The Postcolonial Condition of Names and Naming Practices in Southern Africa [1 ed.] 9781443899239, 9781443896917

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The Postcolonial Condition of Names and Naming Practices in Southern Africa

The Postcolonial Condition of Names and Naming Practices in Southern Africa Edited by

Oliver Nyambi, Tendai Mangena and Charles Pfukwa

The Postcolonial Condition of Names and Naming Practices in Southern Africa Edited by Oliver Nyambi, Tendai Mangena and Charles Pfukwa This book first published 2016 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2016 by Oliver Nyambi, Tendai Mangena, Charles Pfukwa and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-9691-8 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-9691-7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements .................................................................................. viii Preface ........................................................................................................ ix Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 The Way We Name Now: Postcolonial Perspectives from Southern Africa Oliver Nyambi and Tendai Mangena Section 1: Anthroponyms Chapter One ............................................................................................... 20 Prescriptions and Attributions in the Names of Izinyanga in Ethekwini Municipality, South Africa Thenjiwe Meyiwa and Thandokazi Maseti Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 37 Xhosa Cultural Values and Beliefs in the Names of Ingcibi (Traditional Surgeon) Madoda Cekiso Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 52 Hlonipha: The Naming of Newly Married Women among the AbaThembu of Eastern Cape, South Africa Carina Nomfuzo Rozani Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 63 On the Brink of a New Naming Practice: Chinese Influences in Zimbabwean Naming Systems Herbert Mushangwe Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 84 A Cross-Cultural Comparative Study of Shona-Portuguese and ShonaChinese Names Margret Chipara and Herbert Mushangwe

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Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 106 Spirituality in the Shona Christian Naming System Richard Maposa and Bernard Humbe Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 120 Pseudonymity as Self-Naming: The Pseudonym and the Performer in Zimbabwean Socio-Technical Spaces Nhlanhla Landa Section 2: Literary Onomastics Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 138 ‘Doing Things’ with Titles: Zimbabwean Literary Titles (Pre- and Early Post-Independence) Oliver Nyambi Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 155 The Adamic Licence in Ellen Banda-Aaku’s Patchwork Cheela Himutwe Chilala Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 172 Metaphors of Resistance: Nicknames in Tanzanian Fiction John Wakota Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 191 Symbolic Geographies: Place Names in Selected Zimbabwean Fiction Tendai Mangena Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 203 Semantic Blending and Foregrounding of Nouns: Vera’s Naming System in Under the Tongue Sindiso Zhou Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 217 Mapping the Poetics of Names in the Novels of John Eppel, Petina Gappah and NoViolet Bulawayo Gibson Ncube

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Chapter Fourteen ..................................................................................... 237 The Onoma of the Angolan Revolution: A Literary Onomastic Reading of Mayombe Amos Mushati Section 3: Toponyms Chapter Fifteen ........................................................................................ 258 Names in Space: Some Theoretical Perspectives on the Place Names of the Southern African Urban Landscape Charles Pfukwa and Zvinashe Mamvura Chapter Sixteen ....................................................................................... 270 The Toponymics of Postcolonial Zambia: Street Naming Patterns in Lusaka Mildred Wakumelo, David Mwanza and Benson Mkandawire Chapter Seventeen ................................................................................... 289 Suburban Blight: Perpetuating Colonial Memory through Naming in Mutare, Zimbabwe Jacob Mapara and Shumirai Nyota Chapter Eighteen ..................................................................................... 307 Phoneme-Grapheme Disparities in Some Bulawayo Ndebele Toponyms Sambulo Ndlovu Section 4: Brand Names Chapter Nineteen ..................................................................................... 322 Semantics of Band Appellations: Band Names and Music in Zimbabwe Mickias Musiyiwa Chapter Twenty ....................................................................................... 352 Enhanced Masculinities: Names of Male Aphrodisiacs in Selected Southern African Countries Kelvin Mambwe and Dinis Fernando Da Costa Chapter Twenty One................................................................................ 372 Naming A Ride: Names of Minibus Taxis and Family-Owned Buses in Eastern Cape and KwaZulu-Natal Provinces in South Africa Madoda Cekiso and Thenjiwe Meyiwa Notes on Editors and Contributors .......................................................... 391

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The editors are greatly indebted to the contributors who took the time to commit to chapters for this volume. The original idea of the book project was conceived by the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA) at its General Meeting on the sidelines of the society’s 17th Biennial International Conference in 2012 in Lesotho. The editors would like to thank the Society for inspiring onomastics in general, and the compilation of this volume in particular. Thenjiwe Meyiwa and Thandokazi Maseti would like to acknowledge funding provided by the Department of Science & Technology and the National Research Foundation of South Africa for their research on the names of Izinyanga in Ethekwini Municipality, South Africa. They also recognise the insights of Menzi Mthethwa of the Human Sciences Research Council on herbalists’ names used for the study. Charles Pfukwa and Zvinashe Mamvura’s chapter draws substantially from their Doctoral dissertations, ‘The Function and Significance of Guerrilla Nicknames in Zimbabwe’s Liberation war (1966–1979)’ by Pfukwa and ‘A Sociolinguistic Analysis of School Names in Selected Urban Centres During the Colonial Period in Zimbabwe (1890–1979)’ by Mamvura. Both dissertations were submitted to the University of South Africa, Pretoria in 2007 and 2014 respectively.

PREFACE

Onomastics is the scientific study of names and naming systems and the name of the discipline originates from the Greek word for a name, e.g. ‘onoma’. Onomastics is an interdisciplinary field of study par excellence and provides name scholars with a great variety of possible options when undertaking research. This book, with Oliver Nyambi, Tendai Mangena and Charles Pfukwa serving as editors, came into being after the possibility of publishing such a venture was discussed at an earlier meeting of the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA). It is an extremely welcome addition to the relatively scarce sources on Southern African onomastics. Earlier onomastic publications were mostly from South African scholars, and it is heartening to see how Zimbabwean scholars, as well as some from Zambia, Tanzania, and Angola, join a few South Africans in this publication. A cursory look at the curriculum vitae of contributors to this book provides one with a remarkable and significant academic profile. Many have studied abroad and obtained qualifications from prominent institutions, and many now based in southern Africa have various links with more than one university. Their respective interests are varied and impressive. Besides ‘pure’ onomastics, linguistic and literary studies involving many languages, and including sociolinguistics, discourse analysis and sign language feature. Then there are media studies, education, gender studies, Indigenous Knowledge Systems, psychology, race and identity, second language learning and religion. The contributors are well equipped to make significant contributions to this volume from their own background and hence this publication gains an important position in southern African onomastics. The first introductory chapter by Oliver Nyambi and Tendai Mangena called The way we name now: Postcolonial perspectives from southern Africa is an important contribution, contextualising the background of the volume. The chapter title was inspired by the theme used at the 18th NSSA International Conference at Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe in September 2014. Their brief analysis of every contribution in the volume is also extremely helpful in providing an overview of individual contributions.

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The focus on the postcolonial era in all these countries creates new opportunities for onomastic scholars to investigate and analyse the ways in which inhabitants of these countries interpret the existence of colonial names in present times and the various options to address the possible renaming of certain names. This is particularly applicable to toponyms. South Africa is the youngest democracy by far and this phenomenon is currently very prominent, so it might be valuable to learn about how this process regarding possible renaming took place in the neighbouring countries. The four subsections in this book are: anthroponymy, i.e. the study of personal names; literary onomastics, i.e. the study of names in literature; toponyms, i.e. place names; and lastly, brand names, i.e. names in the economy. These are prominent areas within onomastics and are an excellent start to promote onomastics in a wider context. It paves the way for future studies in various other categories. The Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA) is dependent on contributions from onomastic scholars for their refereed journal Nomina Africana which is accredited by the Department of Higher Education and Training, South Africa. This publication suggests that there is a huge number of scholars working in onomastics and they should be encouraged to submit contributions to Nomina Africana. All the contributors to this volume, and especially the editors, should be congratulated in stimulating the coming together of this seminal book. Bertie Neethling Emeritus Professor, University of the Western Cape, South Africa Past Vice President of the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA)

INTRODUCTION THE WAY WE NAME NOW: POSTCOLONIAL PERSPECTIVES FROM SOUTHERN AFRICA1 OLIVER NYAMBI AND TENDAI MANGENA

Perhaps there is no better site to encounter colonial remnants of the postcolony than in the on-going debates on toponym (place name) changes across the whole of the southern African region. It was not unusual, therefore, that in 2012, the City of Cape Town announced a number of street name changes. Generally, as is the case with changes in odonyms (street names) and toponyms in South Africa and other formerly colonised societies, the name changes follow a typical trend in which colonial names are replaced with names of icons of the anti-colonialism struggle. For example, among the streets names that disappeared in Cape Town was Hendrik Verwoerd Drive. The street had been named in honour of the man who conceptualised and implemented Apartheid during his tenure as the Prime Minister of South Africa from 1961 to his assassination in 1966. In contrast, Verwoerd’s former nemesis and anti-apartheid hero Robert Sobukwe made it onto the list of new names chosen. Earlier, in Namibia, a fascinating debate between a local community and the owner of a hotel was recorded in the United Nations Group of Experts on Geographical Names Working Paper (2007). The community representative (Dischoe) had raised issues with the name Omashare: 1

‘The way we name now’ was the theme of the 18th Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA) International Conference held at Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe in 2014. The theme was coined by the conference co-conveners who are also the editors of this book

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Introduction The name of the lodge is offensive to the people of Rundu and Kavango. In the Kavango language we do not have the letter ‘o’ before a word and we believe that for our history to be recorded correctly, we demand to be respected as a people. The name should be Mashare not Omashara. Businessmen and women who want to live in peace with us need to treat us with respect as we wish to treat them. I plan to hold meetings in Rundu in the near future to mobilise the entire Kavango region to descend on the premises in protest should Rosa fail to acquiesce to the demands. I shall lead the marches to your hotel so that you can hear us once and for all. It is also my intention to mobilise a prolonged boycott of your facility until you hear us. [Rosa, the hotel owner replied:] I never thought of changing the name because to me it does not make a difference what a business is called, for as long as it is operating legally under the laws [for creating] job opportunities.

More recently, in Zimbabwe, a resolution by the ruling Zimbabwe African National Union Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) at its 2013 Annual Conference to change the name of the country’s prime resort Victoria Falls into Mosioa-Tunya was met with an outcry over ‘business’ and potential losses to the number of tourists visiting the landmark. The same debacle rocked the tourist town of Lüderitz in Namibia in 2015; protesting residents argued that history had given the colonial name Lüderitz a better tourist appeal than the reinstated precolonial one, Naminüs. These few examples of toponym and brand-name changes are reflective of overt and subtle manifestations of a uniquely southern African postcolonial naming culture shaped by the new nations’ ambivalence in an independent present tangled in colonial politico-cultural legacies. Name changes in these examples are fundamentally connected to postindependence transformation projects in the societies. The politics behind the urge to change a name and also, in some cases, the resistance to such changes can be gleaned from the examples above. The initial stimuli leading to a decision to change (or resist) a toponym and the subsequent choice of a replacement name reflects deep-seated cultural and sociopolitical pressures in the respective societies’ struggles to reconcile the past with the ideals of independence. This book’s discourse with these overt and covert onomastic changes of the colonial remnants in southern Africa speaks to some of the defining socio-cultural, political and economic forces shaping the present. The major objective of the book is to understand the postcolonial condition of

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the southern African region from an onomastic perspective. Onomastic research in the region has been particularly vibrant in South Africa where researchers such as Adrian Koopman, Bertie Neethling, Elwyn Jenkins and Peter Raper are some of the eminent scholars. Lately, Zimbabwe has followed suit; not only has the country produced recognised onomasticians such as Charles Pfukwa and Livingstone Makondo, but it has also established onomastics as part of a cultural studies curriculum at universities such as the Great Zimbabwe University. The journal of the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA), Nomina Africana, is the only publication dedicated to onomastics in the region. The journal has been instrumental in promoting onomastics as a serious lens to ‘read’ the vicissitudes of changing southern African societies. This book is intended to add to the growing interest in onomastics in the region as it brings together cultural researchers from South Africa, Zimbabwe, Angola, Zambia and Tanzania who grapple with names and naming patterns in their societies. The specifics of the book (including chapter synopses) will be explored later. At this point, the book’s scholarly intervention can be justified by detailing its contextual, theoretical and methodological framings. The aim here is to go beyond the typical ‘general introduction’, providing instead early demonstrations of the kind of analytical frameworks used in the book. It is hoped that this brief analysis sufficiently justifies this defence of the epistemological potentialities of names and naming in the discourse of exigent pressures affecting the postcolonial nation. As hinted above, the thrust of the postcolonial naming practice is informed by the palpable colonial vestiges in almost every aspect of our social, political and economic lives. In a keynote address in 2014 at the 18th International Conference of the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA) at Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, Kizito Muchemwa engaged with what he called the ‘colonial remains’ underlying postcolonial modes of imagining the nation as manifested in some of the onomastic practices of southern African societies. The crux of Muchemwa’s presentation was an argument much akin to the widely discoursed critique of the postcolony in Fanon’s chapter ‘Pitfalls of National Consciousness’ (Fanon, 1963). Fanon ‘predicted’ that independence would not necessarily begin with black leadership, a new flag and national anthem and neither was it going to vanish with the removal of white faces in government. For Fanon, colonialism is a complex system that is sustained in part by cultivating in its victims a dependency complex which inhibits or distorts the development of their political subjectivity. Fanon’s famous construction of the colonised native as envious of the coloniser informs his argument that colonial subjects

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Introduction

become subconscious apprentices of colonial methods of statecraft. The post-independence stagnation which is often a syndrome experienced by most African countries owes much to the failure of the national bourgeoisie to think beyond anti-colonial mantras and slogans and the deep-seated and often strategically concealed fear of being their own masters of their futures. This fear is easy to fathom. There are dire consequences in attempting wholesale changes to the system, functions and methods of the colonial economy in the post-independence period. Let it also be said that there is a degree to which some post-independence leaders become victims. They are almost always faced with the dilemma of balancing the need to pander to white capital to sustain economic production along the lines of the colonial system with the masses’ restlessness to realise the promise of broad-based economic empowerment (arguably a euphemism for side-lining whites and integrating blacks into the mainstream economy). Perhaps there is nowhere else where the costs of jettisoning white/colonial capital produced catastrophic economic repercussions than in Zimbabwe post-2000. As onomastic researchers, this book’s interest would be on names and naming patterns that emerged alongside this period of crisis and how the discourse reflected some of the underlying dimensions of the national dilemma. The 2013 debate on the renaming of the prime tourist attraction Victoria Falls is a good case in point. At its 2013 Annual Conference, the ruling ZANU-PF government resolved to rename all of the country’s major institutions and landmarks that still had colonial names, particularly Victoria Falls. It was then that Walter Mzembi, the Tourism Minister, sensed the possible boomerang effect of the political resolution, especially with regard to the renaming of Victoria Falls as Mosi-oa-Tunya, meaning ‘the smoke which thunders’. Practically though, this was not so much a proposal to rename per se. It was, in fact, an attempt to reclaim and restore the original name; that is, to re-indigenise the landmark in line with the government’s multisectoral indigenisation drive. It seems that the evident capital flight following the implementation of indigenisation programmes in other sectors such as manufacturing and agriculture might have scared Mzembi and informed his objections to the name change of Victoria Falls. Yet for all intents and purposes, Mosi-oaTunya makes cultural sense because it not only reflects the native Tonga people’s art of naming but, perhaps more importantly, adds nuance to our understanding of how they make sense of their geographical phenomena since the falls (as Mosi-oa-Tunya) are intricately linked to Tonga identity and culture. In this light, then, beyond its ‘cultural sense’, Mosi-oa-Tunya

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should make ‘economic/tourism sense’. This is because the significance of the ‘heritage’ of the falls as a World Heritage Site is bound up with its original identity and, by implication, its indigenous name. The Tonga people are a part of the falls’ natural land- and socio-scapes. Touring the falls thus transcends the mere experience of its physical spectacle; it also involves encountering the falls’ situation in a socio-cultural and even religious Tonga cosmology. If the essence of tourism is encountering new places and experiencing the cultures of the toured places, then visiting Victoria Falls is fundamentally a less enriching tour than a visit of Mosioa-Tunya. This is because Victoria Falls essentially alienates the Tonga people from the falls, consequently eliding a crucial aspect of the falls, its original namers. A cultural restoration of the falls’ original identity is thus impeded by economic considerations. However, some colonial toponyms are disappearing. The reason behind their change puts into perspective the affinity of place names in the postindependence identity project. The case of places named in honour of Cecil John Rhodes is fascinating. As former governor of the Cape Colony and champion of the British Empire in Africa, Rhodes is arguably synonymous with a history of Africans’ debasement and the abrupt disconnection of native systems of culture, philosophy and politics. Yet names (past and present) in his honour ascribed to some of the most significant places and institutions of political, cultural and economic significance not only suggest his pleasant and benevolent side, but also betray a congenial connection to his memory in those societies attached to his legacy in one way or another. Rhodes’s profound influence in colonialism’s heyday and even in the post-independence period can be found inscribed in such former names as Rhodesia and ZimbabweRhodesia (the country that is now Zimbabwe), the former Rhodes-Inyanga and Rhodes-Matopos National Parks in Zimbabwe, the present Rhodes University and the Mandela-Rhodes Hotel in South Africa as well as the prestigious Mandela-Rhodes Scholarships. An interesting feature in most of these names cited above is that the name Rhodes exists in combination with an indigenous one. To many, it is a tension-filled coexistence which reflects a desperate attempt to integrate two worlds that hitherto conflicted on the fundamental question of black people’s humanity. The hyphenated names indicate a transition and the nations’ ambivalence caused in part by the different sets of histories with which each community identifies. The combinations of Zimbabwe and Rhodes, Rhodes and Matobo, Rhodes and Inyanga or Mandela and Rhodes attempt to create the impression that the former coloniser and the formerly colonised now co-own and co-identify with the place. The racial undertones in the binary existence of ‘Rhodes’

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and local names are clouded by the onomastic ‘peace agreement’ which allows Rhodes to ‘sit’ side by side with Mandela. Similarly, the national parks Rhodes-Matopos and Rhodes-Inyanga simultaneously archive and even honour the memory of Rhodes and that of the natives of Matobo and Inyanga. It is perhaps a superficial attempt to create a sense of reconciliation among the people who identify with either of the names and the symbolic past they bring to bear in their forging of the present. However, for black people, the past and its ineffaceable and haunting marks of dehumanisation are not something with which they can easily reconcile. Thus, more often than not, names that remind them of this past and refresh their memory of its appalling infringements on their humanity may actually cause them to drift further away from the former coloniser’s progeny. This is perhaps why in present-day Zimbabwe such hyphenated names as cited above have been changed by completely obliterating Rhodes. However, it is often too easy for post-independence African governments to mistake or deliberately project the total erasure of names with colonial baggage as ‘the’ evidence of transformation. In the Zimbabwean case, the dropping of Rhodes is not that simple. The initial urge to expunge him from the national imagination suggests a conscious attempt to rediscover a national identity in the terms set by the indigenes as the agents of history. It is no wonder, then, that in contemporary Zimbabwe, the annihilation of Rhodes from the national imagination has been accompanied by actual attempts to jettison whites from a contrived national identity shaped by the post-2000 resuscitation of a racialised nationalism. In spite of Robert Mugabe’s earlier reconciliatory assurance that post-independence would be a time to ‘beat swords into plough shares’, the economic superstructure undergirded by an inherited prowhite economic system was in fact inimical to economic reconciliation with blacks. In light of this continuance of white privilege, the name Rhodes came to symbolise the white community and its advantages inherited from Rhodes’ bestowments; the very privileges (especially land) which stood between the reconciliation of blacks with economic agency denied them by the colonial system. This is the fundamental gridlock that the ruling Zimbabwe African National Union Patriotic Front awakened to and sadly attempted to unlock with an exaggerated emotional strand of nationalism in the post-2000 period. In Cape Town, South Africa (the place of yet another double-barrelled name, the Mandela-Rhodes Place), the Rhodes Must Fall campaign was started in 2015 by a majority of black students at the University of Cape Town who were infuriated by the slow progress of transformation at the

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University. The movement’s ‘about’ section on its Facebook page describes it as ‘[a] collective student, staff and worker movement mobilising for direct action against the institutional racism of UCT’. One of the major casualties of the movement’s modus operandi was the imposing statue of Rhodes at the University campus. In its heyday, the statue depicted a relaxed and contemplative Rhodes hoisted above facing the entrance to the University grounds and looking north into Africa, as if pondering the efficacy of his Cape to Cairo dreams. Here, the concern is not so much with the political significance of the statue and what eventually became a raging debate on the colonial statues and monuments in South Africa. Instead, the interest is particularly in its onomastic underpinnings; that is, the ways in which the movement triggered discourses on name changes that speak to the ways we think about names and their political, cultural and even economic undertones. The semantic possibilities created by an onomastic perspective of the Rhodes Must Fall (RMF) movement are immense. This approach can unveil some of the subterranean details of the campaign. The name of the RMF movement is a good site to theorise the interface of names, naming and the problems of ‘transformation’ at the University of Cape Town and indeed in every other socio-economic, political and cultural institution of national significance in South Africa. Clearly, two important components of the name come into perspective; that is the noun ‘Rhodes’ and the imperative phrase ‘must fall’ which comprises the two verbs ‘must’ and ‘fall’. Rhodes is essentially more than a name and a historical person. He is used as a symbol that signifies the colonial debris stifling transformation at the institution of higher learning. The use of Rhodes as a symbol is strategic. The name of the man who is almost solely responsible for the operation of the British Empire project in Africa, Rhodes acquires symbolic significance as a cache of all the inequities of colonialism. He becomes inherently reprehensible and, arguably, so does every institution, policy or behaviour associated with him in one way or another. The repugnancy informs the emotion in the imperative-cum-declarative phrase ‘must fall’. The demand for Rhodes to fall suggests that he is still standing, over a century after his physical death. A ‘standing’ (the sculpture was in a sitting position) Rhodes, then, symbolises the perpetuation of the legacy of racial prejudice to some and tacitly indicates resistance to present-day transformation. The evocation of Rhodes as undying creates a vivid imagery of him as disinclined to give up. To the feisty student demonstrators, he is a sign that the colonial remnants are holding up – the very sign that justifies the RMF movement’s

