development of the African being as a whole. More than a word, the name is the identity; it may well be the title of a book, whose pages represent past stories that can often help to improve the present and project a better future. Restoring the self-esteem of many Africans depends on this basic but fundamental recognition, which is the right to be, based on the choice of one’s name and the freedom to assign it, without distinguishing the naming processes based on colonial (racists) hierarchies. Actually, this must

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(should) be the role of the post-independence State, both in Angola and elsewhere on the African continent. As a root, let us be nourished by our own history, which also lives on through names; this nutriment is vital to strengthen us as well as energize future generations.

References Alencastro, L. F. (2000). O trato dos viventes: formação do Brasil no Atlântico Sul. Companhia das Letras. Andrade, Mário Pinto de. (1997). As origens do nacionalismo africano: continuidade e ruptura dos movimentos unitários emergentes da luta contra a dominação colonial portuguesa: 1911 – 1961. Lisboa: Quixote. Angola, C. (1931, 26 de mai). Diploma Legislativo n° 237 de 26 de maio de 1931. Aprova o Regulamento do recenseamento e cobrança do imposto indígena. Diário Oficial. Luanda. Angola, C. (2014–2016). Resultados definitivos do recenseamento geral da população e da habitação de Angola. Luanda. Angola, C. (2010). Constituição da República de Angola. Assembleia Nacional. Gráfica Popular. Angola, C. (1985). Lei n° 10/85 de 19 de outubro de 1985. Sobre a composição do nome. Diário Oficial. I Série – N° 84. Angola, C. (1977, 09 abr.). Lei n° 10/77 de 09 de abril de 1977. Estabelece novas normas para os actos de registo civil, revoga vários artigos do Código Civil. Diário Oficial. I Série – N° 105. Batsîkama, P. (2011). O Reino do Kôngo e a sua origem meridional. Universidade Editora. Batsîkama, P. (2010). As origens do Reino do Kôngo. Mayamba. Colónias, M. d. (1929, 06 fev.). Decreto n° 18.473 de 06 de fevereiro de 1929. Aprova o Estatuto político, civil e criminal dos indígenas. Diário oficial. I Série – Número 30. Ferreira, J. C. N., & Veiga, V. S. (1957). Legislação dos Indígenas portugueses das províncias da Guiné, Angola e Moçambique Anotado e legislação complementar (2ª ed.). González, J. A., & Januário, R. (2004). Direito Registal Civil Teórico e Prático. Quid Juris. Kamabaya, M. (2014). O renascimento da personalidade africana. Luanda: Mayamba. Kasembe, Dya. (2011). As mulheres honradas e insubmissas de Angola. 2. ed. Luanda: Mayamba. Ki-Zerbo, J. (1982). Introdução geral. In: KI-ZERBO, J. (Coord.)(1982). História geral da África. São Paulo: Ática, v. 1, p. 21–42.