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Introduction

rallying call to fell him, again. In this instance, onomastic lenses magnify nuances of the political and cultural economy of the RMF movement. Looking back into Rhodes’ timeline, we can infer the foundations of the tenacious white superiority complex that infuriated the black university students in present-day South Africa more than a century after his biological death. In an apparent show of entrenched amour propre and craving to etch his memory in the history of the lands he conquered, Rhodes left a will in which he indicated his wish to have his name engraved on the granite rocks of Matobo that are at the site of his grave, in what was then Southern Rhodesia. Rhodes’ will reveals fascinating onomastic features. Here is a snippet: I admire the grandeur and the loneliness of the Matoppos in Rhodesia and therefore I desire to be buried in the Matoppos on the hill which I used to visit and which I called ‘View of the World’, in a square to be cut in the rock on the top of the hill covered with a plain brass plate with these words: ‘Here lie the remains of Cecil John Rhodes.’ (Cited in Magubane, 1996, p. 97)

The extract reflects aspects of the colonial naming system which have been widely discoursed in studies on toponyms in this and other onomastic research in southern Africa. There are several talking points vis-à-vis the interface of imperial power and the authority to name. In this will, Rhodes is practically renaming the place he wants to be interred. In one of the earliest books on Matobo entitled Guide to Matopos, Nobbs (1924) asserts that the hill on which Rhodes wished to be buried was initially called Malindidzimu ‘dwelling place of benevolent spirits’ by the Kalanga people who lived there before the area was conquered by Mzilikazi in the early nineteenth century. Mzilikazi later renamed the area Matobo. The colonial administration changed the name to Matopos. After independence, however, the Rhodes Matopos National Park in which Rhodes’ grave is found was renamed Matobo National Park. In history, the place of Rhodes’s burial has always been a site for the onomastic inscription of power. Rhodes’s variant of ‘Matopos’ is not merely a distorted version of Mzilikazi’s ‘Matobo’, as the different naming systems reflect the underlying power dynamics in Mzilikazi’s naming and Rhodes’ re-naming of the place. Matobo means ‘bald head’ in the isiNdebele language – a name derived from the round-shaped boulders on the granite hill koppies scattered around the area. As a fugitive Zulu general fleeing the Mfecane in the area that is now called KwaZulu-Natal, Mzilikazi’s renaming was both an act of claiming it and identifying with

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it, particularly at the expense of the Kalanga people. The Ndebele name, therefore, gave the place a Ndebele identity; it became a part of their cultural landscape. Matobo does not only identify the new inhabitants or political dispensation; it also distinguishes the place from other places and, by implication, other people. In this case, the Ndebele toponymic system involves a delicate conceptualisation of the named landmark in terms of its physical appearance and its imagined human equivalent. The land and people are intricately linked and it can thus be inferred from the names ascribed to landmarks, for instance, how the Ndebele Kingdom was carved out and also how the new inhabitants made sense of their immediate environs. The same cannot be said about Rhodes’ renaming of Matobo as Matopos. Semantically, Matopos is meaningless; it is rather a product of an attempt to westernise both the name Matobo and the land it describes and defines. Though not entirely annihilated, Matobo is practically decimated by the colonist’s linguistic violence, itself a symbolic manifestation of colonialism’s culture of violence. Matopos, then, not only gives the place a palatable (to the colonist) Western character but also covertly illuminates the identity of the succeeding colonial authority and its overarching political modus operandi – violence. Renaming becomes a mode of demarcating territory and identifying the conquered territories with the dominant race and its ethno-political creed. This book has so far mainly concentrated on place names because they most clearly reflect the ease with which white superiority inscribed colonial names on landmarks or institutions. These names can (just like those landmarks) survive time and haunt new nations decades after independence. The section that focuses on ‘Toponyms’ is the 3rd section made up of four chapters. The chapters generally explore the place-name theory in: street names in Lusaka (Zambia); suburban names in postcolonial Mutare (Zimbabwe); and phoneme-grapheme disparities in some Ndebele Bulawayo (Zimbabwe) place names. Pfukwa and Mamvura’s chapter ‘Names in Space: Some Theoretical Perspectives on the Place Names of the Southern African Urban Landscape’ functions as an introduction to the section and provides theoretical grounding to the rest of the chapters. In partial response to Nicolaisen’s (1987) call for a theory on onomastics, Pfukwa and Mamvura’s chapter surveys leading scholarship in toponym studies in southern Africa and establishes research that can underpin theories on the place name. The paper traces different disciplines’ contributions to the development of place-name theory. Specific reference is made to how theoretical linguistics, literature, cultural studies, postcolonial theories, the linguistic landscape and geosemiotics contribute to the toponymic landscape.

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Introduction

The next chapter in this section is a survey on street names and streetnaming processes in Lusaka, Zambia. In this chapter, Wakumelo, Mwanza and Mkandawire demonstrate that street names are not just ‘signposts’, but also ‘reflect the social, political and cultural ideologies maintained by the name givers’. Their research represents the ‘first study on street names in Lusaka’, which ends with an outline of the problems relating to the process of street naming in the city. Following this chapter is a study on urbanyms (urban names), this time with reference to odonyms and other place names in the city of Mutare, Zimbabwe. In the chapter entitled ‘Suburban blight: Perpetuating Colonial Memory through naming in Mutare, Zimbabwe’ Mapara and Nyota demonstrate how the ambivalent colonial past can be read in names of suburbs and streets in present-day Mutare. They view suburban names such as Fairbridge Park, Greenside, Hospital Hill, Westlea and Yeovil as not only a ‘sad reminder of colonialism and its related vices of oppression and segregation’, but also as a sign of the persistence of colonial mental ‘slavery’ in post-independence Zimbabwe. In concluding their discussion, Mapara and Nyota perceive a long-delayed need to initiate the process of name changing to ‘free’ the place from colonial names. Mapara and Nyota’s discussion demonstrates how place names remain a contested terrain in postcolonial Zimbabwe. The last chapter in this section is written by Ndlovu and focuses on ‘phoneme-grapheme disparities’. The chapter is an attempt to understand and explain the disparities between the spoken sound and the written form in some toponyms in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. Ndlovu identifies three possible causes of these disparities. In some cases, the disparities are a result of the errors created by missionaries who worked on the first Ndebele orthography which was used to write the toponyms. Other cases of disparities are a result of especially English transphonologies of Ndebele phonology. Lastly, Ndlovu argues that Ndebele orthography is, like most orthographies, not perfect, and such imperfections create disparities and ambiguities in some of Bulawayo’s Ndebele toponyms. Besides toponyms, the book also focuses on other important types of names that reveal, in fascinating ways, the postcolonial dynamics of various socio-cultural, political, philosophical and economic experiences of southern African societies. The first and largest section of the book deals with anthroponyms or personal names. In the first chapter in this section entitled ‘Prescriptions and Attributions in the Names of Izinyanga’ in the Ethekwini Municipality, South Africa, Meyiwa and Maseti engage

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with the naming practices of traditional healers, focusing on how names adopted by the healers and those ascribed to them reflect on the nature of their work and relationship with their clientele. Meyiwa and Maseti are particularly interested in the gender dimensions to the naming of izinyanga. They perceive a general proclivity for names that target women who form a major part of the clientele. For Meyiwa and Maseti, such names often reflect conscious and unconscious gender profiling steeped in the dogged patriarchal culture of the Zulu people. Like Meyiwa and Maseti, Madoda in the chapter ‘Xhosa Cultural Values and Beliefs in Names of Ingcibi’ also grapples with the naming practices of traditional healers. Madoda’s chapter focuses on the names given to the traditional surgeons that are associated with the ukusoka (cutting of the foreskin) procedure performed during male circumcision among IsiXhosaspeaking people in the Eastern Cape, South Africa. Traditional male circumcision is a crucial rite of passage among the Xhosa people. The ritual has survived colonial modernity and religion but remains an important identity marker among the Xhosa people. Yet recently, the ritual has come under criticism following reports of botched circumcisions that have claimed a number of young men’s lives. The traditional surgeon or ‘ingcibi’ is at the centre of the controversy. In this context, Madoda examines the relationship between the names of the ingcibi and the quintessential attributes of a typical ingcibi. Madoda’s empirical study reveals that ingcibi names are often derived from various sources such as wild animals, weather conditions and events in history. The names rely on the positive aspects of their source domains to construct the ingcibi as a man of standing both in his practice and status in the community. Still on naming practices among the Xhosa-speaking people, Nomfuzo Rozani’s chapter entitled ‘Hlonipha: The Naming of Newly Married Women among the abaThembu People of the Eastern Cape’ explores, like Madoda, aspects of indigenous knowledge systems faced with the challenge of modernity with its typical Western tastes. Rozani’s chapter examines the role of the names of newly married women or omakoti in the initiation rite of passage that transforms girls into ‘respectable’ wives and daughters-in-law according to amasiko nezithethe (‘traditional customs and beliefs’). Rozani argues that the ukuhota/ukuhotiswa ritual or ‘initiation into the new family’ involves multifaceted processes and performances that create a platform for a name. For Rozani, the names created and used during the initiation illuminate the cultural, aesthetic and philosophical aspects of the abaThembu people.

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Mushangwe’s chapter ‘On the Brink of a New Naming Practice: Chinese Influences in Zimbabwean Naming Systems’ enters the longstanding discourse on the Chinese presence in Africa. Avoiding the usual economic enquiries on the increasing Chinese deals with African countries, Mushangwe instead offers a refreshing perspective on the often ignored cultural dimensions of the Chinese-Africa connection. Mushangwe’s analysis is based on evidence showing that many Zimbabwean students both living and studying in China and those studying the Chinese language and culture in Zimbabwe, tend to adopt Chinese names either as a kind of fashion or as a compulsory requirement of their academic courses. The chapter explores how the teaching of the Chinese language and culture to Zimbabweans seems to influence name changes and the creation of a new trend in the naming system. Mushangwe also teams up with Chipara in the chapter ‘A cross-cultural comparative study of Shona-Portuguese and Shona-Chinese names’. Here, like Mushangwe’s earlier study alluded to above, this chapter engages with the encroachment of foreign naming practices on the Zimbabwean naming system by their contention that there are Portuguese and Chinese traces in Zimbabwean names. With particular reference to name structure, meaning and social function, the authors critically examine the significance of the foreign naming systems on Zimbabwean naming patterns, traditions and culture. Maposa and Humbe continue the discourse on the Shona naming practices with their chapter entitled ‘Spirituality in the Shona Christian Naming System’. The chapter focuses on naming practices among the Shona, who are indigenous African Christians, positing that Christian names informed by African theology indicate attempts to indigenise Christianity by Shonaspeaking communities in Zimbabwe. Maposa and Humbe argue that the Shona people redefine their Christian faith through naming. The gist of the chapter’s argument is that to appreciate the essence of African Christianity it is vital to decode phenomenologically the human spirituality embedded in the indigeno-Christocentric names that are popularly used in contemporary Shona Christian society. In the last chapter of this section entitled ‘Pseudonymity as Self-naming: The pseudonym and the Performer in Zimbabwean Socio-technical spaces’, Landa provides a fascinating view of naming practices in the virtual community in contemporary Zimbabwe. The chapter explores the pseudonyms that members of virtual communities use to either create an identity or hide it when they participate in online discourses on news

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articles in the comments section of online newspapers. For Landa, the adopted names reflect, among other things, the philosophical, political and ideological ‘baggage’ that members bring to the virtual forum. Thus, responses, emotions and attitudes to stories shown by such self-named members can be traced back to their adopted names and pseudonyms. As Chilala posits in one of the chapters in the next section on ‘Literature in Names’, the author possesses the ‘Adamic licence’; that is, the authority to create and assign properties and functions to named characters, places, objects and so on in a literary text. Chapters in this second section engage with the art and semantics of names in literary texts. Unique to chapters in this study is the diversity of both the focus of analysis and the range of texts analysed. The chapters mainly focus on character names, fictional and fictionalised place names, book titles and nicknames. The chapters examine the semantic properties of names and how they not only fit into the text’s overarching style scheme but also inform certain kinds of themes, ideas and perspectives, and invite certain kinds of reading. The chapter by Nyambi entitled ‘Doing Things with Titles: Zimbabwean Literary Titles’ (pre- and early post-independence) provides an experimental analysis of literary titles in what he calls ‘cover narratives’. Nyambi’s chapter focuses on literary texts published by black Zimbabwean writers before and immediately after independence. For Nyambi, literary titles are not mere extra-textual pawns used to foreshadow the main story inside the book. As ‘cover narratives’, Nyambi argues, titles can be read as essentially fully fledged narratives in their own right and deserve to be treated independently, although not always exclusively, as separate texts. Nyambi argues that titles of Zimbabwean literature grappling with the liberation struggle and the early independence period covertly reflect on the major forces underlying the various pressures and pains of transition. Chilala’s chapter entitled ‘The Adamic Licence in Ellen Banda-Aaku’s Patchwork’ (2011) analyses the deployment of names as elements of style that help the narrative to achieve a certain textuality and affective appeal. Chilala mainly focuses on Banda-Aaku’s Adamic licence in the creation of fictional toponyms (place names) and anthroponyms (character names) in a way that can potentially stir certain emotions and enhance readers’ appreciation of the fictional life-world. Chilala argues that names carry connotations and implications that add nuance to themes – aesthetical and ideological perspectives along the novel’s backward gaze into the role played by Zambia in the liberation of southern African countries such as Zimbabwe.

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Introduction

Wakota’s chapter ‘Metaphors of Resistance: Nicknames in Tanzanian Fiction’ also deals with African responses to colonialism. However, the chapter is unique in the way that it invokes nicknaming cases in focal texts to examine the relationship between the colonised subject and the colonisers. Wakota views the nicknames ascribed to colonisers in literary works on colonialism as sites for encountering the tension inhabiting black and white race relations. Mangena’s chapter ‘Symbolic Geographies: Place Names in Selected Zimbabwean Fiction’ shows how the use of fictional toponyms as part of narrative strategy can situate the story in a recognisable or imaginary make-believe world that allows the reader a second handle on the world. For Mangena, fiction that explores the state of black people’s existence in the colonial and post-independence eras often uses place names with symbolic meanings to evocatively and affectively portray the spatiotemporal timeline of the narrative. The ‘symbolic geographies’ give the action, and the characters inhabiting these areas, a certain appeal and personality depending on the nature of the toponym used. Yet besides propping up and explaining the action and characters in a story, the place name in fiction can also be a site from which to scan the physical manifestations of a particular era. Here, description, imagery and metaphors play an important part in the creation of vivid representations of place that can tell the story of that place. It is no wonder then, that one of Mangena’s focal place names is Manyene – that archetypal site of colonial inscriptions of physical and psychological violence in Charles Mungoshi’s novel Waiting for the Rain (1975). Yvonne Vera is one of Zimbabwe’s foremost black female writers whose texts reveal a creative naming pattern with semantic potentialities. Her onomastic flair is perhaps best shown in the novel Nehanda where she recreates the name and person of a legendary Shona spirit medium who fearlessly challenged white supremacy during colonialism’s early days. In the chapter ‘Semantic Blending and Foregrounding of Nouns: Vera’s Naming System in Under the Tongue’, Zhou explains how in addition to proper nouns, Vera in Under the Tongue (1996) utilises common nouns to signify character anonymity and presence. As a result, the onomastic framework exploited is itself unique to Africa and it produces a distinctly African perspective. What would otherwise be perceived as simply deictic is presented as having critical semantic and pragmatic power that informs the construction and significance of characters and consequently the text as a whole. The chapter posits that the blending of proper and common noun referents broadens the meaning potential and semantic possibilities

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of texts for onomastic effect. Consequently, the analysis of the effect of semantic blending in Zimbabwean literary texts illustrates the foundation of what can be referred to as a distinctive ‘African’ onomastic paradigm. Ncube extends the discourse on Zimbabwean literary onomastics by zooming in on what defines Zimbabwe’s crisis literature. Framing his analysis around Nicolaisen’s onomastic theory, Ncube’s chapter entitled ‘Mapping the Poetics of Names in the Novels of John Eppel, Petina Gappah and NoViolet Bulawayo’ interrogates the literary onomastic practices of Zimbabwe’s contemporary writers. Particularly focusing on character names, Ncube contends that there is an inalienable relationship between the naming of characters and the ideological underpinnings of the texts. For Ncube, the character names used by these writers reflect on the crisis time-space they inhabit, making them symbolic archives of the historiography of the post-2000 political and economic crisis in Zimbabwe. Completing the literary onomastics line-up is Mushati’s chapter ‘The Onoma of the Angolan Revolution: A Literary Onomastic Reading of Mayombe’. In this chapter, Mushati explores the relationship between textual anthroponyms (particularly the nom de guerre) and toponyms and the revolutionary aesthetics of Pepetela’s Angolan liberation war novel Mayombe (1983). Although focused on literary names, the chapter manages to transcend the fictional representations to offer an insightful account of the importance of names and naming in the liberation of Angola. The names examined by Mushati critically reflect on the revolutionaries’ sense of personal and national identity and their revolutionary consciousness that is informed by colonial exploitation and Marxist indoctrination. Yet the names also betray inherent fault lines in the forging of a nationalist response to colonialism. In history, as in the fictional life-world of Mayombe, one of the major pitfalls to the prosecution of the Angolan revolution and imagining of the nation is its ethnic rivalry. For Mushati, anthroponyms in Mayombe vividly evoke this scourge by magnifying the personality traits of native combatants. Mushati argues that characters’ names in the novel not only identify their ethnic group but also carry historical burdens of ethnic rivalry that are easily reignited to the detriment of the decolonising struggle. The fourth and last section is the shortest in this volume with three papers focusing on brand names. The three papers engage with (1) branding in music/band names in Zimbabwe; (2) names of aphrodisiacs in selected southern African countries; and (3) the naming of public buses and taxis in South Africa. In the opening chapter of this section, Musiyiwa attempts to

16

Introduction

fill in a notable scholarship gap on the onomastics of popular music in postcolonial Zimbabwe. The chapter introduces a new branch of onomastics which Musiyiwa calls ‘musiconymy’ – a term used in the chapter to describe the ‘nomenclature within the confines of music and musical practice such as names of songs, albums, bands, musical instruments, musical artists, names of musical performances, festivals’. Musiyiwa’s study is limited to the multiple factors that influence musical band name choice which include, the band leader’s personal experiences prior to band formation; dominant ideas in society; the place from which the band or band leader comes from; the institution that owns the musical group or to which the group is affiliated; the musical ambitions of the group leader and/or the entire group; gender; ethnicity; the size of a group; the group leader’s clan or family name; the artist(s)’s religious and/or cultural beliefs; the place the band is based and its ideological orientations as well as the foreign influences.

In the penultimate chapter entitled ‘Enhanced Masculinities: Names of Male Aphrodisiacs in Selected Southern African Countries’, Mambwe and da Costa break new ground in onomastic studies in southern Africa and open up the world of African aphrodisiacs through the perspectives of their names. The chapter focuses on names given to sexually enhancing herbs, particularly attempting to understand how the names reflect aspects of African sexuality in the southern African region. Mambwe and da Costa’s discussion is structured along three thematic lines: Aphrodisiac names that (1) relate to animal attributes; (2) suggest male sexual ‘alertness’; and (3) reflect on dominant gender stereotypes about women as sexual objects and men as superior beings in terms of sex and power relations. What is emphasised in the names of the aphrodisiacs that relate to animal attributes is the place of the animal in the interpretation of human behaviour, in this case in relation to sexuality – an interpretation which is otherwise aimed at unlocking human animality. The chapter can best be described as a ‘journey’ into the African masculine ‘world’ where names given to aphrodisiacs are (according to Mambwe and da Costa) a ‘reflection of dominant beliefs and values about masculinity, sex and sexuality in African cultures’. The last chapter ‘Naming a Ride: Names of Minibus Taxis and FamilyOwned Buses in Contemporary South Africa’ provides a thoroughly enlightening analysis of the business, cultural, familial and personal motivations in naming public buses and taxis in South Africa. For Madoda and Meyiwa, taxis and buses ‘bear names that reflect community tensions;

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business conflicts; sports and music stars; special talents and family pride; clan names and surnames; owners’ nicknames; their colours; and religious significance’. The chapter reveals that business considerations often take precedence over all other inspirations. Cekiso and Meyiwa argue that naming in South Africa’s fiercely contested public transport business is fundamentally a form of marketing. The names are, therefore, primarily business names and (as with all other business names in the open market) are often designed to create a competitive advantage for the owner. In addition, in the context of constant news about fatal taxi violence involving competing taxi crews, the need to name in order to market one’s taxi or bus becomes imperative.

References Fanon, F. (1963). The Wretched of the Earth. Middlesex: Penguin. Magubane, B. (1996). The Making of a Racist State: British Imperialism and the Union of South Africa, 1875 – 1910. Asmara: Africa World Press. Mbenzi, P.A. (2009). The Management of Place Names in the PostColonial Period in Namibia. [Online] Available from http://unstats.un.org/unsd/geoinfo/UNGEGN/docs/25th-gegndocs/wp%20papers/wp67-place%20names%20post%20colonial%20 period-namibia.pdf. [Accessed: 24 June 2014]. Muchemwa, K.Z. (2014). Colonial remains: Naming and Cartographies of Identity and Belonging. Paper presented at the 18th International Conference of the Names Society of Southern Africa, Victoria Falls. Nicolaisen, W.F.H. (1987). Onomastic onomastics. Paper presented at the XVI International Congress of Onomastic Sciences, Les Presses de L’ Universite Laval. Nobbs, E.A. (1924). Guide to the Matopos. Cape Town: T.M. Miller.

SECTION 1: ANTHROPONYMS

CHAPTER ONE PRESCRIPTIONS AND ATTRIBUTIONS IN THE NAMES OF IZINYANGA IN ETHEKWINI MUNICIPALITY, SOUTH AFRICA THENJIWE MEYIWA AND THANDOKAZI MASETI

Introduction Names carry special significance among most African societies, especially in comparison to other societies (Suzman, 1994; De Klerk & Bosch, 1995). While it has been observed that the names (and their meanings) shift with temporal and circumstantial forces (Ngubane & Thabethe, 2013), the significance of names can be located in their importance in defining identity. In most African contexts, names communicate what is hoped for, and they have cultural and psychological implications in their meanings; for example, the boy’s name, Vusithemba, meaning ‘raise hope’, indicates anticipation and faith for a positive outcome, while the girl’s name, Nokuthula or ‘mother of peace’ suggests the name-giver’s wishes. Koopman (2002) confirms that names are often given after much thought and with a purpose, especially among isiZulu-speaking people; usually reflecting a personal or cultural element. Nguni-language speakers (and the Zulu people in particular) are generally good at constructing and structuring names. Most names are significant in some respect, but those of the izinyanga1 are significantly unique. The major objective of this chapter is to examine some of the naming practices of the izinyanga and related contexts assumed to impact on the 1

Inyanga (plural: izinyanga) is an isiZulu name for a traditional herbalist and/spiritual healer. The practice of inyanga is known as ubunyanga.

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naming and to understand how varied contexts and socio-cultural values have affected the naming patterns of the izinyanga and the perspectives of their clients. The thesis of this chapter is that not only are the names of the izinyanga cultural and professionally important but they are an innovative creation; they are constructed by their trade and the expectations that people hold, as well as perceptions of the trade. This chapter focuses on the social meaning and significance of the names in an attempt to understand and unpack naming patterns and some linguistic elements used to create the names of herbalists. The chapter further enquires as to whether herbalists, their clients and society find it essential to ascribe, prescribe, or expect certain names, owing to the nature of the ubunyanga trade and profession. It should be acknowledged that there are differences among the izinyanga and herbalist practitioners. However, for the purpose of this chapter, the term izinyanga 2 is used to refer to all the practitioners who, from the corpus of the data collected for this chapter, presented themselves solely or interchangeably as traditional herbalists, prophets, diviners, and/or izinyanga. The names of herbalists are not ‘innocent’ and are of great importance within their profession as they convey a message about the practitioner and their related trade expertise to the customer, whether perceived or real. While other careers, such as teaching, engineering, and so on, do not have an evident practice of ‘ascribing’ a proper name to individuals within their professions, very few herbalists, if any, do not have names specifically associated with their vocation. Typically, Zulu personal names are informed by places, personal traits and aspirations, natural phenomena, personal histories, and so on. Commonly, Zulu herbalists neither go by the names they were given at birth nor by their family names. The Zulu name, Nhlanhla (loosely translated as ‘luck’) is widely considered a good name that any parent or owner would be content with. On the contrary, this name may be found unsuitable as a brand name for an inyanga, thus leading many clients to prefer consulting a herbalist with a ‘proper name’ more fitting for the vocation. On the other hand, the herbalist name, Three-Cent-Ohlangene, 3 meaning a ‘three-cent coin’, is 2

This plural noun is derived from the verb nyanga (heal); a verb also used by other Nguni-speaking group of South Africa such as isiXhosa, siSwati, isiNdebele etc. 3 There has never been a single coin for 3 cents in South Africa: this name suggests the herbalist’s ability to do what no one else has done before, the impossible, for many. Three-Cent-Ohlangene is a name of a well-known Durban-based male herbalist, born as MbusoMakhathini (Maluleka, 2008).

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more appealing, implying as it does that the practitioner is gifted to do something that might usually seem impossible to do. The use of African traditional medicines has persisted despite its censure by some mainstream medicine practioners. Undoubtedly, many people in South Africa, at one point or another in their lifetime, visit izinyanga (Mbatha, Street, Ngcobo & Gqaleni [2012] estimate the figure to be about 80 per cent). It is evident that, although the majority of the population in South Africa is black African, the dominant models of the medical and psychology practice within the mainstream are grounded in European thought and culture (Jonker, 2006). These models, Jonker maintains, are overwhelmingly controlled by professionals, who, at most, are poorly prepared for cross-cultural practice. The barriers of language and culture are very tortuous, even among some black professionals, owing to the language differences. While, on the one hand, few psychologists speak African indigenous languages; on the other, Western-grounded practitioners are not trained in communication with ancestors, whose participation is often perceived as essential to the restoration of the wholeness of the health of a client. African traditional healing has since been used to address and respond to these barriers for black communities. Traditional healing plays an important role in the lives of African people. Jonker (2006) reasons that traditional healers are affordable and culturally appropriate for the largest population group in South Africa by offering both physical and psychological support to sick patients in African communities where medical and psychological services have not yet been fully recognised or used to their full potential. When a herbalist takes the role of a medical doctor or psychiatrist, he or she does not provide merely counselling but prescribes healing herbs. Unlike its counterpart, a traditional diagnosis is both an art and a method of determining what the disease is and to discover its origins. Thus, the African traditional diagnostic process does not only seek answers to the question of how the disease originated, i.e., its immediate causes, but who or what caused the disease (efficient cause) and why it has affected this particular person at this time (ultimate cause). Lesolang (2010) confirms Mbatha et al.’s (2012) assertion that 80 per cent of the indigenous African people consults indigenous healers as their first point of reference with regard to illness – thereby affirming that ubunyanga (African traditional medicine) in black communities is associated with trust, comfort and belonging. ‘In black communities, Western practitioners are not perceived as offering treatment responsive to

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the needs of Black people’, asserted a herbalist interviewed for this study. Another herbalist stated, ‘We rely on visions, dreams and prophetic revelation, and from this form of diagnosis recommend traditional medication as evil-cleansing forces are not well understood by most Western-trained providers’. The treatment offered by herbalists is said to be relevant to the problems of the people in black communities, including poverty, unemployment, and marital or relationship problems, and the kind of treatment that herbalists offer is usually related to these threatening social problems within black communities where most herbalists practise. While this becomes an advantage for the customer who is given service by someone with whom they can identify, it might also mean that herbalists are able to gain access to people’s personal lives. Studying the names that most izinyanga assume, together with their associated marketing prose, indicates that herbalists are familiar with typical illnesses and socioeconomic conditions, as well as with the desires of their clientele. Thus, the relationship between the names of herbalists, the services they render, as well as the response needed from the customer, are worth noting. The names of the izinyanga are not always neutral; they seem to be carefully selected and influence the way in which the herbalist is perceived by creating a certain expectation which also speaks to the credibility of the herbalist’s work. Herbalists make use of spiritual divination, vegetable, animal and mineral substances and other methods based on social, cultural and religious backgrounds to treat physical illness, as well as psychosocial elements of the disease (Gcabashe, 2013). As hinted above, besides the fact that the use of African medicine and traditional healing is part of their culture, most South Africans lack regular access to Western forms of health services, mainly due to lack of health insurance and financial means. This informs the people’s reliance on African traditional medicine which is usually provided by practitioners to whom the client can easily relate. This chapter explores the nexus of the names of the traditional medical practitioner (inyanga) and their practice with a view to how the names can illuminate the nature of the practice in the focal municipality.

Reflecting on Names Bestowed on Herbalists Names serve a purpose, they are given for a specific aim, which depends largely on the individual being named. Names are a primary distinguishing feature that is often linked to one’s beliefs, culture, and customs. According to Ngubane (2000), names are believed to pre-ordain one’s future. As can be inferred from the Zulu boys’ and girls’ names given above, a name is essentially an identity marker. This is true with the names

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Chapter One

of izinyanga in the eThekwini Municipality: as the subsequent discussion shall reveal, the name of an inyanga both identifies him/her as masterly at his/her trade, indicates his/her particular strengths, and entices the prospective client to believe and trust his/her medical prowess. The psychological and spiritual significance of a name and its close relationship to an individual in most African societies can be gleaned from Mbiti’s (1968, cited in Ngubane, 2000) assertion that in witchcraft, for instance, knowing someone’s name means that you have control over him or her. In this context, names are inseparable from the name-bearer. Most African names are, therefore, complex and deep. The naming practice of herbalists is also a conscious one; this is evident in the way in which herbalists feel the need for changing their birth names as soon as they begin their practice, as confirmed by one of the participants in the study. The name of a herbalist speaks to his or her entire profession and, as hinted above, the inyanga’s name is often strategically tailored to attract customers and to publicise the treatment and other related services offered. This means that an inyanga would adopt a particular name in the hope that it would ‘speak’ to the clientele of the herbalist’s abilities. Equally, when one seeks the services of an inyanga, one is likely to opt for an inyanga with a name giving the impression that one’s needs shall be met. The list of names given to herbalists is by no means exhaustive and may include nicknames; however, none of the names discussed in this chapter was considered a nickname by any inyanga respondent. Their names differentiate them on the basis of what they have either been exposed to, what they consider to be their specialty, skill or expertise, or what they prefer to concentrate on. Herbalists’ names are neither used nor do they appear on their identity documents or certificates, be they either of birth or academic qualification.

Background and Methodology This chapter critically analyses names of the izinyanga in relation to the nature of their practice by focusing on the significance of their name choices and text used in advertising their trade, which includes elaborate testimonials from clients who have benefited from the work of a herbalist. In addition, we examine and critique the contexts in which the izinyangas operate in the case of this chapter, which is largely populated by the isiZulu-speaking community. Such contexts, we argue, have a bearing on the socio-cultural and ‘business’ meanings produced by names of the izinyanga. For the purposes of this chapter, the names of herbalists were

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collected from three sources: firstly, the large qualitative research study mentioned earlier in the chapter; secondly, advertisements distributed on the streets; and finally, from classified sections of selected newspapers largely read by the black isiZulu-speaking community of eThekwini Municipality. In particular, names from the newspaper data used for analysis and discussion in this chapter are those which either reflect the eThekwini Municipality telephone numbers or those of herbalists who (in their adverts) claim to practise within this municipality. The names of herbalists who (in interviews) indicated that their clientele was from the eThekwini Municipality are also used. Data was also collected through face-to-face and telephone conversations of around 8–10 minutes long, from a total of 18 participants, three of whom were patrons of herbalists. The remainder of the participants identified themselves as herbalists, with many interchangeably referring to themselves as both herbalists and diviners.

Conceptual Ideologies Social constructionism and feminist analysis are the two conceptual ideologies that frame the analysis and discussion in this chapter. Social constructionism is primarily concerned with uncovering the ways in which individuals and/or their respective groups partake in the construction of their perceived social reality (Calhoun, Gerteis & Moody, 2007). This process involves examining the ways in which social phenomena are created and understood and then, subsequently, how they become a tradition or norm in human society (Calhoun, Gerteis & Moody, 2007). This means that people can create their realities about the self, others, and the world, thereby ensuring that people make meaning in their evolving social interactions through this discourse. Therefore, the beliefs that we hold are informed by our experiences, and the social environment equally helps us to make sense of our world. This is true of the naming practice among the izinyanga and the idea that a ‘convincing’ name is a significant add-on to the trust accorded them. Besides serving as a marketing strategy, the name of an inyanga profiles the inyanga in terms of her/his practice and her/his clientele in terms of their physiological, social and psychological health needs. Thus, the socially constructed reality implies that a herbalist is supposed to and may have a name that at times would have no particular meaning but would, instead, employ the use of sounds and symbols that fetishise the herbalist’s practice to create a sense of mysteriousness and ‘command’ reverence. Equally, the clientele create

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and understand their reality based on their experiences as health-service seekers. The overwhelming patriarchal influence in the naming practice of herbalists is worth noting and analysing from a feminist perspective. We found this practice to be significantly pronounced in the use of females in testimonials in the newspaper adverts. In such newspaper adverts, women are mostly used because they are generally and stereotypically perceived to be more trustworthy and reliable witnesses to the capabilities of the advertising inyanga. It is evident that some of the names that herbalists choose to use are influenced by what they think would most appeal to women. Furthermore, as women are socially constructed as more concerned with family matters than men, an inyanga name designed to market a specialisation in family relationships would be preferred as a brand name. This echoes Sarantakos’ (2005) feminist view that males are still considered to be superior to women based on the conjecture that they are physically and emotionally superior. The names, then, indirectly construct women as the stereotypically ‘weaker sex’ who are more concerned with domestic issues such as marital problems. It would thus seem that choosing a name which advances this patriarchal social belief becomes ‘necessary’. Our analysis of the influence of patriarchy in the naming of inyanga is informed by feminist analytical ideas culled from Stanley and Wise (1983). These writers encourage a social research practice that seeks to understand socio-cultural phenomena through a gender perspective.

Categorising Herbalists’ Names Patrons visit herbalists for a variety of physiological ailments, ranging from the physical to the unseen. The names that herbalists choose seem to be sensitive to the variety and fluidity of problems likely to inflict their clientele. Ngubane (1977), Gumede (1990), and Chavunduka (1992) posit that amongst most African societies, patients’ ailments are often connected to the supernatural. Also listed among the major causes of ailments are the sophisticated and hard-to-pin-down phenomena of wizards and witches, unwelcome visitations brought via dreams and visions, wanton spirits, as well as ancestral spirits. Ngubane (1977, p. 105) says that within African societies there exist herbal specialists for these various kinds of ailment. Acknowledging that this study on herbalists was limited, it was noted that none of the izinyanga interviewed listed an inability to heal any one particular kind of the above-listed ailments and sufferings. Evidently, the

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names ascribed to many herbalists attempt to demonstrate an ability to heal and deal with most of the problems that each client may list. Hereunder, we analyse the names of izinyanga, equally taking into consideration the kinds of ailment that they claim to be able to heal, as well as the branding prose that accompanies their marketing, drawn from fliers distributed on the streets, newspaper adverts, and materials displayed in their consultation rooms.

A: Conventional Names Gabade (soil-derived soft rock) Gabadini (earth clod) Gonondo (giant-like character) Hlabazingane (children’s healer) Izihlabathi-ziyagqibana (overlapping sands) Khekhekhe (good, thick sour milk) Mbilaphi (painful gland/lymph node) Mbobozehluzo (holes of a beer strainer) Nek’izandla (protect through hands) Ngongomesi (ruthless ‘complicator’)

Ngwaqa (the tough one) Nkonkoshela (cling-on determinately) Nyunduluka (dangerous poker) Nwelezephothwe (hair of a chatter-box bird) Phondolwesizwe (horn of the nation) Sigegede (large bulky object) Sigonondo (caudal extremity) Sigqebhu (wide opener) Siwaliwali (hasty actor) Sosobala (source of complications) Gabhalenkehli (sexual dysfunction cleaner)

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This category contains common names attributed to herbalists, which would typically be found amongst isiZulu-speaking communities. What is provided in brackets is the closest literal or symbolic meaning of the names. These names were collected from mass-media publications as well as from the key participants of the study. This list is regarded as befitting of herbalists and their vocation. A participant said, ‘as traditionally izinyanga are extremely feared and/or respected, the names they bear should ideally be appropriate for the trade’. This list of names would also be used with the prefaces ‘uhodolo, ukhokhovu, and ukhokhovula’ – all loosely meaning someone with high expertise, and somehow roughly equated to professional titles like Professor, Doctor, Advocate, etc. It must be noted that not all of these names have a readily understood meaning, suggested all eighteen participants in the study. They attested to the fact that a name given at birth would not be suitable for a herbalist. Such a name may be found to be lacking the symbolic significance associated with the ubunyanga – a trade understood to have majestic powers of healing all kinds of ailments, even the hard-to-heal diseases (see Ngubane, 1977, pp. 105–106). The capability of healing all diseases is tantamount to miracles, a factor that is eloquently captured in some of the literal meanings carried by the names on this list, for example, Mbobozehluzo (beer strainer holes – implying precision), Phondolwesizwe (trusted horn of the nation) and Nyunduluka (dangerous poker). All these names, while on one hand serving to induce trust and fear, on the other imply that these herbalists would have the expertise to deal with most conditions from which patrons may suffer. These names invoke trust to those who need healing and fear to those believed to bewitch others.

B. Names Derived From Other Professions Dr Aayan Dr Khan Dr Shabiru Dr Mamba Dr Gadaffi Dr Chingwalu Ngwalu Dr Halim Dr Usufu Dr Ambuje Prof Emma Dr G.L. Donda: ‘TRUE LOVE EXPERT Dr Mabaraka: King of love spells

Dr Abaasi Dr Ben Dr Baba Dr Solomon Mandla Dr Yoyo Dr Tom & Mama Tim Dr Alfred Dr Yassin Dr Mululi Doctor Mama Faruda Dr Mama Amina Dr Lule Dr Bax ‘Magic Rings’

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A name accompanied by the title of Dr might not necessarily mean that one is a medical doctor; instead, we found that it might be assumed by a herbalist who perceives himself/herself to be a doctor, even without the credentials. The use of shortened titles such as Dr and Prof may be noted in herbalist names in South Africa; these being titles that embody prestige, high status, and some academic value and prowess. A herbalist whose name is Dr Aayan might be more likely to be consulted than the one simply using the name Aayan. Even if he were without proof of credentials, the use of ‘Dr’ might indicate that the herbalist is welleducated and thus more knowledgeable. The name from this list, Dr G.L. Donda: ‘TRUE LOVE EXPERT’ has a kind of extension that seems to seek to persuade clients that the herbalist is a ‘doctor with expertise in love matters’. Also worthy of note is the name Dr Solomon Mandla, which is obviously derived from the biblical legend of the Old Testament depicting King Solomon, Israel’s most magnificent king who was bestowed with wisdom. The second part of the herbalist’s name, Dr Solomon Mandla, is an Nguni noun for strength or power. Names such as Dr Bax ‘Magic Rings’ serve as examples of names speaking to the customer about the services a herbalist can offer. In this case, this particular inyanga claims to have rings that attract wealth, make one attractive, and provide healing from sexual and health problems. Therefore, the customer contacts the herbalist with this name, expecting to be given a ring that will bring luck and health when worn. Names such as Dr Alfred and Prof Emma suggest that the name-bearer is knowledgeable. A customer might make use of the services of a herbalist with that title in the belief that the herbalist knows what he or she is doing. According to Ngubane (2000), a professor of onomastics within the naming practice, names might act as a mere label associated with a well-known prestigious figure. The belief is that the person named after a prominent person is likely to have similar characteristics as the one they are named after. For example, one herbalist had the name Dr Gadaffi. This name is associated with fear and perhaps respect, hence its use. It is a derivative from the name of a former Libyan revolutionary politician, His Excellency Muammar al-Gaddafi, one of the most feared African statesmen.

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C. Names Derived From and Associated with Foreign Nationality Ayubu Herbalist Achikapa Herbalist Amina Herbalist Asanda Herbalist Ali Herbalist Atuweni Herbalist Chikuni Herbalist Seph Herbalist Mwalimu International Herbalist Zamay Herbalist Amawo Herbalist

Seph Herbalist Gantsheni Herbalist Nyanda Herbalist Abuba Herbalist Basoka & M Herbalist Gaga Nakundu Sheik Runashe Herbalist Zamay Herbalist Amawo Herbalist Mawa Herbalist

This list of names was derived solely from the classified sections of newspapers assumed to be earmarking the black community, such as Ilanga and Isolezwe, as well as from leaflets distributed on the streets of the eThekwini Municipality. On phoning some of the numbers provided in the advertisements, it was found that most of the herbalists were reported to be of South African origin. We could not establish whether the people answering the telephones shared this information out of fear of repatriation. However, all of them had a good command of the isiZulu language. Traditionally, foreigners, along with visitors and strangers, are valued amongst the Zulu society and would be, for instance, in special events, treated with special respect relative to locals and family members. A number of cultural writers make reference to the existence and persistence of these sentiments among the isiZulu-speaking people (see the writings by Msimang, (1975); Magwaza, (2002); and Carton, Laband & Sithole, 2008). Vilakazi (1962) and Reader (1966) suggest that it is due to such sentiments and beliefs held by the Zulu people that the Christian missionaries found it easy to penetrate and ultimately convert many isiZulu-speaking people of KwaZulu-Natal. In accordance with herbalists, on the other hand, there is a perception amongst the Zulu people that herbalists hailing from far afield are not only the best to consult but are preferred. This is reminiscent of the saying that ‘a prophet is not without honour in his home town’. They are believed to be in possession of powerful medication, ‘an import of some significant value’, and should thus easily figure out local witches’ tricks. It would make sense for izinyanga to capitalise on this knowledge and accordingly be innovative in how they choose and/or ascribe names for their trade. In

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this instance, the semantic meaning of the name of a herbalist matters very little, while a name that looks foreign serves as a marketing tool. Coupling the respect that herbalists generally command (Kohler, 1933) with a foreign-sounding name, the clientele, in particular of an urban area, is likely to be persuaded to make use of the services of a herbalist of ‘foreign origin’.

D. Names Associated with Royalty and Chieftaincy Chief Mizinga Prince Habibi Chief Zawanda Chief Mkumbula Chief Mkhumbila King Milingo Chief Imani King Malick King Idrissa

King Malikebo King Pitaseni King Potani Herbalist Chief Idrissa The Healer King Husseni King Omar King Sibo Chief Thuli King Mwenda

In Zulu culture, chiefs and kings are deemed very important; they are associated with wealth, majestic power, leadership, and authority. Kings and chiefs serve as leaders within society and are highly important and respected. They assume the responsibility of ruling, leading, and guiding a clan, tribe, or society. Above is the list of names of izinyanga which may be associated with royalty or chieftaincy. These names are adopted by herbalists as they begin practising ubunyanga and are not necessarily birth names or imply that one is of royal stock. Amongst the Zulu people, a chief commands respect: first, as a person who is born a leader and in turn is duty-bound in this portfolio; second, as the chief’s leadership is understood to be bestowed upon him by the ancestors, there is an understanding of the existence of a connection with the supernatural world. Obviously, the significance, regard, and role of a Zulu chief is a well-known fact to herbalists and may accordingly be exploited for trade. A Zulu herbalist would have a name such as King Husseni, which might not be his birth name; this could be a way of a herbalist conveying that he is of royalty. Clients would be perceived as most likely to associate themselves with a herbalist who is respected, wealthy, has links with the ancestors, and is of high status. Machaba (2004) confirms that names are valued by Africans in this regard. They denote a mark of personal and human identification – even as in the names of herbalists. A name is capable of being a symbol of whether or not a person will flourish. This

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suggests that people purposefully construct names which speak to what is hoped for. As the social constructionism theory asserts, reality is fluid and is constructed by individuals as subjectively perceived; it is not necessarily a by-product of nature or laws. A name such as ‘Chief Idrissa The Healer’ is constructed by the bearer to communicate the perceived royal lineage and his majestic, ancestor-imbued abilities as a healer.

E. Names Indicating Family Relationships Abba Moosa Baba Moosa Baba Kadulo Baba Kawomba Baba Masamba Mkhulu Nasombe Mkhulu Khan Baba Kadulo Mkhulu Abu Baba Saidi Baba Shaba

Mkhulu Bakali Gogo Asani Baba Kanje Baba Kamanga Baba Sipuka Baba Mkweba Baba Moyo Baba Yakeen Baba Ambawalla Gogo Kamuzu: The Herbalist Gifted Lady: Mama Hanifa

Kinship and the family play an important role in Zulu society, with elderly men being the most revered. The society is patriarchal in nature, placing relatively higher value on men than on women. The seminal book publications of social anthropologists and ethnographers, Eileen Krige (1936) and Axel-Ivar Berglund (1976) eloquently capture Zulu patriarchal nuances and related patrilineal values. In addition, these authors discuss how highly regarded family is among the Zulu people, with a specific focus on the manner in which honour is bestowed upon elderly men. The family, even in contemporary times, is spoken of as going beyond the Western concept of the nuclear family. The extended family reaches beyond immediate and blood relatives to include people of the same surname and clan name. The Zulus’ patriarchal tendencies are also evident with various forms of hierarchy and reasons according high status. In particular, age hierarchy is also significant – with a predisposition to ascribe more honour and respect to first the grandfather (father’s father) and then to his next in line, the father himself. Furthermore, men and women of the age of one’s parents are accordingly addressed and given a similar regard as that given to one’s own parents. In writing about the Zulu society, Krige (1936, pp. 23–27) points out that ‘the bonds of kinship are

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very extensive and serve to bring together and knit into a group people that in European society would not be regarded as related at all’ (p. 23). She further notes, ‘[t]he hierarchy of age and the strictly patrilineal tendency makes a ‘great’ father (ubabamkhulu), a father who has absolute authority […] [and who] must be shown greatest respect […] [and] must be implicitly obeyed’ (p. 27). Herbalists who serve isiZulu-speaking people and who use family relationship terms are fully aware of these values generally held by the Zulu society. Consequently, izinyanga correlate honour, trust and the lineage values associated with a family with their own trade, hopefully assuming that their clientele will accordingly find comfort in dealing with them just as much as would have been the case with their family members. It is interesting to note that the list, as expected of a patriarchal Zulu community, has more male family terms, i.e., baba ‘father’ and mkhulu ‘grandfather’ compared with female family terms, i.e., mama ‘mother’ and gogo ‘grandmother’. The hierarchical value placed on the elderly, the grandfather and grandmother is partly owing to the wisdom they are believed to possess. Thus, these familial values of wisdom, trust, dependence and honour are put on a par with the herbalists’ profession and should attract more clients for a herbalist.