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Ki-Zerbo, J. (2010). Introdução geral. In História geral da África, I: Metodologia e pré-história da África (Vol. 2, pp. 31–52). UNESCO. Martins, J. (1948). Nomes e alcunhas entre os indígenas do Enclave. In Mensário Administrativo (Vol. 11). Direcção de Assuntos de Interesse Colonial Angola. Martinez, Esmeralda Simões. (2008). Legislação Portuguesa para o Ultramar. Disponível em: http://repositorioiul.iscte.pt/bitstream/10071/2396/1/ CIEA7_29_MARTINEZ_Legisla%C3%A7%C3%A3o%20portuguesa%20 para%20o%20Ultramar.pdf. Acesso em: 05 jan. 2011. Monteiro, D. H. (2014). Tradições Nacionais e Identidades: Recolha e Estudo de Canções Festivas e de Óbito Kôngo e Ovimbundu. Dissertação de Mestrado, Universidade do Porto. Pereira, L. N. N. (1999). Os regressados na cidade de Luanda: um estudo sobre identidade étnica e nacional em Angola. Dissertação de mestrado, Universidade de São Paulo. Pereira, L. N. N. (2004). Os Bakôngo de Angola: religião, política e parentesco num bairro de Luanda. Tese de Doutorado em Antropologia Social. USP. Pereira, L. N. N. (2008). Os Bakôngo de Angola: religião, política e parentesco num bairro de Luanda. In África: Revista do Centro de Estudos Africanos (Vol. 24–25, pp. 391–434). Pereira, L. N. N. (2013). Religião e parentesco entre os Bakôngo de Luanda. In Afro-Ásia (Vol. 47, pp.  11–41). Disponível: http://www.scielo.br/scielo. php?script=sci_arttext&pid=S0002-­05912013000100001&lng=en&nrm=iso. Accessed 27 Sept 2017. Secretary-General, U. N. (2010). Guidance Note of the Secretary-General: United Nations Approach to Transitional Justice. Disponível em: https://www.un. org/ruleoflaw/files/TJ_Guidance_Note_March_2010FINAL.pdf. Acesso em: 17 mar. 2015. Serrote, J. M. (2015). Antroponímia da língua Kimbundu em Malanje. Dissertação de Mestrado. Universidade Nova de Lisboa. Tchimbinda, J. S. (2013). Simeão Chimbinda aconselha estudo sobre atribuição de nomes. Voz da América Angola, 24 fev. Disponível em: https://www.voaportugues.com/a/angola-­book-­umbundu/1609814.html. Acesso em: 10 de mai. 2016. Telo, F. C. A. (2012). Angola: A trajetória das lutas pela cidadania e a educação em direitos humanos. Dissertação de Mestrado, Universidade Federal da Paraíba. Ultramar, A. G. (1954, 20 de mai). Decreto-Lei n° 39.666 de 20 de maio de 1954. Aprova o Estatuto dos indígenas portugueses das províncias da Guiné, Angola. Diário Oficial. Ultramar, M. (1961, 06 set). Decreto-Lei n° 43.893 de 6 de setembro. Revoga o Decreto-Lei n° 36.666, que promulga o Estatuto dos Indígenas portugueses das províncias ultramarinas da Guiné, Angola e Moçambique. Diário Oficial. I Série – Número 207.

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Viegas, M. A. A. (2015). Registo civil- o estado atual do registo de nascimento em Angola. Dissertação de Mestrado, Universidade Autónoma de Lisboa. Zawua, M. (2015). Percepções da cor da pessoa e do tipo angolano. Tese de Doutorado, Universidade de São Paulo. Zawua, M. (2008). Relações Inter-étnicas e o Racismo a Moda Angolana. Disponível em: http://tabusafroafricanos.blogspot.com.br/2008/05/relaes-­ inter-­tnicas-­e-­o-­racismo-­moda.html. Acesso em: 23 de jan. 2015.

Epilogue: Diasporic Dis/Connections Hewan Girma

While this book has focused on the epistemology of African names in different parts of the continent, African names are not consigned exclusively to the continent but have traveled far and wide with its diaspora. It is therefore important to examine how elements of African naming patterns have been maintained (or alternatively abandoned) in the diaspora. The survival of African names in the diaspora has been widely studied, as naming patterns can indicate processes of racialization, creolization, and acculturation. While there are a multitude of studies about African names in the Americas or Atlantic diaspora, the same cannot be said about the much older African diaspora in Asia or the Indian Ocean world more broadly (Alpers 2000; de Silva Jayasuriya 2006; Vernet & Beaujard 2014). As Zeleza explains, “[O]ur understanding of the African diaspora remains limited by both the conceptual difficulties of defining what we mean by the diaspora […] and the analytical tendency to privilege the Atlantic, or

H. Girma (*) African American and African Diaspora Studies Program, The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Greensboro, NC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3_11