Concluding Remarks The name of a herbalist is a subject found to be meaningful and closely tied to the clientele’s identity. While, on the one hand, the study found that some herbalists adopt names that accordingly portray their trade, on the other, the names were also found to indicate the context and perceived social and cultural values held by those to which a herbalist seeks to serve and appeal. While many of the herbalists were found to be of the male gender, the clientele to whom they sought to appeal were of the female gender. In turn, it was solely women’s testimonies that were used by the herbalist marketer. This indicates societal values held in relation to women, signifying the prevalence of women’s traditional position within the family and a reflection of the wider society’s regard for women. This study has demonstrated that some elements of the herbalist trade reveal the extent to which the herbalist trade, in particular, and Zulu society in general, value both the herbalist and his or her trade as it specifically relates to a female clientele. It seems that it is an unwritten law by individual herbalists that, on the one hand, the name used in the profession is significant and, on the other, that the female clientele is the main target. However, the manner in which she is represented is gendered.

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Studying the names of herbalists is a stark reminder of the persistent regard and vast inequalities between men and women as far as their societal value is concerned. The analysis takes cognisance of an extremely unlevelled, gendered social domain that exists in South Africa.Magwaza, 2002). This study does not purport to be exhaustive but does, it is contended, demonstrate that there is a need for further research into the manner in which women are regarded and subsequently used in, for example, advertising medicine, other than the material discussed in this article.

References Berglund, A.I. (1976). Zulu thought-patterns and symbolism. Cape Town: David Philip Publishers. Calhoun, C., Gerteis, J. & Moody, J. (2007). Classic sociological theory. Chichester: Blackwell Publishing. Carton, B., Laband, L. & Sithole, J. (Eds.). (2008). Zulu identities: Being Zulu, past and present. Scottsville: University of KwaZulu-Natal Press. Chavunduka, G.L. (1992). The development of African medicine: The case of Zimbabwe. In African medicine in the modern world: proceedings of a seminar held in the Centre of African Studies. University of Edinburgh, 10 and 11 December, 1986. Edinburgh: Centre for African Studies. De Klerk, V. & Bosch, B. (1995). Naming in two cultures: English and Xhosa practices. Nomina Africana, 9(1), pp. 65–85. Gcabashe, A. (2013). Phutungwane: Traditional healing and consultation. [Online] Available from http://www.mphutungwane.co.za/community/ [Accessed: 23rd March 2012] . Gumede, M.V. (1990). Traditional healers: A medical practitioner’s perspective. Johannesburg: Skotaville Publishers. Jolles, F. & Jolles, S. (2000). Zulu ritual immunization in perspective. Africa, 70(2), pp. 229–248. Jonker, I. (2006). A study of how a Sangoma makes sense of her ‘Sangomahood’ through narrative. Pretoria: University of Pretoria. Kohler, M. (1933). The Bantu speaking peoples of southern Africa. Pietermaritzburg: Government Printer. Koopman, A. (2002). Zulu Names. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press. Krige, E.J. (1936). The social system of the Zulus. Pietermaritzburg: Shuter & Shooter.

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Lesolang, G. (2010). Stigmatization of HIV/AIDS Patients in the Context of Indigenous Healers and Spiritual Faith Healers in Limpopo Province. Polokwane: University of Limpopo. Machaba, M.A. (2004). Naming, Identity and the African Renaissance in a South African context. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal. Magwaza, (Meyiwa) T. (2002). The Conceptualization of Zulu traditional female dress in the Post-Apartheid Era. Kunapipi, Journal for PostColonial Writing, 24(1/2), pp. 193–204. Makondo, L. (2010). An exploration of prerequisite Shona naming factors. South African Journal of African Languages, 30(2), pp. 154–169. Maluleka, S. (2008, August 19). Badonswa yizinhlwathi onyanyavini lwemoto ka-3 Cent. [Online] Available from http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1G1-183361258.html. [Accessed: 21 June 2012]. Mbatha, N., Street, R.S., Ngcobo, M. & Gqaleni, N. (2012). Sick certificates issued by South African traditional health practitioners: Current legislation, challenges and the way forward. The South African Medical Journal, 102(3), pp. 129–131. Msimang, C.T. (1975). Kusadliwa ngoludala. Pietermaritzburg: Shuter & Shooter. Ngubane, S. (2000). Reclaiming Our Names: Shifts Post-1994 in Zulu Personal Naming Practices (Unpublished master’s thesis). University of Natal, Durban. Ngubane, S. & Thabethe, N. (2013). Shifts and continuities in Zulu Personal Naming Practices. Literator: Journal of Literary Criticism, Comparative Linguistics and Literary Studies, 34(1), pp. 1–7. Ngubane, H. (1977). Body and mind in Zulu medicine. London: Academic Press. Pretorius, E. (2000). Traditional Healers. University of the Orange Free State [Online] Available from: http://www.hst.org.za/uploads/files/chapter18_99.pdf. [Accessed: 13th May 2012]. Ransford, H.E., Carrillo, F.R. & Rivera, Y. (2010). Health care-seeking among Latino immigrants: Blocked access, use of traditional medicine, and the role of religion. Journal of Health Care for the Poor and Underserved, 21(3), pp. 862–878. Reader, D.H. (1966). Zulu tribe in transition: The Makhanya of southern Natal: Manchester: Manchester University Press. Sarantakos, S. (2005). Social Research. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Stanley, L. & Wise, S. (1983). ‘Back into the personal’ or our attempt to construct ‘feminist research’. In G. Bowles and R.D. Klein (Eds.), Theories of Women’s Studies (pp. 20-60). London: Routledge. Stats, S.A. (2011). Census 2011. [Online] Available from http://www.info.gov.za/events/2011/census-2011/index.html [Accessed: 12th March 2012]. Suzman, S.M. (1994). Names as pointers: Zulu personal naming practices. Language in Society, 23(2), pp. 253–272. Vilakazi, A. (1962). Zulu transformation: A study of the dynamics of social change. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press.

CHAPTER TWO XHOSA CULTURAL VALUES AND BELIEFS IN THE NAMES OF INGCIBI (TRADITIONAL SURGEON) MADODA CEKISO

Introduction In his book, Long Walk to Freedom (1995), Mandela reflects on his personal experience with a traditional ingcibi (traditional surgeon). He recollects, ‘[the] ingcibi was pale, and [I] thought the day was cold; his face was shining with perspiration. His hands moved so fast they seemed to be controlled by an otherworldly force. Without a word, he took my foreskin, pulled it forward, and then, in a single motion, brought down his assegai’ (Mandela, 1995, p. 4). Based on Mandela’s recollection, the ingcibi seems to be guided by supernatural powers during this practice. Certainly, Pauw’s (1994, p. 14) definition of ingcibi resonates with Mandela’s recollection. Pauw submits that this is a man who performs the circumcision operation on the boys in the initiation process, and he highlights that the ingcibi practice was traditionally a spiritual calling and a gift. In some instances, an ingcibi was appointed by the chief and elders. As the amaXhosa are a community that venerates ancestors and values traditional leadership, they esteem the traditional surgeons. Traditional male circumcision is a widely practised ritual among the Xhosa community. It marks the transition from childhood to manhood, and the ingcibi is at the heart of this transition because he plays an important role in serving as a gateway from boyhood to manhood for Xhosa boys. Accordingly, names given to this traditional surgeon are carefully chosen. The perception is that without the ingcibi there would be no men. In other words, without ingcibi, the Xhosa community could ‘risk having boys who are not transformed to men’ as expressed by one of the

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respondents of this study. However, it is crucial to point out that some people who serve as traditional surgeons do not follow the proper channels of becoming ingcibi (e.g. appointed by chief or community members). Hence, a number of previous authors have reported serious complications, occurring especially in the Eastern Cape Province of South Africa, where traditional circumcision has resulted in the death of boys undergoing surgery. (2005; There have been claims that, in most cases, such incidents are associated with people who circumcise boys without following the proper channels of becoming ingcibi and who have not been ‘called to the vocation. Some of these traditional surgeons run illegal initiation schools that are not registered’.The self-proclaimed ingcibi is sometimes called inkowane (mushroom), a derogatory term indicating that he is not endorsed. Furthermore, these surgeons do not have names attached to their practice whereas ingcibiis that are appointed by the chief or community members would have new, profession-related names. The aim of this chapter is to investigate the meanings of the names attached to the ingcibi and, in turn, to focus the discussion on how naming the ingcibi reflects his status in the Xhosa community and the community’s cultural values.

The Ingcibi’s Standing in the Community What has attracted the World Health Organization’s interest in this kind of a surgeon is the high regard for the ingcibi within the Xhosa culture and the fact that the health of many young men rests on his shoulders. The ingcibi is expected to be a man with a crucial standing and status in the Xhosa community and trusted for his experience in performing the procedure (WHO, 2007). The World Health Organization further describes the ingcibi as a man who has experience of circumcision practice for no fewer than ten years, who should not be a drinker, and who should be a man of discipline and, therefore, generally be accepted by the community in this capacity. Concurring with the WHO, South African-based health psychologists, Peltzer and Kanta (2009) point out that for a person to become an ingcibi in the Xhosa culture, he must be a respected, upstanding member of the community, and meet certain cultural standards of wealth (namely, have cattle, land, a home, and so on). Peltzer and Kanta further state that the skill (of circumcising boys) is passed down through generations and is taught by elder practitioners through apprenticeship. In a Peltzer-led study, it was found that, in most cases, the ingcibi is trained by another ingcibi such as a relative (father, brother or grandfather) (Peltzer, Nqeketo & Kanta, 2008). This particular perception demonstrates that not anyone can become an ingcibi; that going through circumcision

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does not qualify one to be an ingcibi. This was echoed by one informant in Peltzer and Kanta’s study (2009, p. 400) who said, ‘Not anyone is allowed to cut, this is a trade and nothing else, as you can see how big is this village, you will be surprised to realise that we only have three men qualified and acceptable to cut the prepuce, no matter how many boys to be circumcised, the village utilises these three men only’. This statement reveals that there is community involvement in the duty performed by the ingcibi and also that the community has to approve of the person who is supposed to perform the circumcision surgery. According to Pauw (1994), apart from being an initiated male of not less than ten years, the ingcibi should be a person who is distinguished by the name bestowed upon him – as a form of further invoking the respect of the Xhosa community. The ingcibi’s standing is thus endorsed by a special name which becomes part of his character. These qualities are important in the Xhosa community as there is a general belief that the circumcised boys have a tendency to acquire the behaviour of the ingcibi who circumcised them. Supporting this belief, Ngxamngxa (1971, p. 199) makes an example of Hintsa (a former traditional Xhosa chief), who after having been circumcised by the ingcibi of amaNgqosini (a Xhosa clan), a man who was known to be aggressive, turned out to fuza, meaning ‘be like’, his ingcibi by becoming a man of fiery temper. Ngxamngxa further points out that, as a result, the elders made sure that Hintsa’s brother, heir and successor, Sarhili, was circumcised by an even-tempered ingcibi of the amaKhwemta clan. Fortunately, Sarhili became a man with a non-violent character just like his ingcibi. This shows the values and beliefs attached by the Xhosa community to an ingcibi. It is the main focus of this chapter that such values and beliefs are reflected in the naming process of the ingcibi. Another community involvement in the appointment and practice of ingcibi is the name given to him by the community members. Neethling (1998) points out that the study of names cannot be isolated from their behavioural patterns and from the study of societies in which those human beings live. The focus of this chapter is on how the names of the ingcibi portray the nature of the duty they perform. The perception is that by understanding the role played by ingcibi in their communities one is likely to understand better the meaning of the names bestowed on them. The concern here is related to the questions: To what extent are the actions of ingcibi linked to their job? How is this reflected in their names? What are the character traits that the community members expect from the ingcibi that have an influence on their naming?

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Male Circumcision Procedure Male circumcision is one of the oldest and most common surgical procedures worldwide and involves the surgical removal of all or part of the foreskin of the penis. Before there were complications during traditional circumcision, the ritual used to be conducted in private and women and uncircumcised men were not allowed into the area or informed about what happens during the process (WHO 2007; Peltzer & Kanta, 2009). There are two forms of male circumcision that are widely practised: traditional and medical circumcision. The former is performed by the ingcibi and the latter by medical professionals. The practice of the former is the focus of this chapter. Describing the ingcibi circumcision operation, Dweba (2000) state that the boys are made to sit on their blankets in a row with their legs spread open. This seating arrangement is echoed by Mandela (1995, p. 4) when he points out ‘There were now two boys before the ingcibi, Mgcaleka (ingcibi name), reached me and my mind must have gone blank because, before I knew it, the old man was kneeling in front of me’. At most, traditionally, among the Xhosa community, the ingcibi uses a short spear (umdlanga) to perform the surgery. Peltzer and Kanta (2009) found that in some areas today in the Eastern Cape, the contemporary practice is to use a knife or scalpel in place of the umdlanga. Each boy is expected to remain still prior to and during the operation. In addition, Mandela (2005) points out that flinching or crying out was a sign of weakness. He further points out that the boy, on being circumcised and in severe pain, has to scream, ‘Ndiyindoda’ (I am a man). Pronouncing on his own experience about the ingcibi, Mandela (1995, p. 4) states that ‘without a word ingcibi took my foreskin, pulled it forward and then in a single motion brought down his assegai […] I looked down and saw a perfect cut, clean and round like a ring’. Mandela further states that circumcision is a trial of bravery and stoicism and no anaesthetic is used. Based on Mandela (2005), sterilisation of the instrument was not widely known or employed by the ingcibi. This idea is also supported by Wilson et al. (cited in WHO, 2007) when they point out that after cutting the foreskin, the ingcibi moves straight on to the next boy. WHO (2007) states that, symbolically, circumcision is both a death of the boy and a rebirth of the man. The death-rebirth process is symbolised through a new name that is given to the young man who has been circumcised (Cekiso & Meyiwa, forthcoming).

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Naming Procedure in the Xhosa Community Naming procedures and the meanings of personal names are well documented among the Xhosa community. Names are given to children at birth, brides at marriages, and initiates and graduate initiates during the circumcision ritual. While the special names given to ingcibi are no exception, this chapter discusses these names in order to reveal the complex nature of the message conveyed by those names. The onomastic literature listed below reveals that the research conducted in South Africa on naming among the Xhosa has focused on the names given to people at birth or during marriage. To the best knowledge of the author, no studies have been conducted in a South African context on the naming process of the ingcibi. The onomastic literature on Xhosa naming reveals that the aim of naming is not only to distinguish one individual from another but also that the meaning of the name carries more weight than mere identification (Mandende, 2009). Specifically, names are used as a tool to record important events for future reference. Neethling (2012) points out that among the Xhosa community, names express some sort of expectation and inspiration for the child from the name-givers. He further states that a common manifestation is a name that reflects a good or positive human quality or attribute, for example, Nomonde (patience), Lukhanyo (light), Mncedisi (helper) and Mthobeli (the obedient one). Thus, when the parents give a name they hope that their child will one day exhibit this particular character trait and that the child when growing up may respect his/her parents’ wishes and expectations. This idea is also echoed by Magini (2010) who points out that all Xhosa names have meaning; parents name their children with intentions, that is, each name tells a story. He further points out that one can tell if the parents are religious by examining the name, for example, Nobandla (congregation) and Kholekile (faith), or the family role people assume, for example, Phelo (last born) and Aphelele (many boys in the family, meaning that is enough). According to Neethling (2012, p. 167), when this happens the Xhosa are fond of saying ulilandeleigamalakhe, meaning he follows his name. In addition, Mandende (2009) points out that the meaning attached to African names plays a significant role in the definition of ‘personhood’ because it is believed that a given name determines the type of person the individual will be. Thus, names are believed to have an influence on the character of the bearer.

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Studies on the African culture, especially among the Xhosa-speaking people of South Africa, has revealed that special names are given to people who perform certain cultural activities. For example, there are studies that focus on the names given to graduate initiates (amakrwala); soccer teams and players; customised vehicle registration plates; and brides during marriage (Cekiso & Meyiwa forthcoming; NdimandeHlongwa, (2010); Neethling, 2012). What is common among these studies is the fact that these names are a socio-cultural interpretation of historical events and embody individual life experiences, social norms and values, status roles and authority, as well as personality and individual attributes (Guma, 2001). Having explored the naming procedures and meanings of personal names in general, the focus of this chapter is to examine the names given to the ingcibi and to establish the extent to which they comply with the normal naming procedure stated above.

Methodology This chapter is based on an empirical study conducted in South Africa (Eastern Cape Province) over a period of four months with a focus on the values and beliefs attached to the names given to the ingcibi. The study was conducted between 2012 and 2013. The names were collected from the participants who were selected purposefully from two rural districts of the Eastern Cape, namely Ngqamakhwe and Dutywa. The focus of this study was not on the name-givers but on the ingcibi. Therefore, the values and beliefs attached to the ingcibi names in this chapter should be understood as a reflection of ingcibi perspectives. The interviews of 30 to 40 minutes long were conducted in IsiXhosa, which is the mother tongue of the interviewees. Eight registered ingcibi were interviewed by the researcher who is also an IsiXhosa speaker. During this process, the researcher explored the semantic and symbolic features of the names given to the ingcibi. The participants were recorded with the permission granted by them. The area where the study was conducted is predominantly rural, well known for the practice of circumcision and largely populated by Xhosa communities. The two districts chosen share a number of cultural similarities, ranging from linguistic to cultural similarities. In this area, there have been no cases of death reported that are associated with the circumcision ritual. However, in the small area that is urban, there are cases that are reported yearly that are associated with the death of young boys who are circumcised by ingcibi who have no special professional names and are not registered. The research protocol for the study was approved by the University of North West’s Faculty of Education’s

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Research and Higher Degrees Committee in 2012. In addition, all standard protocols for research with human participants were adhered to including voluntary and informed participation, confidentiality and anonymity. This study is grounded on the Social Norms Theory. Berkowitz (2003) defines Social Norms Theory as the description that a group uses for appropriate and inappropriate values, beliefs, attitudes and behaviours. He further argues that failure by a member to stick to the rules prescribed by a group could lead to punishment, the most feared of which is exclusion. With regard to this study, this theory is relevant in explaining the social and cultural norms that govern the naming of the ingcibi. It further explains what happens to those ingcibi who do not adhere to the social norms (those who practise without being appointed officially by community members).

Name Categories The study revealed that ingcibi names were derived from various sources such as wild animals, weather conditions, events in the Bible, and the manner in which the ingcibi performs the circumcision surgery. The following table reveals how the ingcibi names were categorised: Figure 1: Name Categorisation 1. 2. 3.

Ingcibi Name Busobenja Tshovingada Sitshingitshane

Derivation Animal Animal Weather condition

4.

Nogumbe

Bible

5.

Mjubane

6.

Skofiyane

7.

Qwayi

8.

Bathunuke

Manner in which circumcision surgery is performed Manner in which circumcision surgery is performed Manner in which circumcision surgery is performed Manner in which circumcision surgery is performed

Meaning Serious face Powerful Tornado/cause destruction within a short time Noah’s Catastrophic Flood To cut To cut slowly To move as fast as lightning Inflict pain

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Names Associated with Animals Many cultures through the ages have regarded specific animals as representing gods, power and the supernatural. The IsiXhosa-speaking people are no exception. In this category, it was observed that the names given to the ingcibi were associated with some animals. In most cases, they were associated with fearful wild animals. For example, one interviewee mentioned that the name given to him by community members was Busobenja (literally meaning dog’s face). In IsiXhosa language, when they refer to a serious face they say ‘Uvatheinja’ (wearing a dog). This also means that one is wearing a dog’s mask in order to disguise or to frighten. The interviewee indicated that this name was given to him because when he approaches the boys for circumcision he does not smile to them. He mentioned that he decided to adopt this attitude so as to perform the operation with great speed. Discussing the symbolic representation of dogs, Batoma (2009) argues that this representation is formed through a metaphoric correlation between the name and its bearer in which the name reflects certain characteristics of the bearer. Another ingcibi name associated with animals was Tshovingada (literally meaning pushing a wild cat). This name, according to the interviewee, refers to the power and status he grants the boys after circumcision. Among the amaXhosa, circumcision allows the men to share in the full privileges and duties of the community; to acquire knowledge which is otherwise unavailable; to gain respect and to be entitled to marry (Mtuze, 2004). Therefore, the name Tshovingada was given by the male community members to this ingcibi as they saw him as a gateway for their sons from boyhood to manhood. His duty was to give the boys power and responsibility by converting them to men. The interviewee who is about fifty years old and who owns three taxis mentioned the following about his name: ‘This name refers to the fact that when I perform the circumcision surgery I do not negotiate with the boys. The fact that they have invited me to come and perform the surgery means that there is no turning back. Once the boys are presented to me, my duty is to make sure that I grant them power through circumcision’. The power granted to the boys mentioned by the participant is not strange among the Xhosa community. There is a general belief that circumcision is a gateway to adulthood and, therefore, adulthood goes hand in hand with responsibility. According to Jennelurt (2011), animals are common in the naming of persons and for some reason men have animal species in their names much more often than women. This could be attributed to the community belief that men are considered more powerful and expected to be stronger than women.

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Through circumcision, a Xhosa man acquires a new status and is required to be tough, brave, and display leadership skills. Jennelurt (2011) points out that, in most cases, animal qualities such as speed, strength, courage or cunning are supposed to be transferred to the bearer of the name. Thus, images of animals generate perceptions that have a profound effect on naming the ingcibi in the Xhosa community.