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rather the Anglophone, indeed the American branch of the African diaspora (Zeleza 2005).” Acknowledging this geographic limitation, this discussion therefore deals with the survival of African names and naming patterns in the Americas and more specifically in the US where the majority of the (English language) literature is concentrated. Studying the survival of African names and naming practices in the diaspora comes with significant methodological challenges. The main methodological challenges involved are the systematic erasure of African names and the inadequacies of existing historical archives. Since the majority of the African diaspora in the Americas emanates from forced migration (i.e. slave trades with the expressed intent of extracting the labor of Africans), diasporic Africans experienced a systematic erasure of their names and culture as part of their forcible incorporation into their new societies. Particularly after 1800 the number of African names rapidly declined in use in the US (Cohen 1952). Erasing African names and naming systems in slavery was a way to subjugate, dominate, and dispossess the enslaved. The enslaved were ripped from their kin, homeland, and even from their own names—names that served as markers of origin, kinship, and ethnicity. Enslaved Africans were completely under the control of slavers, none of whom cared to know anything about the slaves’ former names. In fact, stripping away the original names and identities of the enslaved marked one essential step in dehumanizing and commodifying human beings. Considering that there is a social power in naming someone, this was one of the myriad of ways that slavers exercised power over the enslaved. Slave masters routinely assigned new names (re-named) to their slaves, giving them European or Christian baptismal names, essentially stripping the enslaved of their original identities. The slavers used a number of popular names for their ‘property’ including ancient Greco-Romans mythological creature gods or philosophers (names like Apollo, Augustus, Hercules, Jupiter, Neptune, and Plato for men). Venus was also a popular slave name for women, marking Black women as fair game for sexual violence. Naming from classical mythology and literature or employing titulars (Prince, Bishop, Queen) was a way to poke fun at the enslaved (Black 1996). ‘Slave names’ also included names that made fun of the enslaved for their supposed lack of intelligence or social status, names that were equally given to the enslaved and animals (thus reinforcing the conception that the enslaved were no better than animals) and other names that were common among slaves but infrequent among Europeans and their

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descendants. By responding to these new names, the enslaved would be forced to repeatedly acknowledge their new condition (Abel et. al. 2019). Among other things, names mark the difference between citizens and the enslaved. In most situations, the enslaved were distinctly forbidden from assuming a last name,1 as part of the dehumanization in slavery. A systematic erasure of enslaved Africans’ names informs us that there is indeed something powerful in names. The enslaved’s names were seen as threats that must be destroyed which give us all the more reason to value them. In addition to the systemic erasure of African names in the Atlantic diaspora, which presents a challenge for any researcher seeking to study diasporic survival of African names, there are limited sources of written documentation on this issue. Researchers have used many different entry points and databases to uncover the survival of African names and naming practices in the diaspora despite an erasure of African names from most secular settings and official records. For instance, scholars have studied the enslaved’s personal given names in fugitive slave advertisements (Black 1996). Moreover, since the census mostly did not record the names of enslaved Africans, this led to a search of records of names from slave markets and ship manifests. Despite these creative methodologies, there are a multitude of available documentation such as slave name databases, federal census records, death certificates (when they existed), newspaper records, and the like that have yet to be examined more in depth. These can contribute considerably to our understanding of names and naming patterns from different African societies from which the enslaved emanated. The existing historical archives on African names are not well studied as there are still ways to go to fully capture the realities of the brutal times of slavery. The ingrained limitations of the existing written documentation also need to be acknowledged, akin to an argument often made in reference to studying African histories. A reliance on written documentation and neglecting rich oral histories (that would have been collected through ethnographic fieldwork) provides a skewed perspective on the survival of African names in the diaspora. The limitations of formal documentations need to be recognized as we can only gain access to the official records of the names of enslaved Africans and their descendants (i.e. the names used 1  Systems of permanent, heritable patronyms in European societies have been a relatively recent historical innovation, notably linked to the documentation of private property rights and inheritance procedures.

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by the colonial authorities or by the owners) which means that we do not necessarily know the names that the carriers of these names recognized as their own. In other words, the colonial historical records only show the official names of the enslaved and not necessarily the names that they identified with themselves. Scholars would thus have to extrapolate about the practice of naming ceremonies, who actually named the enslaved, the use of ‘secret’ double names, and so on. All of this pertinent information is often obscured or unavailable in the existing historical documentation (Handler & Jacoby 1996). Lastly, since naming patterns can be reflective of the time periods, it is not always easy to identify African names or naming patterns that have survived the crossing. Despite the systematic erasures of African names in the diaspora and the methodological limitations discussed above, what do we know about the survival of African names in the diaspora? Although it is invariably difficult to generalize about names and naming practices among enslaved Africans and their descendants in the wide geographies of the Americas, we find a wide array of instances where African naming patterns have survived. One of the most widely documented patterns is the Akan tradition of ‘day names’ (naming children after the day of the week they were born) (Thorton 1993). Unfortunately, over time, in places like Jamaica, African day names started acquiring negative connotations because of their association with slavery, which led to the deterioration of the day-naming tradition (DeCamp 1967). Besides the use of African day names (in their original forms or as translations), the practice of namesaking and the presence of multiple names are clearly inspired by an African naming tradition (Thorton 1993). Moreover, place names or toponyms (Bristol, London, Norfolk, Boston, Glasgow) and bestowing children the names of seasons, months, or days of their birth (Quash, Cuffe, Abba, Juba; January, Monday, Spring and Easter) were also quite common among the enslaved (Black 1996). The similarities between different African naming systems seem to have survived more often than the distinctive traces (Inscoe 1983). Additionally, in records from places like the American south and the Caribbean island of Haiti, scholars have uncovered African naming rites and ceremonies with origins in West and Central Africa. African descendants in the US have also employed a system of Anglicizing or directly translating their African names for a better ‘fit’ in American society (Paustian 1978). This can be seen as a creative adaptation, syncretization, or creolization of names in the diaspora. In other

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instances, slaves translated their African names into English or used English names which conformed to the African naming system. In his study of the Gullahs, an ethnic group along the coastal areas of the south-eastern US, Turner (1949) identifies that this group followed the tradition of naming children based on the time or place of birth, appearance, physical condition, and even mental ability. These names chronicle particular circumstances or events surrounding the birth of the child, a tradition of West African origin. Moreover, geographical names were among the categories that Turner (1949) identifies as being characteristically West African. Similarly, the tradition of phrase-names or story-­ names (e.g. forget-me-not) has also survived among African descendants in the US (Paustian 1978). Among the Gullahs, the enslaved would employ a dual names system with an English or American name (usually given to them by their ‘owners’) to be used with the slavers, overseers, whites, or more generally any outsiders and a more intimate African name used exclusively among family and friends at home. The multiple names, employed simultaneously and strategically, are a form of resistance to slavery and cultural subjugation. Even among present-day Gullahs, the dual naming system, consisting of an English or ‘true name’ and a more intimate but more widely used nickname, often of African origin, is still widely used. This practice stems from the belief that if “someone possessed your real name, he had power over you” which would incline the possessor to keep their birth names secret “from all but their most intimate associates (Turner 1949).” The dual name holders would invariably hide their African names and only the American names would be recorded and therefore survive in the historical records. This presents a methodological challenge for researchers, as mentioned earlier, obscuring the history of naming for African descendants. Similar patterns have been observed in Afro-Latinx communities whereby enslaved Africans employed a multiplicity of names as a form of resistance. Thus the maintenance of multiple personal names is a historical strategy of resistance that has its roots in slavery (Álvarez López 2015). For instance, members of Candomblé communities refer to their baptismal name as their ‘white’ or ‘civilian’ in contrast to their Black or African names (Álvarez López 2015). This practice has echoes in modern-day Mozambique, in South Africa, and in Suriname, where there was a need for concealment and alternative identities under a context of slavery and colonization. This practice of dual names indicates an inventive system of cultural maintenance that stands in stark contrast to the accepted norm of