Names Associated with the Weather Conditions The names in this category are associated with the weather conditions that are forceful and destructive. One interviewee, in the early sixties age range, mentioned that his name was Sitshingitshane (Tornado). The name is derived from the fact that a tornado moves with great speed and performs its destruction within a short space of time. With confidence, he mentioned that ‘In many cases I perform surgery to five or six boys at a time. In such circumstances I perform the surgery to all the boys within few minutes without taking a break’. Sitshingitshane also mentioned that ‘This name was bestowed on me because I sometimes perform circumcision surgery to boys in different locations. In such cases I would use my horse as a means of transport. In my location, circumcision is performed very early in the morning. Therefore I am supposed to move from one location to the other so that I can finish my job before sunrise. When I approach the village, the men only see dust caused by my galloping horse and they say I move like a tornado’. According to Lantern, Ndlovu and Sibanda (2012), African people use names that are associated with natural hazards. In their study of the Ndebele children’s names, they observed that some names were associated with tropical cyclones. This finding is similar to how the Xhosa community names the ingcibi, for example Sitshingitshane (Tornado). As already indicated above, Jennelurt (2011) mentions how animal qualities, like speed, are associated with naming human beings. This animal quality suits this ingcibi’s name perfectly as he moves with great speed from one location to another.

Christian Influence in Naming Ingcibi Another interviewee mentioned that his name was Nogumbe (Noah’s Catastrophic Flood in Genesis 5: 32–10: 1). The interviewee who is a teacher by profession said that ‘This name was given to me by the male community members and it refers to the fact that I destroy boyhood in favour of manhood. My duty is to create responsible people (men) who are different from dogs’ (boys are perceived as dogs in the Xhosa

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community). The name is derived from the fact that after God destroyed the earth by heavy water, after the water had subsided, the earth was beautiful. Therefore, Nogumbe refers to the power granted by community members to this ingcibi to destroy boyhood and save manhood, just as God destroyed the earth and saved Noah and his family. In the context of the study, this could mean that after the destruction of boyhood, responsible people emerge. Thus, the ingcibi has the power to create something valuable out of nothing. In addition, Magini (2010) states that the Christian religion has an influence on the naming process of the African people. He further points out that by examining the name one can tell that the name-giver was religious.

Names Associated with how the Ingcibi Perform the Circumcision The names bestowed on the ingcibi in this category reflect the manner in which ingcibi handles the surgery. Despite the fact that the literature on onomastics reveals that the name-givers bestow names in the hope that the bearer will follow the attributes of his name, the names mentioned in this category seem to follow a different trend. For example, all the names in this category are influenced by the person’s (ingcibi’s) behaviour. Thus, their names are derived from their actions unlike in situations where the name determines one’s behaviour. One interviewee said that ‘The name given to me by male community members is Mjubane. This name is derived from the fact that my duty is to cut the boys’ foreskins during circumcision. Therefore, this name reflects my trade as ingcibi’. The name Mjubane in the Xhosa language means ‘to cut’. It is therefore clear that this ingcibi acquired a name associated with his practice. Kripke (cited in Lycan, 2000) points out that a name refers to something because there is a special relationship between the use of the name and the item to which it refers. In other words, names have a causal connection to the objects they describe. This argument is in line with the names discussed in this category as they originate from the skills of the ingcibi. Another interviewee, a dignified middle-aged man who started out as a traditional nurse ikhankatha said that: The name that was given to me is Skofiyana ‘using a blunt instrument to cut’. This name was given to me because when I started to circumcise boys I was using a blunt umdlanga ‘spear’. This blunt umdlanga I was using would take me a long time to finish the circumcision surgery. In some cases, due to the long time I used to take to perform the operation,

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boys would try to run away before the surgery was finished. In such cases men were forced to intervene by holding the boy tight so that I could finish the surgery.

Therefore, the name Skofiyana was given to this ingcibi because of the pain and delay he was exercising on boys during the surgery. As already indicated above, the ability to perform the surgery with speed is important among the Xhosa-speaking people. Since no anaesthetic is used, the ingcibi has to perform the circumcision surgery fast so as to avoid pain. Therefore, this ingcibi was given a name that suggests his slow pace in performing the circumcision surgery. According to Dobric (2010), a name is associated with descriptive content; the name refers to whoever best fits the content and, in these terms, this ingcibi’s name best fits his actions. Another ingcibi was called Qwayi, meaning ‘to move fast’. Qwayi said the following: ‘This name was given to me due to the fact that my hand moves fast while performing the surgery. I do not waste time because I know how painful the surgery is. It is only a matter of seconds and I am done’. Such an ingcibi is proud of his speed in carrying out the circumcision surgery and the assumption is that the community members appreciate what he is doing as this is reflected in the name bestowed on him. Borkfelt (2011) contends that the naming process sometimes does not rely on the thoughts and perceptions of the name-givers but on concrete occurrences leading to the ascribing of a name, and the ingcibi names discussed in this category are similarly based on concrete occurrences leading to the bestowing of a name. Another ingcibi was named Bathunuke, meaning ‘To prick the wound’. He said that ‘This name was given to me because I perform two duties, that is, to circumcise and play the role of ikhankatha (meaning ‘Traditional nurse’). I am well known of looking after the boys I have circumcised. I always make it a point that the boys are in good condition and their wounds are healing well. In the process of dressing their wounds I sometimes inflict pain to the boys’. In the isiXhosa language, ‘to inflict a pain’ is known as Ukuthunuka, therefore, the name Bathunuke refers to the pain the ingcibi inflicts on the boys. The literature on onomastics has revealed that there is a relationship between language and social behaviour, for example, Mphande (2006) states that the vocabulary of a language is a window into the collected knowledge of its speakers and their views of the world around them. Thus, the names given to the ingcibi in this category reflect the relationship between the ingcibi’s behaviour and the existence of the relevant language to describe that behaviour, as reflected in the names given.

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Deviations: Nameless Ingcibi While the ingcibi is ideally a person trained by his predecessor with skills being handed down from one generation to the next, in a contemporary period characterised by much greater social change, mobility and cultural disruptions, the training and competence of the ingcibi is not always assured. Some injuries from incorrect surgery, such as too much skin being removed, are the results of the ingcibi performing the operation under the influence of alcohol, and it might also be due to the use of alcohol by the initiates themselves (Vincent, 2008). In most cases among the Xhosa community, the above-mentioned examples are caused by ingcibi who are nameless and not granted permission by community members to circumcise. According to WHO (2007, p. 8), in recent times, a mushrooming of self-proclaimed ingcibi has been motivated by financial incentives. These inkowane ‘mushrooms’, as they are sometimes referred to, are naturally frowned upon by the established community of ingcibi. One interviewee revealed that those ingcibi who practise the procedure without the blessing of the community embark on a process accompanied by a high prevalence of deaths and mutilations as a consequence of botched surgery. He further stated that those inkowane have no names yet they perform the surgery without the permission of the parents. Instead, they tell the circumcised boys that when they are asked who circumcised them, they must say that the operation was conducted by ‘a man wearing a red shirt’. It becomes problematic for the boys’ parents to trace those ingcibi as there are many men who wear red shirts in the townships. The perception is that when the surgery is performed by a nameless ingcibi who has not been appointed by the community, this might lead to botched surgery. As was mentioned earlier, this study is grounded on the Social Norms Theory which categorically states that deviations from the rules prescribed by a group could lead to punishment. Perhaps the deaths that are associated with the nameless ingcibi are a sign of what happens to those individuals who deviate from the social norms.

Conclusion The names of the Xhosa ingcibis are coined by the male members of the community and are linked to the job they perform. Their names are derived from various sources such as wild animals, weather conditions, events in history or the Bible, and the manner in which the ingcibi perform the circumcision surgery. These names symbolise the beliefs and values of the communities and also symbolise the fear of these animals’ powers.

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These are two important traits among the amaXhosa that signify a real man. The names associated with the animals bestowed on ingcibi symbolise the power vested on them by the community members through their names and such powers are assumed to be transferred to the initiates by an ingcibi. Similarly, the ingcibi names associated with weather conditions also signify fear and power. For example, isitshingitshane, meaning ‘tornado’, is well known to signify something powerful that moves at great speed. Thus, the forces of nature are used to name the ingcibi and portray their features. When it comes to a name that reflects events in history, such names for particular events are preserved in the names bestowed on ingcibi and on the manner in which the ingcibi conduct themselves as they perform the surgery. Despite the fact that performing the procedure with great speed is appreciated, there are those ingcibi that do not move as fast as expected. For such an ingcibi, the name given is negative but truly reflects the manner in which he performs the surgery. As male circumcision is a rite of passage from boyhood to manhood, it is supposed to follow certain procedures that adhere to traditional beliefs; however, deviations from such procedures may result in botched surgery. For example, the nameless ingcibi is not recognised by the community members, but the ingcibi who is recognised by the name bestowed on him by the community members earns respect and authority.

References Batoma, A. (2009). Onomastics and indirect communication among the Kabre of Northern Togo. Nordic Journal of African Studies, 18(3), pp. 215–234. Berkowitz, A.D. (2003). Applications of Social Norms Theory to Other Health and Social Justice Issues. In H. Wesley-Perkins (Ed.), The Social Norms Approach to Preventing School and College Age Substance Abuse: A Handbook for Educators, Counselors, Clinicians. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.. Borkfelt, S. (2011). What’s in a name? Consequences of naming nonhuman animals. Animals,1. pp. 116–125. Cekiso, M. & Meyiwa, T. (in press). Reflection of values and masculinity in the naming process of Xhosa amakrwala (graduate initiates), Journal of Social Sciences. Dobric, N. (2010).Theory of names and cognitive linguistics: The case of the metaphor. Klagenfurt: Alpen-Adria Universitat.

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Dweba, H.Z. (2000). The Implications of the Proclamation: Regulation of Traditional Circumcision in the Eastern Cape Province. [Online] Available from: https://www.google.co.za/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&c d=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiHoN2flYDOAhWJIsAKHfRl DP4QFggcMAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.malecircumcision.org %2Fsites%2Fdefault%2Ffiles%2Fdocument_library%2FSouth_Africa _MC_case_study_May_2008_002_0.pdf&usg=AFQjCNELs_JmIZoY 7ywRx-s0Wre8t24koQ&sig2=gV4-9mtBzmQCYAAIB2pdCQ. [Accessed: 13 July 2015]. Guma, M. (2001). The cultural meaning of names among Basotho of southern Africa: A Historical and Linguistic Analysis. Nordic Journal of African Students, 10(3), pp. 265–279. Jennelurt, K. (2011). Animals and humans: Recurrent symbiosis in Archaeology and Norse Religion. [Online] Available from http://books.google.co.za/books?id=p62gMfv6 [Accessed: 16 January 2014]. Lantern, B., Ndlovu, L. & Sibanda, F. (2012). Ndebele children’s names as reservoirs of history and culture. Greener Journal of Arts and Humanities, 4(1), pp. 7–14. Lycan, W.G. (2000). Philosophy of language. Routledge: London. Magini, S. (2010). List of Xhosa names and their meanings. Available: isizwe samaXhosa. [Online] Available from WMV-you-tube. [Accessed: 14 September 2013]. Mandende, I.P. (2009). A study of Tshivenda personal names (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of South Africa, Pretoria. Mandela, N. (1995). Long walk to freedom. London: Little, Brown and Company. Mphande, L. (2006). Naming and linguistic Africanisms in African American culture. Paper presented at the 35th Annual Conference on African Linguistics, Somerville. Mtuze, P.T. (2004). Introduction to Xhosa culture. Alice: Lovedale Press. Ndimande-Hlongwa, N. (2010). Nicknames of South African soccer teams and players as symbols of approbation in a multilingual and multicultural country. South African Journal of Languages, 30(1), pp. 88–97. Neethling, B. (1998). Amabokoboko and other species: Names in South African sport. Nomina Africana, 12(2), pp. 57–73. —. (2012). Naming in the Muslim and Xhosa communities: A comparative analysis. South African Journal of African Studies, 32(2), pp. 161–166.

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Ngxamngxa, A.N.H. (1971). The function of circumcision among the Xhosa-speaking tribes in historical perspective. In E.J. de Jager (Ed.), Man: anthropological essays presented to O.F. Raum. Cape Town: Struik. Pauw, H.C. (1994). The Xhosa. Port Elizabeth: Institute for Planning Research, University of Port Elizabeth. Peltzer, K. & Kanta, X. (2009). Medical circumcision and manhood initiation rituals in the Eastern Cape, South Africa: a post intervention evaluation. Culture, Health & Sexuality: An International Journal for Review, Intervention and Care, 11(1), pp. 83–97. Peltzer, K., Nqeketo, A. & Kanta, X. (2008). Evaluation of a safer male circumcision training programme for traditional surgeons and nurses in the Eastern Cape, South Africa. Complementary and Alternative Medicine, 5(4), pp. 346–354. Stinson, K. (2007). Male Circumcision in South Africa: How does it relate to public health? [Online] Available from http://.africanvoices.co.za/culture/circumcision.htm. [Accessed: 12 February 2012]. Vincent, L. (2008). Boys will be boys: Traditional Xhosa male circumcision, HIV and sexual socialization in contemporary South Africa. Culture, Health and Sexuality, 10(5), pp. 431–446. World Health Organization. (2007). Male circumcision policy practice and services in the Eastern Cape of South Africa. [Online] Available from: http:/www.malecircumcision.org/resources/doc [Accessed: 17th September 2013].

CHAPTER THREE HLONIPHA: THE NAMING OF NEWLY MARRIED WOMEN AMONG THE ABATHEMBU OF EASTERN CAPE, SOUTH AFRICA CARINA NOMFUZO ROZANI

Introduction and Background to the AbaThembu People This chapter analyses the meanings of names given to the oomakoti (newly married women) among the abaThembu ethnic group of the Eastern Cape Province in South Africa. It focuses on the evolution of the oomakoti naming practice through time. During the previous eras, oomakoti used to show a lot of respect for their in-laws. This respect was not only reflected in the ways they spoke, dressed and generally behaved when relating to their in-laws, but also in their naming practices. The use of the hlonipha ‘respect’ language was one of the most significant signs and performances of respect for in-laws by oomakoti. Differences can be discerned in the new generation of oomakoti. In the twenty-first century, for instance, the oomakoti generally shun the hlonipha language. This chapter zooms in on the relationship of the oomakoti’s names and the values and attitudes expected of them. The language is referred to as ukuhlonipha (to give respect). The names of newly married women shaped by colonial modernity such as ‘No-iron’ are contrasted with those of the twenty-first century which depict liberation and the profound influence that the newlymarried women have on their in-laws. The AbaThembu are an ethnic group found in the southern Nguni area of the Eastern Cape, South Africa (see Pauw, 1994; Mtuze, 2004). They are mainly concentrated between Mthatha and the Kei River (Soga, 1930) and they speak the isiXhosa language. The AbaThembu are generally proud of their culture (De Klerk, & Bosch, 1995; Neethling, 2005). They revere

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Indigenous Knowledge Systems (IKS) and still practise amasikonezithethe ‘traditional customs and beliefs’ – a part of their culture which was looked down upon during the colonial era and is significantly waning in most black South African societies. Among the customs and beliefs they practise are rituals of initiating the oomakoti into a new relationship with their in-laws. One of the indigenous practices that forms the basis of the identity of the abaThembu is with respect to the new members of the family who are bestowed with new names. This is because it is taboo to refer to a married woman by her original name in abaThembu’s culture. Usually, it is the mother-in-law, ‘oomazala’, who gives the name. The practice still continues although the names reflect a marked difference from those bestowed to older generations of oomakoti. Another practice takes place as newly married women are initiated into the ways and life of the new family. Newly married women are expected to endure difficulties and never reveal these to their blood relatives. The condition of being bullied by in-laws is referred to as ukuhota/ukuhotiswa (initiation into the new family). During the ukuhota, the newly married woman is familiarised with the code of conduct in her new home. She is expected to be meek, respectful and abide by all the rules laid down by the new family. She must especially use the hlonipha language with particular stress on avoiding the use of syllables that are close to their father-in-law’s name.

Research Design and Methodology The research purposefully sampled 66 elderly married and widowed women and 15 young women whose names were found to reflect crucial aspects of the abaThembu naming system. Qualitative research methods were used to collect and interpret data. Focus group discussions over a period of two months were the main source of data. The participants ranged from 16 to over 90 years of age. Those who showed a stronger commitment to abaThembu culture and sounded more knowledgeable about the oomakoti naming system among the abaThembu were purposively selected for in-depth interviews. Thus, purposive sampling was employed in selecting the key informants. As Neuman (2006, p. 268) posits, purposive sampling ‘is appropriate to select unique cases that are especially informative’. Neumann (ibid) further argues that purposive sampling is used ‘to identify particular types of cases for in-depth investigation to gain a deeper understanding’. Sample participants for this study were strategically drawn from elderly married women because they

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have been immersed in the oomakoti naming system for a long time. Discussion topics and questions centred on the art of naming; whose responsibility it is to give a name to a new member among the abaThembu and why; what worth the name brings to the oomakoti; the etymology of names; the impact of given names on the oomakoti; why names of the oomakoti of the twentieth century have the prefix ‘No’; the importance of variations in the patterns of naming; and aspects of the hlonipha language, and so on.

The Art of Naming among the AbaThembu Tyatyeka (1994) argues that a name predicts a responsibility and hope on the person to whom it is bestowed. The name usually carries expectations of the family in which the named person lives and relates. Among the abaThembu, the process of naming is considered a work of art that requires certain skills. The naming of the oomakoti is particularly a prerogative of experienced elders who are acquainted with indigenous knowledge vis-à-vis the abaThembu’s cultural values and naming systems. This section provides general aspects of the abaThembu naming system as these were manifested in the names and naming of some of the oomakoti used for the study. In the course of the research for this chapter, an interesting discovery was made where a participant explained she was named Nobantu because she had a good influence on her in-laws before she was initiated into that family. Nobantu says her then fiancé told her that he had a bad argument with her mother-in-law because after the death of his father she had conceived a child from an acquaintance. Nobantu opened her fiancé’s eyes to the folly and injustice of attempting to suppress his mother’s sexuality and feelings. That was when her fiancé brought the family together, apologised to his mother and restored family coherence. Nobantu said her suitor was so humbled that he respected her sense of judgement and understanding. Udadobawo (the husband’s aunt), said they would name their new addition Nobantu because she had helped them to begin talks about reconciliation in the family even before she formally became part of it. The name Nobantu is bestowed on a newly married wife with the expectations that she will accept and respect all of her in-laws. ‘Bantu’ means people and the name has connotations of love of people, in general, love of family, and a desire to bring communities together. A person bestowed with this name is expected to be dependable, generous and to unite people from all angles of life. Yet there are oomakoti who do not live

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up to these expectations. One newly married woman was named Nozigigaba by her in-laws because her mother-in-law disapproved of her marriage to her son. The name constantly reminded her of the extra effort she had to put in to convince her mother-in-law that she was ‘fit’ to be the oomakoti in the family. The name Nozigigaba denotes bad deeds and is often used in South African fiction to identify characters with reprehensible behaviour. A good example is the case of Yolisa Madolo’s (2001) novel, Imiphanda ichithwa Ngabamelwane where a character named Nozigigaba would do anything to get rich quick, including killing blood relatives in order to access money from their insurance companies. Another interesting case involves the expectation-cum-task placed on the oomakoti to help in transforming the husband’s bad character and habits. The oomakoti’s name would suggest the in-laws’ hope that the oomakoti would make strides in taming him. One participant who is married to a young man known to be very rough indicated that she was given the name Nothembile by her husband’s parents who trusted her with the task of correcting his behaviour. Nothembile means that the parents were hopeful that the oomakoti could save their son. Nothembile claimed that she has lived up to that expectation and her husband is now more cordial and sociable. The names of oomakoti from the previous centuries among the abaThembu show a unique structure and morphology. Most of the names had to carry the prefix ‘No’, which was used to separate women from men, and girls from boys. However, the prefix ‘No’ is absent in most present-day names of oomakoti because, generally, most oomakoti among the current generation of abaThembu people resist its usage, arguing that it is inherently discriminative. In this light, as a marker of gender, the prefix ‘No’ used in reference to oomakoti is viewed as confining women to patriarchally designated gender roles which often conflict with their modern social, family and work commitments. One participant named Mamaduna after her panegyric legend said her mother was named Noayin. The name was derived from the English word ‘iron’ and was ascribed to her because she was expected to iron out difficulties within the new family. Noayin’s daughter narrated that her mother was her father’s second wife. After the death of his first wife who left behind five children, two of whom were of a very tender age, Noayin was expected to iron out their life creases by raising the children well. The irony is that while she managed to raise and educate the children, she bore the old man seven more children who also did well in education. She said she is also proud of her mother because she managed that big family with great strength,

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dedication and humility, ‘ironing’ out every difference that arose between the fostered and her own children. Similarly, one elderly participant was named Nowaka. Her name meant she was expected to cater for the big family she was joining. Derived from the noun iwaka, meaning ‘thousand’, Nowaka hyperbolically suggests carrying a thousand dependants on her shoulders. Nowaka revealed that there were nine men in the family, of which her husband was the first born. Ironically, while Nowaka was appreciated by her parents-in-law, her husband treated her with disrespect such that, after she had borne nine children, she decided to quit the family and look for a job in Johannesburg. The intensifying encroachment of Western modernity on the social, economic and cultural lives of the abaThembu has taken a toll on their naming practices. In the twentieth century, when most abaThembu were able to send their children to school and later to higher institutions of learning, they exposed them to other cultures which had various influences on the ways they perceived traditional culture. Some in-laws used the newly acquired Western notions of the modern woman to name the oomakoti. For instance, a woman who was educated but not well received by her in-laws was named NoCollege. Here the suffix ‘education’ indicates the object of the oomakoti’s reprehensibility. However, the same name (NoCollege) was also ascribed to another woman in another family appreciating the fact that she had gone through college and was considered a blessing to that family. Another example of the influence of Western thought on the abaThembu naming system can also be found in the naming of one participant as NoMelika. She was of the view that her inlaws were enchanted by American life and culture to the extent of using it to name their oomakoti as their honourable expression of her. Another participant was named NoEurope because her husband, who was of royal birth, had lived in exile in Europe. Naming his wife NoEurope was not only a way of archiving his experience for future remembrance but also a constant expression of the pride the family derived from having one of their own visiting and living in Europe. Another aspect is that, as part of abaThembu spirituality, ancestors are believed to play prominent roles in the families of the living. The ancestors are viewed as constantly keeping watch over the family and also blessing it. Their presence is also appreciated and honoured through naming the oomakoti after them. The oomakoti carrying the name of the ancestor assumes symbolic significance as a site to remember the ancestor and to honour their benevolence. Through naming, the living express their hope that the new name-bearer would follow the ancestor’s footsteps or

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have the ancestors’ admirable qualities rub off on her. One participant who was named according to this practice was Novusile, which means ‘one who has woken up’ the family and built the homestead anew. Novusile said that her in-laws’ family was torn apart as most of the family members had gone to the big cities for decades and could not come back because of colonial laws. The name originally belonged to her spouse’s late aunt and it fitted the oomakoti’s new challenge. The author of this chapter was herself given the name Nozingisa by her father and mother-in-law. They told the family during the session of ukuyala (session of giving advice on how to live in the marriage) that the name carried their wish that the new member persevere and stay in the family because male members of that family usually lose interest in the first wife and move on to a second and even a third wife. The name was supposed to be both a constant warning and source of motivation to break the family jinx. The prefix ‘No’ means that the name belongs to the old generation. Zingisa, meaning ‘persevere’, reveals the expectation that the oomakoti would have courage against what the family believed to be a generations-long ‘curse’ in the family. If (due to circumstances beyond the control of the bearer) the expectations are not met, some family members may blame the oomakoti for being a coward. However, some family members may sympathise with her because she would have accepted the name and the challenge without question, as per traditional custom.