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subordination and domination (Álvarez López 2015). Therefore, the generative and creative power of names, particularly the concept of a ‘hidden transcript’ identifiable in personal names, includes the enslaved refusing to accept the names given to them by the slavers, dual names, and so on (Álvarez López 2015). The above discussion elucidates how names are deployed as tools for cultural resistance and self-determination. Inscoe (1983), who studied records of 11,000 slave names in the US between 1670 and 1865, affirms that the data reflects resistance by slaves. Personal names can therefore embody power dynamics as slavers used it to demonstrate domination and the enslaved to subvert and resist. While slavers gave the enslaved new names, evidence indicates that the enslaved used additional or substitute names among themselves. These can be either their original names or names they chose to honor their ancestors. Despite this hostile environment and all of these inhuman practices, the enslaved found ways to (covertly) maintain their culture through the practice of naming among other things. Despite some enslaved Africans losing at least some of their original names, they could still evoke memories of collective experiences. Some of the elements that characterize many African naming systems can be found in the diaspora in the Americas. Such examples show that these names can communicate coded information about the ideologies of the time. Naming patterns among descendants of enslaved Africans in the Americas can thus reveal how elements of African culture have survived beyond the Atlantic crossing. To illustrate this discussion on the erasure and survival of African names in the diaspora, we can consider the many names of one African man as written in his memoir: The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano or Gustavus Vassa, The African, Written by Himself (Equiano 1789). Known by many different names, Olaudah Equiano (c. 1745–31 March 1797) lived an interesting life across three continents. Enslaved as a child from the Kingdom of Benin, he discussed his initial name and the important meaning attached to it in his culture: [C]hildren were named from some event, some circumstance, or fancied foreboding at the time of their birth. I was named Olaudah, which, in our language, signifies vicissitude, or fortunate also; one favoured, and having a loud voice and well spoken. I remember we never polluted the name of the object of our adoration; on the contrary, it was always mentioned with the greatest reverence; and we were totally unacquainted with swearing, and all

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those terms of abuse and reproach which find their way so readily and copiously into the language of more civilized people. (p. 31)

At a young age, he was stolen from his family and homeland, then taken to the Caribbean during the trans-Atlantic slave trades and sold as a slave to a Royal Navy officer. He writes: “In this place I was called Jacob; but on board the African scow I was called Michael” (p. 93). His name changes again with his new slave master. He describes his resistance to his new name as follows: While I was on board this ship, my captain and master named me Gustavus Vasa. I at that time began to understand him a little, and refused to be called so, and told him as well as I could that I would be called Jacob; but he said I should not, and still called me Gustavus: and when I refused to answer to my new name, which at first I did, it gained me many a cuff; so at length I submitted, and by which I have been known ever since. (p. 96)

Not only was his connection to his homeland erased, but he was forced to accept his new name through repeated beatings. Olaudah was eventually baptized with the name Gustavus Vasa in England in February 1759. In 1766, he was able to purchase his freedom and join the British abolitionist movement in London as a free man. Olaudah’s memoir was widely read by his contemporaries and it played a significant role in altering the English public’s perception of slavery. While the importance of this work in the fight for abolition cannot be overstated, it is noteworthy that Olaudah foregrounds his names even in the title of his memoir. He also highlights how personal names are deeply intertwined with giving, erasing, and reclaiming identity in the diaspora for a formerly enslaved individual. In contemporary times, the use of African names (or African sounding names) has been revived among African Americans as an expression of racial pride and cultural heritage. The value in originality in African American names can be traced back to West African roots (Black 1996). This is a form of residual traditions that have survived despite the concerted effort to erase African culture in the diaspora and the general passing of time. Name changes also reveal a lot about the culture and history of particular groups. The practice of changing one’s name to mark a significant life change ­ circumstance or development is quite common among African Americans. Famous African Americans have changed their

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names over their life course; this includes Sojourner Truth (formerly known as Isabella “Belle” Baumfree) and Fredrick Douglass (born Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey) from the nineteenth century. Most of the former names were the slave master’s names, which meant that the enslaved were carrying around the mark of the slavery through generations. In most African contexts changes in an individual’s personal circumstances are marked by a name change, which suggests that names are variable and are not immutable (Makoni et. al. 2010). There are similar famous individuals from the Civil Rights era who have consciously changed their names to sever ties with names inherited from slavery. For instance, Stokely Carmichael changed his name to Kwame Ture by combining the first name of Ghana’s first president, Kwame Nkrumah, with Ahmed Sékou Touré, former Guinean president. Muhammad Ali famously stated, “Cassius Clay is my slave name” (1965) when adopting his new name. Similarly Malcolm X discarded his last name Little and was later in his life also known as el-­Hajj Malik el-­Shabazz. These name changes are intended to signify a permanent disconnection with the slave past and therefore an act of emancipation. The above are but a few examples of name changes among famous African Americans. While the maintenance of names may be the path of least resistance, naming oneself is an act of resistance and chimes with practices in various West African cultural contexts in which names change to mark social transitions or are acquired cumulatively over the course of a person’s lifetime. Although none of the authors in this volume are writing specifically about the diaspora, as most of us are African-born scholars residing and working in Western institutions, our shared lived experiences include explaining our own names to people unfamiliar with our home cultures, as discussed at length by Bertrade Ngo-Ngijol Banoum in her introduction. We also had to contend with our students repeatedly mispronouncing or not even bothering to learn our names altogether. We are not unique in any way as purposeful mispronunciations (or refusal to altogether learn) names are a common and recognized form of micro-aggression. For example, Kamala Harris, the first woman and BIPOC (Black, indigenous, and people of color) vice president of the US with Jamaican and Indian ancestry, had her name mispronounced by her colleagues and news pundits during the run-up to the 2020 election trying to dismiss, discredit, and belittle her without appearing overtly racist (and failing miserably at it). These willful mispronunciations are obvious attempts at othering and casting her as un-American. Similarly Ketanji Onyika Brown

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Jackson, the first Black woman to serve on the US Supreme Court, faced similar open micro-aggressions. In her opening remarks at her Supreme Court confirmation hearing, Ketanji Onyika Brown Jackson explained her name origin as follows: “When I was born here in Washington, my parents were public school teachers, and to express both pride in their heritage and hope for the future, they gave me an African name, ‘Ketanji Onyika,’ which they were told means ‘lovely one.’” While names are not a routine topic for Supreme Court nominees to discuss, Judge Brown Jackson (as well as Vice President Kamala Harris and former President Barack Obama) deserves credit for taking pride in and normalizing ‘foreign-sounding’ names. Other unapologetic African diasporic women include actors Lupita Nyong’o, Uzo Aduba, and Danai Gurira who have all risen to fame in recent years. These actors with Kenyan, Nigerian, and Zimbabwean ancestry respectively have all kept their birth name as their professional names, celebrating their ancestry and individual identity. These figures allow us an entry point into the resonance of African names in the vast diaspora.

References Abel, S., Tyson, G. F., & Palsson, G. (2019). From enslavement to emancipation: Naming practices in the Danish West Indies. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 61(2), 332–365. Alpers, E. A. (2000). Recollecting Africa: Diasporic memory in the Indian Ocean world. African Studies Review, 43, 83–99. Álvarez López, L. (2015). Who named slaves and their children? Names and naming practices among enslaved Africans brought to the Americas and their descendants with focus on Brazil. Journal of African Cultural Studies, 27(2), 159–171. Black, K. (1996). Afro-American personal naming traditions. Names, 44(2), 105–125. https://doi.org/10.1179/nam.1996.44.2.105 Cohen, H. (1952). Slave names in Colonial South Carolina. American Speech, 27(2), 102–107. de Silva Jayasuriya, S. (2006). Identifying Africans in Asia: What’s in a name? African and Asian Studies, 5(3), 275–303. DeCamp, D. (1967). African day-names in Jamaica. Language, 43, 139–149. Equiano, O. (1789). The interesting narrative of the life of Olaudah Equiano: Or Gustavus Vassa, the African. Cambridge University Press. Handler, J.  S., & Jacoby, J.  A. (1996). Slave names and naming in Barbados, 1650–1830. The William and Mary Quarterly, 53(4), 685–728.