Variations in the Naming Patterns In recent years, the naming of oomakoti among the abaThembu has ceased to follow a fixed pattern or system shaped by tradition. Many families now deviate from the traditional processes of naming oomakoti. Some newly married women are named after their panegyric legends/patronymic names (iziduko). Families that follow this system argue that there is no need to follow customs that oppress women by demanding that they lose their original names and identity. In another case, a mother-in-law refused to name her daughter-in-law arguing that her original name means a lot to those who gave it and changing it would be tantamount to totally cutting off the link between the daughter-in-law and her parents. However, there is a downside to this. In the traditional sense, oomakoti are viewed as new members of the family who must shed their original family identity and adopt that of their new family. This means that if the oomakoti does not get a new name to initiate her into the new family, she becomes a family outcast. More so, the oomakoti in abaThembu traditional culture often

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boast about how much they are appreciated by their in-laws. The bestowal of a new name is usually regarded as something that gives the oomakoti self-esteem and a sense of belonging to the new family; it is something that they can boast about. Another naming system gaining currency is the use of church pastors or elders to name oomakoti. One family asked the wife of the minister of the church where the in-laws were members to name their oomakoti. This is a marked deviation from the traditional norm because it is the prerogative of members of the family who should undertake this task. One participant who was named according to this system had the name Nobantu ascribed to her. The name generally means ‘one who belongs to the people’. This name has connotations of generosity and its bearer would be expected to unite people, treat people with respect, and have leadership qualities. The minister’s wife who named her expected her to accommodate different personalities of people and so did her family. She claims that she lived up to that expectation and her house is often inundated with relatives of her husband even though he left her for another woman. After his death, members of her family and the church visit her frequently as they find her accommodative.

Fertility in Families Marriage is almost always conceived as the first step to keeping the clan and the family name alive among the abaThembu. Marriages are, therefore, expected to result in the bearing of children who will take the clan name into the next generation. Some of the names encountered during the course of this research reflect this envisaged multiplication of the family. One such name is Nochumile. The name is derived from ukuchuma, meaning ‘fertility’. Nochumile’s first child, a daughter, was named Chuma, as the family was still aspiring for fertility. Her second born, a boy, was named Wanda, meaning ‘the family/household has multiplied’. One participant who was named Nokwandisa from ukwandisa, meaning ‘to multiply’, by her husband’s uncle1 said she was so named to carry the family’s expectation for the family to increase. As oomakoti are usually responsible for family household chores, a mother-in-law would normally be happy to have someone relieving her of 1

In this case, uncle refers to the brother of a father-in-law.

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the duties, especially as she ages and loses her energy. One family believed that Qamata or ‘God/Supreme Being’ had answered their prayers when an elderly woman who had one son, the last born after seven daughters, brought a spouse who was named Nophumzile or ‘peaceful’. This name had connotations of hope that the elderly woman would be relieved of the burden of household chores; she could now afford to rest and enjoy her old age. Her daughters had married and moved away from home. She says her daughter-in-law brought joy and relief to her homestead. Nophumzile says she is also blessed with seven children of mixed sexes to the delight of her ageing mazala (mother-in-law). Few participants, such as Nomayithi, indicated that they did not know the meaning attached to their names. They just accepted the names as mandatory constructions of a rite of passage to signify that they are fully compliant with their culture. However, Nomayithi revealed that despite her ‘meaningless’ name, other aspects of the initiation process made her aware of her new family’s expectations and her role in the family.

Contemporary Developments in the Naming Process The oomakoti of the twenty-first century are changing the course of abaThembu culture in many respects, especially in the process of naming. As alluded to above, names given to oomakoti in the previous era were connected to the process of ukuhota. The initiation process is now widely contested and resisted by the new generation of oomakoti and so is the naming system linked to it. The second casualty of the changing times is the prefix ‘No’. The shunning of the usage of this old way of naming indicates a marked paradigm shift in the way the abaThembu name oomakoti these days. Thus, while the abaThembu still have the same expectations for oomakoti, they are now careful not to interfere with their rights as individuals. The new generation of oomakoti enjoys basic rights and freedoms which have impacted on and changed the old ways of identifying and naming them.

Use of Hlonipha Language, the Language of Respect among AbaThembu There is a degree to which the naming of the oomakoti is essentially an expression of power over her by the family into which she is marrying. It is the power to change her identity – to shed her old self and to initiate her into a new one. However, newly married women among the abaThembu

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also enjoy naming rights and power. This power is checked by customs, chief among which is the hlonipha language. Hlonipha is a noun which means ‘respect’. Its verb form can be interpreted as ‘give respect’, as AbaThembu women are taught to respect in-laws at all times. This respect is often shown in the system of their naming practices. Oomakoti are not allowed to use or call out names that are connected to the name of the male in-laws. The oomakoti are expected to show respect to the male inlaws by devising linguistic means of avoiding names or sounds related to them. For instance, one participant indicated that she was told to avoid all words that have the sound bha, bhe, bhi, bho, and bhu because the name of her father-in-law was Bhatala. Thus, when she talked about the goats, which are called iibhokhwe in isiXhosa, she would say iitsokhwe. This participant also decided to change isabhokhwe, meaning ‘the sjambock’, into isayhokhwe. Another example was the oomakoti who was married to the son of a man called Swekile – she referred to swekile (or ‘sugar’) as shukela to avoid the ‘swe’ part of Swekile in her in-law’s name. Where some oomakoti would not have devised means to avoid words and sounds, gestures would be used, for instance, to refer to sugar until the shopkeeper understood her. In this respect, oomakoti are taught by mothers-in-law and aunts to use their discretion in their naming systems to balance the need to make sense and avoid using certain words and sounds. The following is a list of some of the names and words which have been renamed and replaced with names and words in hlonipha language. They were furnished by some of the study’s participants: Nouns

Original Name

Dog Sjambock Goat Water Food Sheep House Sugar Money Cow dung Hands Milk

manjati sabhokhwe bokwe manzana/amanika mdlambila gushingalo ndlumbini Swelimali mali malongwe sandlana lubisi

Noun in siXhosa inja isabhokhwe ibhokhwe amanzi ukudla igusha indlu swekile imali ubulongwe izandla ubisi

Hlonipha Name ikhanka or ibetha isayhokhwe itsokhwe amayila/imvoto ukumala isikapu inkumba shukela ityhosha ubunameka izamnkelo umeleko

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Kraal Person

sibaya bantwini

isibaya umntu

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umguqukisa umnawuki

Verbs Drinking tea Scoop Wash

phumani khango hlalukana

ukurhaqa ukukha ukuwasha

ukuphunga ukubhixa ukuhlamba

Go Take Eat

mhambi tabatha mtya

hamba thatha yitya

nawuka gamatha mala

Adverbs It is dark Tomorrow To the moon Monday Saturday Behind

mnyameni miso nyanga mvulo gqiba mvandaba

kumnyama ngomso enyangeni ngoMvulo ngoMgqibelo emva

kumntsama ngonawuko entwasa ngoMsombuluko ngoMphethelo empetha

Interestingly, in the case of Swekile above, we see that the original name Swelimali has nothing to do with Swekile. Swelimali (lack of money) originated from the fact that the in-law bestowed with the name came from a poverty-stricken family. He had no money. Swekile, on the other hand, means sugar. However, the mere fact that both names use ‘swe’ means they had to be avoided hence the adoption of the renaming of swekile (sugar) as shukela. In some cases, the oomakoti’s respect goes beyond avoiding calling names that have similar words or sounds to those of their male in-laws. If the inlaw’s name denotes or connotes something edible, the oomakoti may choose not to eat that food. For instance, where the in-law’s surname is Lubisior Ntusi (both words mean ‘milk’) the newly married women may choose not to consume milk as a sign of respect for the in-laws. One participant in a focus group discussion for this research claimed that among previous abaThembu generations, some women who married into families with names such as Lubisi and Ntusi would refuse to take a bath in water treated with detergents. This is because the water initially turns ‘milky’ white and bathing in it would be akin to taking a ‘bath in their inlaws’.

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Conclusion This chapter attempted to offer a glimpse of abaThembu cultural heritage vis-à-vis their naming practices during the initiation rite of passage. The naming of oomakoti is one of the first steps in orienting the new member of the family into its family culture and life. The naming patterns discussed in this study show that in spite of massive exposure to foreign cultures and customs, as well as some changes to their own cultural beliefs, the abaThembu are still a culturally intact group. The study also noted key changes in the naming of the current generation of oomakoti. Such changes have been traced to the increasing autonomy, personal rights and freedom guaranteed to women by national laws. However, the abaThembu may take comfort in the fact that they can still name their newly married women and that such names continue to reflect critical aspects of abaThembu cultural life.

References De Klerk, V. & Bosch, B. (1995). Naming in two cultures: English and Xhosa practices. Nomina Africana, 9(1), p. 65–85. Madolo, Y. (2001). Imiphanda ichithwa ngabamelwane. Pretoria: Academica. Mtuze, P.T. (2004). Introduction to Xhosa culture. Alice: Lovedale Press. Neethling, B. (2005). Naming Among the Xhosa of South Africa. New York: Edwin Mellen Press. Neumann, W.L. (2006). Social Research Methods: Qualitative and Quantitative Approaches. New York: Pearson Education, Inc. Pauw, H.C. (1994). The Xhosa. Port Elizabeth: Institute for Planning Research, University of Port Elizabeth. Soga, J.H. (1930). The South Eastern Bantu: AbeNguni, Abambo, Amalala. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press. Tyatyeka, D.M. (1994). Kusadliwa ngendeb’ endala. Piertermaritzburg: Shuter & Shooter.

CHAPTER FOUR ON THE BRINK OF A NEW NAMING PRACTICE: CHINESE INFLUENCES IN ZIMBABWEAN NAMING SYSTEMS HERBERT MUSHANGWE

Introduction Bright (2003, p. 690) defines a name as a term that can refer to anything, as when we say ‘Banana is the name of a fruit’ or ‘Murder is the name of a crime’. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a name as ‘the particular combination of sounds employed as the individual designation of a single person, animal, place or thing’. In this research, the word ‘name’ is used to identify human beings. Much emphasis will be placed on given names rather than family names since they tend to differ. For Mphande (2006, p.108) family names refer to ‘collective and more historical experiences, while first or given names comment on more temporary social issues and are thus more relevant in deciphering the social atmosphere at a given time’. Since given names normally appear to comment on more temporary social issues, they tend to have a set of unique characteristics over a given area and/or for a specific given society. Thus, each society has its own unique naming system. In this research, the phrase ‘naming system’ is used to refer to a set of characteristics that make names for humans especially unique in a given society. There are various naming systems in Africa, such as the Egyptian, Ivorian (Ivory Coast) and Ghananian Akan naming systems that are based on days of the week (Mphande, 2006). Moyo (2012), on the other hand, asserts that naming systems change with sociocultural, economic, education and political influences prevailing at each time. Therefore, the basic assumption of this research is that due to increasing contact with the Chinese culture, the naming system in Zimbabwe is likely to change. It is important to note that the naming

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system in Zimbabwe is dynamic; this might be different from other countries such as China and Ghana where their traditional naming systems still dominate the modern naming system. Mashiri (1999, p.93) rightly puts it that ‘Naming and addressing practices are dynamic and they reflect linguistic, political and cultural changes as well as the changes and continuities in the way human relationships and identities are perceived’. This suggests that naming practices are prone to change due to various linguistic, political and cultural changes. In this chapter, the arguments are based on the available evidence of the encroachment of Chinese names into Zimbabwean culture and on the attempt to predict some new possible changes that are likely to replace, complement or become infused into the current Zimbabwean naming system.

Brief Summary of the Naming System in Zimbabwe To understand the possible changes that are likely to happen to the naming system in Zimbabwe one needs to assess the present naming system so as to project the trend based on the available evidence. The Zimbabwean naming system can be grouped into two broad categories which are the Zimbabwean traditional naming system and the Westernised naming system. The two systems have run side by side up to the present day. The Zimbabwean traditional naming system was and still is based on circumstances surrounding the birth of a child or sentimental expressions of parents (or name-givers). After colonisation, two major naming systems emerged. The first one was the religious-based naming system where Christian names were given to children either as a sign of parents’ religious affiliation or prerequisite at some missionary schools. Such Christian names include Mary, Joseph, David, Peter, John, and so on. The second naming system that emerged after colonisation was the adoption of purely Western names without any religious background; such names tend to be adoptions of names of popular white people, for instance, Smith, Christopher, Robert, and so on. The current naming system is so interwoven with the Western naming system so as to create a fashionable trend in the naming system. In this context, this refers to popular names that are either based on a popular word or an English word with an indigenised meaning. For instance, the following names, Nomore, Given, Hardlife, Trymore, Nomatter, Learnmore, Talent, and so on, represent new names where the colonial naming system has become fused with the African naming system. Although these names

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are in English, they reflect an African sentiment in terms of meaning. For instance, the name Nomore means hakuchina in Shona and reflects that the name-giver wanted to express that the problems which used to exist are no more there or that there are ‘no more’ kids coming (if the name is given to last-born children). Hardlife is also one typical traditional Shona name even though it is expressed in English. In Shona, it is ‘upenyuhwakaoma’, a name which shows that the family experienced something difficult, which could be economic hardships, social hardships or political hardships. Such names also include the following: Given Trymore Beauty Clever Remember Trust

—— —— —— —— —— ——

Chipiwa Pamhai Runako Ngwarai Rangarirai Vimbai

Mawere (2012) notes that due to the influence of English it is now common for African names to be changed to English names. Mashiri (2009, p. 67) describes such names as Wiseman, Nomore, Welcome and Happymore as ‘symbolic Shona names [which] index local value systems on the one hand, and are as stylish as slang on the other hand’, all of which can be described as Shonglish names because they are Shona names expressed in English. Though such names use English vocabulary they are not classic Western names, rather they retain the Shona or native role of name where meaning is the main motivation behind the name. This is why Moyo (2012) argues that African societies’ naming practices synchronise the ordinary citizens’ socio-cultural aspects with historical conditions. Though the Zimbabwean naming system is dynamic, the cultural aspect remains so pronounced in some names. In light of the above-discussed situation where the Zimbabwean naming system seems to be susceptible to changes due to cultural contact and considering the increasing relations between Zimbabwe and China, we can predict a similar change as when Western culture is diffused into African culture. Since the opening of the Confucius Institute at the University of Zimbabwe, more than 1,300 students have studied the Chinese language. This is according to statistical records prepared for the fifth Anniversary of the Institute by Mashiri (2012). The teaching of Chinese in Zimbabwe marks a new beginning in Sino-Zimbabwean relations, thus signifying that

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the cultural diffusion between Zimbabwean and Chinese culture is at its highest peak. When Western culture penetrated and diffused into African culture, education and mainly the teaching of English or other European languages was used as the main tool to convey Western ideologies. Indeed, language teaching has played a major role in revealing larger images of society and culture, politics and religion, thus, it can be said to be ‘a symbol of life and a conveyor belt of culture’ (Isbell, 2002, p. 1). The teaching of Chinese in Zimbabwe is, therefore, likely to affect the existing Zimbabwean political, economic, social and religious environment. Undoubtedly, the Confucius Institute at the University of Zimbabwe is acting as the Chinese language and culture ‘conveyor belt’, as Isbell (2002) would put it. This is a result of the cultural contact between China and Zimbabwe that is becoming more pronounced, leading to more cultural diffusion. In this chapter, it is predicted that this is a one-sided cultural diffusion where Zimbabwean culture will experience change rather than the Chinese culture being affected, mainly because the Chinese language is being taught in Zimbabwe, while none of the Zimbabwean languages are taught in China. The impact of this kind of cultural diffusion is already noticeable in the economic arena where more Chinese products are flooding the Zimbabwean market while few Zimbabwean products are being sold to China. Therefore, it is likely that the Zimbabwean naming system will not be left unaffected. This chapter attempts to show the possible changes that the Zimbabwean naming system might experience based on the evidence already available.

Literature Review The topic under discussion is not isolated from past research; in fact, a lot has been written about changes in naming systems, both inside and outside Zimbabwe. For instance, Pfukwa (2007) analyses the function and significance of war names during the war of liberation (1966–1979) and concludes that war names played a vital role in concealing the old identity of the liberation fighters (who were then known as ‘guerrillas’), which helped to create new identities for these fighters at that time. Mashiri (1999) also expounds on the dynamics of a naming system in Zimbabwe when he notes that from the 1930s up to the end of colonialism in Zimbabwe in 1980, it was obligatory for people to leave their traditional names and adopt biblical names at baptism. This was due to the fact that white missionaries and employers had difficulty pronouncing Shona

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names, and it was also believed that an English or a Christian name symbolised salvation. This shows that the political, social and economic environment during different historical eras can persuade people to adopt certain names. Chitando (2001, p. 144) states that personal names may well identify the religious or cultural background of an individual, and he also further notes that ‘contemporary naming trends in Zimbabwe show a marked rise in vernacular names laden with Christian themes’. This trend is obviously a direct result of the predominance of Christianity in Zimbabwe. From these researches, it is apparent that influential people or influential political, social, economic or religious systems do have a direct impact on names. Mashiri, Mawomo and Tom (2002) note that Shona-speaking people in contemporary Zimbabwe create and use indirect verbal strategies where euphemisms, metaphors, colloquial expressions and slang are used to refer to the Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome (HIV/AIDS). Consequently, while these authors’ research might not be related to human names, it shows, to some extent, that the openness and dynamics of the Zimbabwean naming system are guided by the individual’s favourite language. Bagwasi’s (2012) research on the naming system of the Kalanga people, who are based in Zimbabwe and Botswana as well as South Africa, concluded that multilingualism, history, education and Christianity influenced their naming system. It is apparent, therefore, that apart from religion and political situations, language and education also have a special influence on a people’s naming system. Moyo (2012) also states that in Malawi, just as in many other southern African countries, colonialism’s naming system changed in time, from when names for certain European individuals would be adopted or they would be fused with indigenous naming systems. Researchers on Chinese names, like researchers on Zimbabwean names, seem to agree with the view that even though cultural names might be retained they are prone to change due to the prevailing culture. Tan (2001) analysed the encroachment of English names into the names of the ethnic Chinese people in Singapore and stated that the use of English names in Singapore led to a unique naming system which he termed ‘Englishisation’; such names start with an English name followed by a Chinese name. Thus, in Singapore, there are such names as Jane Meili, Tracy Zhangli and Robert Gaofei, where English names at the beginning of the name replace the position of Chinese family names, and the Chinese given names (including the family name) are put at the end – as is done in English. Such Chinese names are unique in the sense that family names

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would appear in the middle of the name as in John Li Ming (Li being the family name). This shows that foreign naming systems can sometimes lead to a unique and complex naming system. Tan’s research, like much other research, examines how the English language has affected various naming systems in countries where it is used as an official language. Li Lan (2002) also researched the impact of the English naming system on the Chinese naming system and concludes that borrowing the English naming system mainly affects the order of given names and family names rather than the native names themselves. When, as seen above, the Chinese names are changed into English, a name like Zhang Li would become Li Zhang, or Li Kaiming would be Kaming Li following the English or Christian practice of putting the foreign names either at the beginning or at the end of their Chinese names. This research shows that, in China, foreign names cannot completely replace native names; however, this is not the case in Zimbabwe where some people do not have native names at all. Elsewhere, Mphande (2006) also conducted research on naming systems in African-American Culture and concluded that the African naming system penetrated the American naming system through slavery and globalisation, where black Americans in search of identity would adopt African naming systems. However, Mphande’s research did not show whether white Americans also adopted these African naming systems or whether it was just a naming system for black Americans only. In this research, the author attempts to show how the Chinese naming system is slowly penetrating the Zimbabwean naming system. This present research differs from the previous research in the sense that instead of analysing a change of naming systems in its historical context, in this case, a prediction was sought of the emergence of a new naming system based on the past colonial experience and the present situation in Zimbabwe and Africa at large. It is believed that where the Chinese language is taught in Zimbabwe and other African countries, these areas are on the verge of experiencing a new naming system influenced by the Chinese language. In other words, the spread of Chinese culture and language across the world is about to bring changes probably similar to those that were brought by the spread of European cultures and languages during the colonisation of Africa. As far as researchers know, little if not anything has been written about the encroachment of Chinese names into the African naming system.

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Hypothesis and Theoretical Framework This research is based on the Cultural Diffusion Theory. Alderman (2012, p. 123) defined cultural diffusion as the ‘spread of culture from a point of origin to other places through personal contact, migration, trade etcetera’. In other words, cultural diffusion refers to the process by which a cultural item, cultural traits or cultural activities spread from group to group or from society to society, leading to a new set of ideas or new system. Many scholars believe that society’s exposure to cultural diffusion brings a kind of heterogeneity necessary for growth and continuity; thus, Arieti (1976, p. 320) states that ‘exposure to different and even contrasting cultural stimuli is indeed a fundamental “creativogenic” factor’. This seems to agree with the basic definition of diffusion as described in science. Diffusion in scientific terms is defined as the movement of particles from an area of high concentration to an area of low concentration, thus resulting in the uniform distribution of the substance.1 In molecular science, it is believed that the process of diffusion is not due to the action of a force but a result of the random movements of atoms. Diffusion is not an instant process and, at the same time, rate of diffusion changes over time because it depends on various factors (Acemoglu, 2013; Barrosse-Antle et al., 2009). Under normal circumstances, the rate of diffusion grows at a slow rate during the first phase of contact between two bodies, passing through a fast diffusion rate until equilibrium is reached. According to Kolo and Breiter (2009), this is called the ‘S-shaped curve’, which is commonly used to demonstrate the dynamics of the diffusion: as illustrated in the graph below. The zone marked A represents a stage where diffusion rate is still slow, zone B represents that stage where the rate of diffusion is at its maximum, and zone C represents the final stage of diffusion where equilibrium is reached. In terms of culture, Joaquim (2012) in his study of cultural diffusion in the Neolithic transition in Europe notes a similar diffusion process where the rate of diffusion increases with time. In science, however, the rate of diffusion is conditional; temperature, size of particles, and so on, affect diffusion such that the process might be speeded up if there are favourable conditions or reduced if there are unfavourable 1

Definition for diffusion adopted from a webpage maintained by Dr Kni Bell, accessed at the following address: http://www.mun.ca/biology/Help_centre/1001_2_tutorialpages/OSMOSIS.html

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conditions. One can also apply the above diffusion rate model to cultural diffusion between Zimbabwean culture and Chinese culture. At the moment, these two cultures seem to be in the first phase of cultural diffusion (indicated on the above graph as zone A) and no one knows whether a steady growth will be maintained or it will be stopped at some point. Figure 1: Rate of diffusion

The current cultural diffusion between Zimbabwe and China depends on various factors. For instance, if China’s economy continues to grow while the bilateral relations between these two countries remain strong, then the cultural diffusion rate will grow fast, but the reverse could also be true. According to Brown (1996), in biological science, it is known that the permeability of cell membranes affect diffusion. In cultural diffusion, one should also be able to determine the permeability of a given culture by analysing its previous cultural changes as initiated by other forms of cultural exchange. As already indicated in the literature review, Zimbabwean culture seems to be more permeable than Chinese culture; thus, in this chapter, it is predicted that the Chinese culture is likely to diffuse into the Zimbabwean culture and not vice versa. Based on the definitions of diffusion and cultural diffusion, the basic assumption in this chapter is that due to the movement of people between China and Zimbabwe, the naming system in Zimbabwe is about to change. In this research, it is predicted that a new naming system influenced by

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Chinese culture is likely to find its way into the Zimbabwean naming system mainly because Zimbabwe seems to be a region of low concentration in terms of population and economic influence compared to China. China has over a billion people and is one of the world’s superpowers, thus, it is more influential than Zimbabwe. Therefore, one can hypothesise that the more Chinese people come to Zimbabwe, or vice versa, the more our Zimbabwean culture is likely to diffuse into Chinese culture. According to Ashraf and Galor (2007), cultural diffusion has a beneficial effect on diversity in a society that adapts to a changing technological environment; thus, it has played a significant role in giving rise to differential patterns of economic development across the globe. However, this is not to say that cultural diffusion is always advantageous; in some cases, minor cultures are susceptible to engulfment. In such cases, the bigger and more influential society spreads its cultural impact, thus assimilating the smaller or lesser influential societies. This implies that Sino-Zimbabwean cultural diffusion will have both advantages and its own disadvantages. While the impact of Chinese culture is likely to affect various areas of Zimbabwean culture, in this chapter, the author concentrates on the naming system mainly because it is one area that is rarely considered by many researchers yet is one of the major cultural change indicators in any society. In the light of this ongoing diffusion of Chinese and Zimbabwean culture, this research, therefore, seeks to answer the following question: what are the possible changes that the Zimbabwean naming system is likely to experience due to the teaching of the Chinese language and culture within and outside of Zimbabwe?

Methodology In this chapter, the researcher generally used observation methods because through observation one can directly see what people do rather than relying on what they say. Powell and Steele (1996) argue that the observation method is advantageous when one wants to collect direct information such as the characteristics of a given ethnic group. This method was thus appropriate for such an investigation in that it involves two cultures in contact. This researcher is a native speaker of Shona and also a second-language speaker of Chinese, thus it is argued here that he has a fairly good understanding of both the language and culture of the

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Shona and the Chinese people. Through the observation method, the researcher noted the popularity of Chinese names among Chineselanguage learners in Zimbabwe. The same trend was also observed among other foreign students in China. Understanding the significance as well as the differences in human names in each of these two cultures made the researcher predict a possible new naming system in Zimbabwe which is likely to be triggered by the current culture contact between Zimbabwe and China. Some critics argue that the observation method does not increase an understanding of why people behave the way they do. In addition, this method is susceptible to observer bias. In light of these limitations of the observation research method, the research also used interviews to further understand why Chinese names are compulsory for Chinese-language learners. This was conducted via a survey among students studying the Chinese language in China. After which, a random selection was made of about 40 Chinese names for Zimbabwean students in different Chinese cities, and these Chinese names were grouped depending on how they were derived or given. This grouping was done mainly to examine whether these students are completely adopting the original Chinese names or if they transliterate their own names. Such an analysis also helped the researcher to determine whether or not these students were willingly adopting Chinese names. The 40 names used for this research were collected from a Facebook group called ‘Zimbabweans Studying and Working in China’ mainly because about 80 per cent of Zimbabweans studying in China are members of this group. An online data collection method was preferred mainly because of its low cost as well as its convenience for both the researcher and participants, rather than spending long hours travelling from one city to another searching for Zimbabwean students in China – although the targeted group is an informal group. Interviews were also done with some school authorities at the (1) University of Zimbabwe, (2) Tianjin Normal University, and (3) Hebei University and Renmin University to find out why all foreigners or Chinese-language students are given Chinese names. Interviews were necessary to obtain certain information that could not be obtained through observation. For research that involves informants living far away from the researcher, Opdenakker (2006) recommends online interviews through telephone and or e-mail. Thus, in this research, contact was made with some of the members of the Facebook group named ‘Zimbabweans

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studying and working in China’ and later through Skype and telephone for more personal explanations about the meanings of their names, as well as how their names were derived. However, for the students at Renmin University, face-to-face interviews were carried out to establish whether these students adopted their own names or were forced by circumstances to adopt Chinese names. The research combined various research techniques so as to reduce bias.

Research Findings The survey carried out in China and mainly through Facebook showed that almost all the students studying in China were given Chinese names, while a few chose Chinese names on their own. 40 names were collected according to how they were derived. Statistical analysis showed that there are five basic methods by which Zimbabwean students in China can acquire a Chinese name, these methods include: transliteration, direct translation, partial transliteration, partial translation, and those unrelated to the original names. The results of this analysis were presented in the form of a bar chart showing percentages for each method (see Figure 1). From the 40 names collected for the purposes of this research, it was found that transliteration of names was the major method used in acquiring Chinese names. About 53 per cent of Chinese names were transliterations of original Shona, English, Ndebele or other local Zimbabwean names. Direct transliterations (where the pronunciation of the original name is used as the basis for the pronunciation of a given Chinese name) shows that the named person is not willing to adopt a completely new name. For instance, names such as Tendai would be transliterated into ኳⷎ or ‘Tian Dai’, Rufaro transliterated into ‘Rufaluo’ 㸦 ⲗ ἲ 仿 㸧 and Rukudzo transliterated into 仿⸻బ or ‘Luo Kuzuo’. The selection of first characters (first syllable) is, however, not random because only known Chinese family names are chosen.

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Figure 1: Methods of acquisition for the Chinese names of 40 Zimbabwean students

40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

20

5

8 4

3

Partially transliterated names constituted the second highest percentage with 21 per cent of the total names. For this group of names, the first syllable or the first two syllables are transliterations of a long name and the last part is just another syllable unrelated to the original name. This is mainly because some Shona, English, Ndebele or other local linguistic sounds are not found in the Chinese sound system, thus, it is not possible to transliterate most Zimbabwean names. Some of the examples include the following names. Matonhodze transliterated as ‘Ma Tianyu’ (樔ኳண) where ‘Matian’ is an imitation of ‘Maton…’ in the name Matonhodze but ‘Yu’ is then added to substitute ‘...hodze’ which does not have any equivalent sound in Chinese. Abigail transliterated into ‘An Biyun’ (Ᏻ☐ப) where ‘Anbi...’ is an imitation of ‘Abi’, and ‘[…] gail’, which does not have an equivalent sound, is replaced by ‘yun’. In this case, ‘An’ is preferred to ‘A’ mainly because there is no family name called ‘A’ in the Chinese naming system. Sarudzai is also transliterated into Shalusa (ⳃ㟢ᧈ) where ‘Shalu […]’ is an imitation of ‘Saru […]’ and ‘[…] sa’ substitutes the syllable ‘[…] dzai’. Since ‘Ru’ is a family name, the name-giver replaces the ‘ru’ on ‘Saru’ with ‘lu’, at the same time substituting ‘Sa’ with ‘Sha’ mainly because in the Chinese naming system there is no such a family name as ‘Sa’.

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All such transliterated names, whether complete transliterations or partial transliterations, show a situation where the Chinese name-giver would try to accommodate the student’s request not to change their name. However, all such names still maintain the purity of the Chinese language and culture by neither accommodating any new sounds nor distorting the Chinese naming style. Names that are direct translations constitute 13 per cent of the total number of names collected. Directly translated names, where the meanings of the original names are used as the basis on which to provide Chinese names with equivalent meanings, are not really new names in the Zimbabwean naming system because they also exist in the current local naming system. These names are similar to such names as Nomore, Hardlife, Talent, and so on, which are also described as ‘Shonglish’ (Shona-English) names by Mashiri (2009). In this research, the ‘Shonese’ (Shona-Chinese) names were also observed; however, they are not as popular as transliterated names. Directly translated names include such names as Tatenda translated as ‘Ganxie’, (ឤ寊) which means ‘we are grateful’, Chipo translated into ‘Liwu’ (♩≀) which means ‘present’, Patience translated into ‘Naixin’ (⪏ᚰ), and Talent (originally from the other version of the Shona word chipo) translated into ‘Tiancai’ (ኳᡯ). Partially translated names include those where part of the Chinese name has a character which summarises the meaning of either the first name or the family name; for instance, a name such as Tinotenda Matapira translated into ‘Xieying’ (寊渘) where ‘Xie’ (寊) means to ‘give thanks’ and ‘Ying’ (渘), which means ‘an eagle’, is a typical Chinese name. Another example of such names also included King Mukodzi, which was translated as ‘Wang Jiahe’ (⋤ᐙ࿴) where the word ‘Wang’ (⋤) is equivalent to ‘King’ (or Mambo in Shona) and ‘Jiahe’ (ᐙ࿴), which has nothing to do with either King or Mukodzi. Such names are unique and rare both in this research and in the Zimbabwean naming system, thus, they constitute the lowest per cent (only 5 %) of the total names collected. Chinese names unrelated to the students’ original names constitute only eight per cent of the total number of names collected. Such names include either pure Chinese names, such as ‘Likaiming’ (ᮤᘙ᫂), or some popular Chinese words selected from the Chinese vocabulary. Some students learning the Chinese language are already adopting such names where Chinese vocabulary is used as the main corpus for the names selected. For

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instance, names such as ‘Keai’ ྍ 䇙 meaning ‘cute’, ‘Laotou’ ⪁ ⣜ meaning ‘white-headed man’ and ‘Laoban’⪁ᯈ meaning ‘boss’ are not really names for people but popular words in the Chinese vocabulary, thus some students opt for such words as their names. There might be several other ways by which Chinese names are derived; however, in this research, the above-discussed methods seem to be the most dominant. Based on the above five different methods used by Chinese-language teachers to give Chinese names to Chinese-language learners, one can learn a great deal of information about the possible changes likely to penetrate into the Zimbabwean naming system. This will be discussed below.

Discussion As was the case during the colonial period, the results of cultural diffusion between Zimbabwe and China can be viewed from two angles: forced change or natural change. Reference to forced change means those instances where Chinese teachers make it compulsory for students to adopt Chinese names, while natural change is where students who have been staying in China for a long time will end up naturally adopting Chinese names. The results of the above analysis show a wilful selection of a Chinese name by the student or the Chinese teacher giving a Chinese name, even if the student being named is not willing to have a Chinese name. This implies that in future, the more Chinese culture gains popularity in Zimbabwe, the more people will start to adopt Chinese names, or the more Zimbabwean students who go to China to study, the more likely they will be given Chinese names. The five methods used to assess the derivation of Chinese names clearly show a situation where some students continue to use their original names but their teachers often transliterate these names into Chinese, either as complete transliterations or partial transliterations. Direct translations of Zimbabwean names into Chinese names are also a sign that such students are not willing to lose the meaning of their original names. In both situations, these students’ names are still adapted to suit the Chinese disyllabic and trisyllabic name structure. On the other hand, although this analysis shows a low percentage of students who willingly adopt Chinese names, this adoption of Chinese words as names might be a sign of their appreciation of the Chinese language and culture. This implies that the more Zimbabwean students

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study Chinese language and culture, the more it is likely that more and more of them will feel so connected to the Chinese culture that they are likely to end up adopting Chinese names. The low percentage observed in this research might be a sign that, at present, there are few Zimbabwean students who are studying the Chinese language to the level where they (students) really appreciate Chinese language and culture. It is of much interest to note that the majority of Zimbabweans learning the Chinese language, either in Zimbabwe or in China, find their names being changed to Chinese. For all students learning the Chinese language, it is almost compulsory to have a Chinese name. In an interview with one of the Tianjin Normal University teachers in charge of foreign students, foreign students are given Chinese names mainly for the purposes of computer input since their computerised registration database does not support the input of names with more than three syllables; all foreign students are, therefore, given Chinese names which are either disyllabic or trisyllabic. Professor Guo Fuliang of Hebei University, when interviewed, said that apart from the technical problems normally faced with long foreign names, Chinese names are meant to give a sense of identity, to give a new cultural identity to the students dedicated to the learning of Chinese language and culture. This is possibly the main reason why Chinese teachers outside of China normally give Chinese names to their students. On the other hand, contrary to this, Professor Liu Xiuyan, the Director of the Confucius Institute at the University of Zimbabwe, indicated that the reason he gives his students Chinese names is for convenience; for him, memorising and pronouncing Zimbabwean names is difficult. Mashiri (1999) also noted a similar reason which contributed to the penetration of Western names where white missionaries could not pronounce Shona names, thus, they would give their workers or students an English name. Whatever the reasons, the reality at hand is that the teaching of the Chinese language to Zimbabweans either in or outside Zimbabwe is already leading to a major change in the Zimbabwean’s naming system. If the Chinese economy and culture continue to dominate the world, it is predicted that there will be a new wave of Chinese names in the Zimbabwean naming system. Despite the fact that, at present, the majority of students still prefer transliterations of their original names rather than adopting purely Chinese names, the impact of these transliterations brings a new naming system which is not only unique but also a threat to both the existing naming system in Zimbabwe and the identity of future Zimbabweans.

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The data collected reveals that the majority of Zimbabwean students in China are not ready to lose their names since they prefer transliterations of their names rather than adopting completely new Chinese names. However, the transliterated names still follow the Chinese names’ disyllabic or trisyllabic structure as shown in the following table. Table 1: Structure of translated and transliterated Chinese names Names and translations Shona Original name Rufaro Munetsi Maurice Mwansa Tinashe Chamunorwa Tendai Changamire Rukudzo Nhara Tawanda Muzondo Rumbidzai Muzazo

Transliterated Chinese name 㥩⌅㖇Ru Faluo ∋ᰕᯟMaorisi ⭠䟾Tian Ye

New structure of the transliterated name Family name Given name 㥩Ru ∋Mao ⭠Tian

⌅㖇Faluo ᰕᯟRisi 䟾Ye

⭠唋Tian Dai

⭠Tian

唋dai

㖇ᓃրLuo Kuzuo ຄз䗮Ta Wan da ঒⻗Lu Bi

㖇Luo

ᓃրKuzuo

ຄTa

з䗮Wanda

঒Lu

⻗bi

All the above Chinese names have one thing in common; they all have two or three syllables. Chinese personal names are made up of two components where the first component is the monosyllabic family name (xing) and a disyllabic or monosyllabic given name (mingormingzi) (Watson, 1986; Tan, 2001). An analysis of all Chinese name-acquiring methods discussed in this chapter, including transliteration and translation of Zimbabwean names into Chinese, shows a common trend where a disyllabic or trisyllabic structure is adopted. Based on this observation, one can therefore predict a new possible naming system where disyllabic and trisyllabic names might replace the Zimbabwean current naming system. This naming system is unique in the sense that the first syllable is a family name while the last two syllables are given names. This means that by adopting a Chinese name one’s local family name could be totally ignored or abandoned.

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Nevertheless, the colonial education system and the Christian naming system that brought some major changes to the Zimbabwean naming system could not totally expunge Zimbabwean family names. However, one needs to consider the likelihood that if an individual’s existing family name is replaced by a Chinese family name, then the history of the latter will be known only to the Chinese people. The encroachment of Chinese names into the Zimbabwean naming system is, therefore, a critical threat since it would mean an adoption of foreign family names which would thus disconnect the Zimbabwean people from their genealogy.

Limitations and Recommendations for Future Researches Despite the fact that this research attempts to highlight some of the changes that seem to be slowly penetrating the Zimbabwean naming system, there is no guarantee whether the observed trend will continue or will end at any time. Without a time limit, the rate of change is not predictable due to the fact that no one knows whether the Chinese economic expansion will continue to affect African countries at the same rate or not. One other limitation of this research is that there was no attempt to contact various government departments in Zimbabwe to examine the current impact of the encroachment of Chinese names on specific individuals whose names are translated into Chinese. This leaves this research somewhat speculative of a possible trend without enough tangible evidence of the impact. Consequently, whether the encroachment of Chinese names will really affect future generations or not depends on the cultural protectionist measures that the Zimbabwean authorities decide to take.

Conclusion Based on the five methods Chinese teachers use to give Chinese names to foreigners, a similar trend was observed where all the Chinese names seem to follow a disyllabic or trisyllabic structure. In both structures, the first syllable of these Chinese names is a specific family name and the last part is a given name. This kind of naming which Chinese teachers use to assign specific Chinese family names to students is the central indicator of possible change in the Zimbabwean naming system. One can therefore argue that the adoption of Chinese names – whether for jocular/humorous reasons, for fashion, for academic purpose or a compulsory requirement – means that one is attached to a certain Chinese family’s genealogy.

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Based on these naming methods, one can predict that the Chinese naming system is likely to replace or complement the current naming system in Zimbabwe. Since we do not know what will happen in the near future concerning the teaching of Chinese in Zimbabwe and across the world, it is difficult to imagine a complete change of the naming system in Zimbabwe. However, if one day China becomes a world superpower, then it is not surprising that even the language of instruction in schools will be changed to Chinese. The author strongly feels that this is quite possible because, at present, the Chinese language is used as a language of instruction for different courses such as medicine, information technology, business studies, and so on. Every year, the Chinese government offers scholarships to students from across the world, including students from developed countries in Europe, to study their courses in Chinese. If this continues, then the Zimbabwean naming system is likely to be completely changed. This will mean that the various naming styles identified in this study will be more predominant than either purely local names or English names. However, if China’s influence in the world weakens or remains neutral, such that the Chinese language will be taken as other foreign languages are in Zimbabwe (such as German, Portuguese and French), then the influence of the Chinese naming system will be on those who opt to study Chinese as a course. Under such circumstances, Chinese names will complement the current naming system in Zimbabwe, which will then make the Zimbabwe naming system a more complex and mixed one. For those individuals who adopt Chinese names, their local family names will be abandoned – a position which may make these individuals appear as if they are foreigners living in Zimbabwe. In such a situation, future generations might not be able to link themselves with their ancestors in Zimbabwe. For instance, those who adopt Chinese surnames, such as Li, Wang or Zhang, might find themselves more closely identified with the Chinese people with such surnames (who could be living in Zimbabwe at that time) rather than with their own relatives who will be using local surnames. On the other hand, it could morph into something else, for example, a nickname or status name, etc. As mentioned earlier, cultural diffusion is conditional; thus, although one might argue that the Zimbabwean naming system is on the brink of change to a new naming system, the final modification would depend on various factors. Some of these factors include, among others, the continuity of Sino-Zimbabwean relations, the Zimbabweans’ willingness to adopt foreign names, and government regulations on naming.

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This chapter does not go beyond predicting the encroachment of Chinese names into Zimbabwe; therefore, in future, it might be interesting to investigate the actual impact of Chinese names on the individuals who have been living in China for a long time. It is also our hope that this study will stimulate others to undertake research that assesses the impact of Sino-Zimbabwean cultural diffusion in various sectors.

References Acemoglu, D. (2013). Technological Change, Lecture 2 Knowledge Spillovers and Diffusion. MIT [Online] Available from http://economics.mit.edu/files/9007. [Accessed: 12th May 2012]. Alderman, D. (2012). Cultural change and diffusion: Geographical patterns, social processes, and contact zones. In S. Joseph (Ed.), 21st Century Geography: A Reference Handbook. Los Angeles: SAGE Publications. Ashraf, Q. & Galor, O. (2007). Cultural Assimilation, Cultural Diffusion and the Origin of the Wealth of Nations. [Online] Available from https://www.brown.edu/academics/economics/sites/brown.edu.academi cs.economics/files/uploads/2007-3_paper.pdf. [Accessed: 14 May 2012]. Arieti, S. (1976). Creativity: The magic synthesis. New York: Basic Books. Bagwasi, M.M. (2012). The Influence of multilingualism, Christianity and education in the formation of Bakalanga identity. International Journal of English Linguistics, 2(2), pp. 122–131. Barrosse-Antle, L., Aldous L., Hardacre, C., Bond A. & Compton, R. (2009). Dissolved Argon Changes the Rate of Diffusion in Room Temperature Ionic Liquids: Effect of the Presence and Absence of Argon and Nitrogen on the Voltammetry of Ferrocene. The Journal of Physical Chemistry, 113(18), pp. 7750–7754. Bright ,W. (2003). What is a name? Reflections on onomastics. Language and Linguistics, 4(4), p. 669-681. Brown, B. (1996). Biological membranes. London: The Biochemical Society. Chitando, E. (2001). Signs and portents? Theophoric names in Zimbabwe. Word & World, XXI (2), pp. 144–151. Fort, J. (2012). Synthesis between demic and cultural diffusion in the Neolithic transition in Europe. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 109(46), pp. 18669–18673.