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Inscoe, J. C. (1983). Carolina slave names: An index to acculturation. The Journal of Southern History, 49(4), 527–554. Makoni, B., Makoni, S., & Pfukwa, C. (2010). Language planning, language ideology and entextualization: War naming practices. Names, 58(4), 197–208. Paustian, P.  R. (1978). The evolution of personal naming practices among American Blacks. Names, 26(2), 177–191. Thorton, J. (1993). Central African names and African-American naming patterns. The William and Mary Quarterly, 50(4), 727–742. Turner, L. D. (1949). Africanisms in the Gullah Dialect, by Lorenzo Dow Turner. University of Chicago Press. Vernet, T., & Beaujard, P. (2014). Tracking the origins of African slaves in the Indian Ocean through personal names: The evidence of Sumatra records. Thematic issue of Afriques on East Africa and the Indian Ocean. Zeleza, P. T. (2005). Rewriting the African diaspora: Beyond the black Atlantic. African Affairs, 104(414), 35–68.

Index1

A Abadinto (naming ceremony), 121, 130, 131, 136 Abísọ, 17, 18, 20, 27, 32 Abosom (spiritual force), 123, 123n6, 124 Adaduanan (Akan calendar), 123, 129 African epistemology, 145, 155 Akan, 9, 119–141, 210 Akradin, 120, 131, 134, 138, 140 Amharic names, 7, 37–57 Amútọ̀runwá, 17, 18, 20, 23, 24, 32 Anamale/anafemale, 14, 25, 32 Ancient, 2, 45n5, 148, 151, 155, 195, 208 Angola, 6, 10, 181–204 Archives, 9, 119–141, 177, 178, 208, 209 Avalogooli, 116

B Bakôngo, 10, 181n1, 182–190, 195, 196, 202 Baptismal names, 8, 39, 43–48, 52, 53, 79, 208, 211 Bio-mother, 106 Bridal names, 8, 48–51, 53 C Christianity, 4, 7, 8, 10, 79, 87–91, 92n3, 93, 94, 97, 133, 147, 149, 154, 155, 157–159, 162, 164–167, 169, 170, 174, 175, 179, 182, 191, 192 Christianity and gender, 86–91 Christian names, 43, 44, 47, 80, 92n3, 120, 131, 132, 136, 138, 140, 147, 153, 157, 159, 164, 175, 178

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 O. Oyewùmí, H. Girma (eds.), Naming Africans, Gender and ̌ Cultural Studies in Africa and the Diaspora, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-13475-3

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INDEX

Clans, 72, 97, 105, 111, 112, 114, 117, 122, 122n5, 123, 126–129, 135, 137, 183, 185–188, 192 Colonialism, 7, 9, 10, 40, 79, 87–90, 92n3, 93, 94, 140, 148–151, 153, 154, 159, 172, 197 Cultural identity, 42, 160, 162 Cultural knowledge, 57, 106 D Divinity, 9, 143–156, 166, 179, 186 E Epistemic systems/practice, 86, 101, 159, 162, 174, 175, 178, 179 Ethiopia, 6, 8, 38–40, 38n1, 42, 43, 43n3, 44n4, 45n5, 46n6, 47, 48, 49n10, 52n12, 53–55, 57 Ethiopian Orthodox Church and practices, 8, 38, 43, 43n3, 45n5, 47, 47n8, 48 European names, 40, 93, 136, 137, 153, 157 F Feminist politics, 101 G Ge’ez, 45, 45n5, 46 Gender-based violence, 86, 87, 90, 94, 101 Generations, 5, 6, 20, 22, 40, 48, 73, 74, 80, 81, 116, 117, 146, 148, 154, 168, 170, 189, 195, 203, 204, 214 Gold Coast (Ghana), 120, 121, 130, 133, 134, 137–139

H Selassie, Haile, 8, 43, 46, 46n6, 47n8, 54, 56, 57 Horse names, 8, 51–54 I Indigenous languages, 146, 147, 155, 158, 163, 175, 178 IsiNguni, 151, 152 IsiXhosa, 144–147, 149–151, 153–155 J Johnson, Samuel, 18, 22–25, 24n7, 27 K Kanda, 183, 185–188, 192 Kenya, 6, 9, 105, 106 KiKôngo, 182, 184–190, 192, 195, 196, 201 Kinship ties/network, 9, 93, 101 L Legitimacy, 46, 111 Lineages, 9, 10, 17, 19–21, 40, 41, 46n6, 48, 64, 70, 72–75, 72n1, 111–117, 149, 182, 183, 185, 187, 192 M Maragoli, 9, 105–107, 109–111, 113–115, 117 Mbushe, or namesake, 8, 9, 56, 74, 80, 85–102, 184, 184n6, 186–190 Memory, 3, 8, 37–57, 106, 116, 117, 133, 158, 159, 161, 162, 169, 170, 173, 175–178, 212

 INDEX 

Mengiste, Maaza, 8, 38, 52n12, 54–57 Metaphors, 78, 149, 155 Mother-agency, 9, 105–118 Motherhood, 9, 98, 99, 106–108 Mothering, 99, 106 Mother knowledge, 106 N Name-sharing, 92n3, 93, 93n4, 137 Namibian literature/novel/ novelist, 85–102 Naming ceremony, 17, 22, 37–57, 107, 129, 130, 210 institution, 110, 116 negative, 9 of a child, 106 processes, 39, 62, 65, 75, 80, 105, 107, 158, 203 sign, 107, 108, 111 Nominative determinism, 108 O Oríkì, 7, 14, 16–28, 16n1, 30–35 Ọ̀ yọ́ Empire, 13, 14 Owambo naming practices, 8, 85–102 P Portugal, 120, 121, 131–133, 191, 191n9, 194 Praise name, 4, 7, 14–18, 21–28, 31, 33, 34, 76–79, 121, 123, 123n6, 124, 165

219

Q Qene (Wax and Gold), 50, 51 R Resistance, 9, 54, 57, 92n3, 97, 101, 118, 160, 162, 179, 193, 211–214 Ritual, 6, 20, 24, 38, 62, 76, 89, 91, 95, 97, 100, 105–108, 110, 114, 115, 125, 126, 129, 133, 135, 161, 164, 169–176, 192, 196, 197 S Secular names, 39, 44, 46, 48, 53 Soul names, 119–141 T Taboos, 31, 34, 126, 129, 135 U Uíge, 181n1, 182, 182n2, 184, 192, 202, 202n13 V Voice, 50, 144, 146, 148–154, 170n26, 171, 212 W Western notions of gender, 86, 87 Westernization, 3 Widow dispossession, 86–88, 86n1, 95, 96

220 

INDEX

Women, 8, 9, 19, 32, 38, 48, 49, 52–55, 57, 63–66, 70, 71, 73–80, 85–91, 86n1, 93–97, 101, 105–118, 167, 175, 196, 202, 208, 215 Word, 2, 17, 27, 29, 30, 34, 38, 52, 52n12, 55, 62, 64, 66, 74, 78, 88, 95, 108,

144, 146, 150–155, 160, 163, 167, 170n26, 172, 176, 183, 186, 189, 196, 203, 210 Y Yorùbá, 7, 13–21, 19n4, 23–34