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Guma, M. (2001). The cultural meaning of names among Basotho of southern Africa: A historical and linguistic analysis. Nordic Journal of African Studies, 10(3), pp. 265–279. Isbell, C.D. (2002). The Hebrew Teacher: Guru, Drill Instructor, or Role Model? Celebration of 100 years of teaching Hebrew, Wake Forest University. [Online] Available from http://www.sbl-site.org/assets/ pdfs/isbell.pdf. [Accessed: 22 January 2014]. Joaquim, F. (2012). Synthesis between demic and cultural diffusion in the Neolithic transition in Europe. PNAS, 109(46), pp. 18669–18673. Kolo, C. & Breiter, A. (2009). An Integrative Model for the Dynamics of ICT-based Innovations in Education. Digital Culture and Education, 1(2), pp. 89–103. Li, L. (2002). English polymorphs of Chinese personal names. English Today 70, 18(2), pp. 51–57. Makondo, L. (2007). Death-related Shona anthroponomy. NAWA Journal of Language and Communication, 1(2), pp. 99–109. Mashiri, P. (1999). Terms of address in Shona: A sociolinguistic approach. Zambezia, XXVI (i), pp. 93–110. —. (2009). Shonglish derisive names within the domestic environment among the Shona people of Zimbabwe. Nawa Journal of Language and Communication, (3)1, pp. 66–80. —. (2012). The University of Zimbabwe Confucius Institute. Fifth Anniversary Report. Harare: University of Zimbabwe. Mashiri, P., Mawomo, K & Tom, P. (2002). Naming the pandemic: semantic and ethical foundations of HIV/AIDS Shona vocabulary. Zambezia, XXIX (ii), p. 221-234. Mawere, M. (2001). Epistemological and moral implications of characterization in African literature: A critique of Patrick Chakaipa’s ‘Rudo Ibofu’ (love is blind). Journal of English and literature, 2(1), pp. 1–9. Moyo, T. (2012). Naming practices in colonial and post-colonial Malawi. Journal of Humanities and Social Science, 4(1), pp. 10–16. Mphande, L. (2006). Naming and linguistic Africanisms in African American Culture. In J. Mugane, J. Hutchison & D. Worman (Eds.), Selected Proceedings of the 35th Annual Conference on African Linguistics. Somerville: Cascadilla Proceedings Project. Opdenakker, R. (2006). Advantages and Disadvantages of Four Interview Techniques in Qualitative Research. [Online] Available from http://nbn-resolving.de/ urn:nbn:de:0114-fqs0604118 [Accessed: 14 January 2013]. Pfukwa, C. 2007. The function and significance of war names in the

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Zimbabwean armed conflict (1966-1979) (Unpublished doctoral thesis). University of South Africa, Pretoria. Powell, T.E. & Steele, S. (1996). Program development and evaluation: Collecting Evaluation Data: Direct Observation. [Online] Available from http://learningstore.uwex.edu/assets/pdfs/g3658-5.pdf. [Accessed: 14 January 2013]. Tan, P. (2001). Englishised names? Naming patterns amongst ethnicChinese Singaporeans. English Today, 17(4), pp. 45–53. Simpson, J. & Weiner, E. (Eds). (1989). The Oxford English Dictionary Second edition. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Watson, R. (1986). The named and the nameless: gender and person in Chinese society. American Ethnologist, 13(4), pp. 619–31.

CHAPTER FIVE A CROSS-CULTURAL COMPARATIVE STUDY OF SHONA-PORTUGUESE AND SHONA-CHINESE NAMES MARGRET CHIPARA AND HERBERT MUSHANGWE

‘It would be a tremendous advantage for the development of our language if we recorded the names of all mountains, hills, vales, streams, balks between strips of land; that is, all the names current in a region. What an enormous treasure lies buried here without being exploited and what useful information it would give to linguists on this undisclosed labyrinth of our language!’ —Mihály Hajdú quoted by Kiss (1981, p.3)

Introduction This chapter seeks to contribute to the existing body of knowledge relating to name structure and meaning. This is a socio-linguistic study which specifically intends to draw comparisons between name structure and meaning in the Shona-Chinese and Shona-Portuguese naming systems. The increasing contact and intercultural exchange that characterises the twenty-first century has given rise to linguistic borrowing, impacting, to varying degrees, on the naming systems of the cultures concerned. This chapter investigates how the Shona naming system can claim its space and define its identity in this naming process, even while accommodating foreign names.

Background Names are an important repository of information about a country or society’s culture, history and geography. Batoma (2009) suggests that there is a divergence of opinion between Western and non-Western

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onomastic researchers as to the function, meaning and use of names. While Western onomasticians uphold the idea that names have denotative rather than connotative meanings, their African counterparts argue that they have a lexical meaning, which is used daily in discursive practice. Batoma (2006, as cited in Batoma, 2009) identifies three layers of meaning: ‘[1] the lexical meaning; [2] the onomastic meaning, which is based on each tradition of naming practices; and [3] the socio-pragmatic meaning, which is based on the cultural knowledge of the onomastic code of conduct, the interpersonal relationships of the partners of the onomastic communication, and the situations that generate that communication’. Onomastic researchers studying Shona names agree that most of them have significant meaning(s) (Mashiri, 1999; Mapara, 2013; Mawere, 2010; Guma, 2001). They note, furthermore, that most given traditional Shona names usually reflect circumstances prevailing at the birth of the person to be named. Such names include Chipo or ‘gift’, Zvikomborero or ‘blessings’, Hazvinei or ‘it does not matter’, Mugove or ‘it is our share/portion’, Gamuchirai or ‘accept/receive’, Magora or ‘wild cats’, Musemwa or ‘the hated/loathed one’, and Murambiwa or ‘the one who was rejected’. Names and nicknames are also indicative of a wide array of feelings experienced by the name-giver, including disappointment, anger or frustration, fear, hope, and of essential personal or physical attributes or idiosyncrasies. Studies carried out on Zimbabwean war names (Mapara, 2013; Mashiri, 1999, 2004; Pfukwa, 2007, 2008, 2012) reveal that naming does not necessarily occur at birth, but may also mark other phases in life, and may reflect the aspirations of an entire nation. Examples cited are Teurai Ropa ‘shed blood [of the white oppressor]’, the guerilla name of the country’s former Vice-president, Joyce Mujuru, thus named for bringing down a colonial aircraft during Zimbabwe’s Liberation Struggle, and Tichatonga Mabhunu Comrade Chipo Gumunyu’s chimurenga (or nom de guerre) name, which reflected the people’s aspirations to take power from white colonists. Chinese names are not merely icons of one’s identity, but also embody parents’ aspirations and carry socio-political significance. Meanwhile, Carvalhinho (2011), in her article on Portuguese-language onomastics in Brazil, observes that naming – in this case of places – ‘is increasingly viewed as a key element in reconstituting the past and understanding the

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present in its pragmatic function’.1 The same could be said of anthroponomy, which is the focus of this study. It is clear, then, that the selection of a name or names is a deliberate process in the three cultures forming the object of this study, and that the name itself is often laden with significance. This study goes a step further by analysing name structure and meanings across the Portuguese, Shona and Chinese cultures, so as to promote a cross-cultural understanding of their respective naming systems. It attempts to examine the tendency of Shona culture to borrow from both historical and contemporary cultural interactions with Portuguese- and Chinese-speaking peoples. Linguistic and cultural contact between the Shona and Portuguese began in the sixteenth century, while that between the Shona and Chinese is a relatively recent trend, driven and perpetuated by the booming Chinese economy and that country’s efforts to expand its cultural and linguistic reach throughout the world. In this chapter, answers to the following questions will be sought: What is the nature of name borrowing in Shona? Should the Shona naming system continue to accommodate foreign names or should measures be taken to guard against or guide linguistic borrowing? It is hypothesised here that while linguistic over-protectionism can be detrimental, ‘uncontrolled’ borrowing might result in the displacement of the receiving culture. It is believed here that any kind of borrowing should enrich rather than displace the receiving culture.

Literature Review Numerous studies have been carried out in the area of onomastics. These include more generalised studies, such as Hajdú’s (1999) ‘The History of Onomastics’, which suggests that the emergence of the onomastic sciences dates as far back as early Egyptian times and the scholarly treatment of names can be traced to ancient Greece. Hajdú notes, furthermore, that scholarly research in many countries of the world – including Europe, Oceania, and parts of North and South America – date from the nineteenth century, which witnessed an increase in research on historical names the 1

Translated from the Portuguese article (Carvalhinho. (2011). Estudos de Onomásticaem língua portuguesa no Brasil) by Chipara, 2013.

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world over. Significantly, little mention is made in these articles about Africa or Asia. Carvalhinho (2011) provides an overview of toponymic studies carried out the world over and of past and current efforts being made by sociopolitical institutions to undertake such studies, with specific reference to Brazil, and integrates the findings into onomastic discourse taking place internationally. Onomastic research is highlighted as a means of reconstructing the historical-cultural past of a people and of understanding its present. The Portuguese Civil Registry (IRN) website provides clear legislative guidelines to Portuguese citizens on the composition of Portuguese names (first name and surname), as well as a list of Portuguese names which are permitted or not permitted by law. This highlights the fact that naming is not an entirely free choice in certain parts of the world. Watson (1986), in his study on the Ha TsuenTeng people of rural Hong Kong, explores the ‘transformative power’ of names, their capacity to classify and individuate, and to promote self-expression. In addition to reflecting the desires and aspirations of the name-givers, names mark ‘important social transitions’, exhibit ‘one’s education and erudition’ and are believed to have the power and ability to change or rectify situations. Significantly, this naming system also provides ‘insight into the ways in which gender and person are constructed’ in this society, and highlights the prominence of males and the relative invisibility of females in that society. Watson notes that names given to males, for example, are more distinctive and individualised than those given to females. Thus, a man in Ha Tsuen society will have a ‘birth name, school name, nickname, marriage name, courtesy name, and posthumous name’, marking the principal phases of his social life. Meanwhile, the birth of a female child is marked by little or no celebration, and her very existence or survival may be threatened by infanticide in families where a boy is desired. In marriage, a Ha Tsuen girl ‘loses her name and becomes the “inner person” (neijen), a term Chinese husbands use to refer to their wives’ (Watson, 1986, p. 12). Watson’s article highlights the power relations at play in the act and process of naming. Naming empowers and gives a distinctive identity to the namer, and the inability to name may result in disempowerment and loss of identity or distinctiveness. As mentioned earlier, numerous studies have been carried out on

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Zimbabwean names by scholars such as Mashiri (1999), Pfukwa (2007, 2008, 2012), and Mapara (2013). Mashiri (1999) focusses on names, naming and terms of address as they are used in different social contexts. Of particular interest is the dynamic nature of Shona terms of address and the manner in which they determine sociolinguistic history and politicocultural identity in Shona society, and to what extent these terms reflect what Brown and Gilman (1987), as quoted by Mashiri et al., refer to as ‘direction of power’ and ‘degree of solidarity’. Mashiri and Chabata (2010) study Zimbabwe’s four name changes and their respective meanings and significance, concluding that place-name changes mirror political and socio-cultural changes occurring within a particular social group. Apart from that, the meaning and significance of such name changes are determined by the group in power who effectively impose their bias on those within the group that might not share their worldview. This article highlights once again the close link between naming and socio-political power relations. To our knowledge, no study has been undertaken in Zimbabwe comparing name meaning and structure in the naming systems of the Shona with those of Chinese and Portuguese – languages with which it has had close contact in its past and present. It is hoped that this study will go some way to filling that gap and providing insight into the power dynamics at play in the borrowing of words and names from one language to another.

Theoretical Framework This research falls within the linguistic borrowing theoretical framework. Beider (2005, p. 9) states that onomastics is a branch of linguistics ‘because etymological problems for any word generally speaking [and therefore for a name, too] are of a linguistic nature and the methods should be linguistic: a researcher proceeds to the analysis of semantics, morphology and phonetics.’ Hoffer (2005, p. 1) defines linguistic borrowing as ‘the process of importing linguistic items from one linguistic system into another’. Massini-Cagliari (2010) observes that borrowing ‘occurs when two languages come into contact and, through cultural interinfluences (inter-influências culturais), one ends up assimilating words that come from the other’.2 She notes that linguistic communities interact or come into contact for a variety of reasons, which include colonisation, 2

Translation ours, 2013.

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slavery, trade, territorial conquest and forced and unforced migration, often in circumstances of socio-economic and/or political inequality. During cultural exchanges relating to food, customs, religion and philosophy, linguistic exchanges invariably take place. The process of adopting words is a selective one, determined by needs which may be social, economic, aesthetic or functional in nature. The adaptation of the words is phonological and at times orthographical in nature. Kadenge and Mabugu (2009, p. 101) also observe that ‘the unifying factor underlying all borrowing is probably that of projected gain, that is, the borrower must stand to benefit in some way from the transfer of linguistic material. The gain may be social since speakers borrow material from a prestigious group, or it may be more centrally linguistic, in that the speaker may find a replacement in her second language for a word which has become obsolete or lost its expressive force’. The direction of borrowing of linguistic material is determined largely by the levels of need and of prestige in which one or the other language is held. In this regard, Bourdieu (1992, p. 504) makes reference to a ‘relation of power between languages that confront one another in practice’, indicating that there is a ‘hierarchy of languages and those who speak them’, making one group superior and the other inferior. Hoffer (2005) makes reference to language borrowing as determined by Scales of Adaptability and Receptivity. The first scale indicates how adaptable a language’s phonological system is to borrowing words from various language types. This is determined by the consonants and vowels in its phonological inventory and the nature of its syllabic structure. The second scale refers to the level of acceptance or resistance to borrowed words. While the speakers of some languages oppose ‘foreignisms’ on the basis that they have a corrupting influence on the receiving language, others consider new vocabulary as an enrichment of their own. Just as in international trade, where countries adopt measures to protect their local products, industries and standards, a form of ‘linguistic protectionism’ should sanction what linguistic material is to be accepted and what is to be rejected. Chinese linguists, for example, have a national board, which regulates the borrowing of foreign words in keeping with artificially set standards. As a result, although there are thousands of borrowed English words in the Chinese language, they do not sound or appear to be ‘foreign’ when one reads them. The Portuguese naming system and the adoption of non-Portuguese names are also governed by

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legislation. All these measures point to a desire to protect and ensure the distinctiveness of the Chinese and Portuguese identities respectively.

Methodology The primary data used in this research was collected from different sources, including lists of Zimbabwean students at the University of Zimbabwe, lists of Chinese students at Hebei University, Facebook, Renren Chinese social network, and other social networks using the random selection sampling method. Initially, 50 Chinese names and 50 Shona names were collected. Reference was also made to the Portuguese Civil Registry list of approved Portuguese names to gain insight into the Portuguese naming system, as well as to the 2006 Harare and Excluding Harare directories and the Zimbabwe 2011 directory. The objective here was to identify Shona names that were likely to be of Portuguese origin. The data collected was thus examined to see how contact between the Shona and Portuguesespeaking peoples has resulted in the borrowing of Portuguese words by the Shona naming system. The Chinese Modern Dictionary was used as the basic reference point for the meanings of different Chinese names, while Dale’s Duramazwi ShonaEnglish Dictionary was used as the reference for the meanings of Shona names. Various monolingual Portuguese dictionaries and bilingual Portuguese-English dictionaries were also consulted. Secondary source materials, including articles and books by scholars in the field of onomastics and linguistics, were also extensively used to gain insight into naming systems in Chinese, African, and Lusophone, as well as other cultures. Reference was also made to works by historians specialising in precolonial Zimbabwe and specifically on Portuguese contact with the Shona people during the precolonial period. Since the researchers are both native speakers of Shona with experience of teaching the Chinese and Portuguese language and culture, data analysis was done based on their linguistic knowledge of these three languages and their respective cultures and histories. What follows is the presentation and analysis of this data.

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Portuguese and Shona-Portuguese Name Comparison According to Russell and Cohn (2012), a typical Portuguese name is composed of one or two given names and two family names. The first surname is usually the mother’s family surname and the second surname is the father’s family surname, or vice versa. It is, therefore, not uncommon to find people with three or four surnames. Larson (2011) states that Portugal is one of only a few countries in the world in which parents are not entirely at liberty in selecting the name(s) of their child. This is because naming is determined by rigorous legislation, which stipulates that Portuguese parents should choose traditional names included in a list of approved names available at the Instituto dos Registos e do Notariado (IRN) website. Most of the approved names are traditionally Portuguese ones, and where exceptions are made and foreign names are used (as in the case when one parent is not Portuguese), these are to be translated and registered in keeping with standard Portuguese orthography or adapted graphically and phonetically to the Portuguese language. The spelling of a name should be in keeping with the official orthographical conventions in force on the date of registration. Archaic and poorly spelled names or names containing foreign letters such as k, y, w and l are also not permitted (for example, Izabel, Luiz, Kátia, Manoel). The use of nicknames or diminutives is also forbidden, as is the use of gender-neutral names. The IRN website specifies that according to article 1875, number 2 of the Portuguese Civil Code, the selection of the name(s) of a child is the joint responsibility of its parents, and in the event of disagreement, a judge is to make the decision in the interests of the child. A person’s complete name should comprise a maximum of six words, two of which could be first names. The first name is that which distinguishes the individual, and the first element of this name should not leave any doubt as to the sex of the person. Siblings may not have the same name, unless one is deceased. The inclusion and order of the surnames is determined by the parents, and the surnames can be connected by prepositions de/da/dos (of) and e (and). By way of example, the daughter of Pedro Abreu Almeida and Joana Santos Melo might be named AméliaMelo Almeida (first name + mother’s last name + father’s last name). The daughter could have two first names, Amélia Madalena, and then combine her surnames in a variety of ways: Amélia Madalena Melo Abreu Almeida (one maternal surname and two paternal ones), Amélia MadalenaAlmeida Santos Melo (two maternal surnames and one paternal one), or even Amélia Madalena Abreu Almeida Santos Melo (two surnames from either parent).

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In contrast to the somewhat restrictive and protectionist Portuguese naming system, its Shona counterpart is so ‘open’ that it accommodates any name, so long it can be transcribed in Latin letters. After a brief overview of the Shona-Portuguese historical-cultural contact, Shona names believed to be of Portuguese origin will be presented and analysed.

Shona-Portuguese Historical-Cultural Contact and Name Borrowing Scholars who have written on Zimbabwean history note that the Shonaspeaking peoples of Zimbabwe have had contact with the Portuguese and Portuguese-speaking peoples in various phases of their history: the precolonial, the liberation struggle, and the postcolonial eras. Mudenge (1988) and Ellert (1993) appear to concur that contact between the Shona-speaking peoples and the Portuguese lasted for at last three centuries, from the sixteenth century until the late nineteenth century, when control and influence were wrested from them by the British. The principal objective of the Portuguese during this period was to trade, obtain the vast mineral wealth (gold, silver, ivory and copper) that the ‘African eldorado’ was believed to hold, and to evangelise, so as to ensure Portuguese influence over the African rulers. Ellert (1993, p. 164) concludes that ‘[t]he Portuguese period in Zimbabwe’s history is too brief and inconsequential to have left any meaningful or visible impact as elsewhere in the Lusophone world’. Notwithstanding this, his book includes three appendices and several chapters with clear evidence of the Portuguese contribution to Zimbabwe’s social, political and economic spheres. This includes, amongst other things, the introduction of flora and fauna and an influence on the material culture and language of Zimbabwe. The Shona-Portuguese contact resulted in linguistic and cultural exchange, which included the adoption of some names and common nouns of Portuguese origin. These were then adapted to fit into the Shona system. This adaptation is partly based on the similarity of phonemes or a combination of phonemes in the two languages. Some examples of these phonemes are seen in the table below.

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Table 1 Shona Phoneme -nyu -nya -u -s -sh -ka -ey -ai -zhu -sh -ewu -eza -ki -awu -vheya -zh -ku -wa -sh -z-

Portuguese Phoneme -nho -nha -o -ce -x -ca -ei -ae -jo -s -eu -esa -qui -ão -veia -z -co -ua -ch -s-

The adoption of Portuguese names into the Shona naming system can be grouped into two, as represented in the following tables. Table 2: Portuguese names which retained all or most of their Portuguese phonological features Zimbabwe foreign names gustinyu Alufasi Alfandika/Arufandika Alifredu Alizhibhowa/Lizhibhowa Sabolinyu Alfazema Ferro

Portuguese name/word Agostinho alface alfândega Alfredo a lisboa/lisboa cebolinho alfazema ferro

English meaning a name lettuce customs a name (Alfred) to Lisbon chives, small onion lavender iron

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gola candiado noite razão tecla torto

collar lock night reason key crooked

The above words have been adopted into the Shona naming system with few or no changes to the Portuguese orthography. The Portuguese words are the names of people, food items, tools and even abstract notions and nouns whose meanings are understood and accepted in Portuguese culture. When they are adopted into the Shona naming system, however, the original meaning of these names does not appear to be of any importance, perhaps because their adoption appears to have been merely for cosmetic reasons or reasons of prestige. Owing to the similarities noted previously between phonemes in the Shona and Portuguese languages, some of the adopted Portuguese names sound and look very much like original Shona names, as shown in Table 3 below. Table 3: Portuguese names with Shona phonological structure Shona names Bukayo/Bakayau Butau/Butawo/Butao Dinyero Vhareta Toro Gota Kaitano Kandiero Kanyeka Tiyago Kanyota Kanyoto Kariri Kativhu Kuzinyero

Portuguese name/word bacalhau botão dinheiro vareta toro gota Caetano candeeiro caneca Tiago canhota canhoto caril cativo cozinheiro

English meaning salt-dried codfish button money rod log drop or bead a name candle, lamp mug a name (James) left handed left handed curry captive cook

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Faranando Arozho Arumando Zhuwawo/Zhuwau Mushambadzi/Mushamba Mufarinhya Kuvheya/Guvheya Pinyoro Tapa-tapa Sinyoro Tizora Masawu/Masawi

Fernando arroz Armando João chamar farinha Gouveia penhor tampa senhor tesoura maça

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name (Ferdinand) rice a name (Armand) a name (John) to call (out) flour a name pledge lid sir, gentleman, master scissors apple

An examination of the phonological structure of the Shona words adopted from Portuguese in Table 3 reveals that they look very much like original Shona names because they follow the Consonant-Vowel (CV) Shona syllabic pattern. However, of significance is the fact that meanings for these names are neither known in Shona nor have any link to the meaning of the Portuguese words from which they were borrowed. Several conclusions can be drawn from this analysis: firstly, that in most cases, Shona names of Portuguese origin result from a borrowing of unique combination of sounds rather than the meanings, which are not transferred into the Shona naming system; secondly, that the transliteration of some Portuguese nouns or names is such that certain borrowed names retain their foreignness. Transliteration 3 seems to be the basic way of adopting foreign names, as will be seen in the following comparison of Shona and Chinese names.

Comparative Analysis of Shona and Chinese Names In order to appreciate the similarities and differences between Shona and Chinese names, it is important to understand the phonological structures of these languages. The borrowing of a name from another language requires phonological modifications to ensure its acceptance into the ‘receiving’ language. In this section, we explore the difference in the phonological structure of names in the ‘giving’ language (Chinese) or ‘receiving’ 3

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, ‘transliteration’ means to write words or letters in the characters of another alphabet.

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language (Shona). From the names collected, all Chinese names (for the Chinese people in the mainland) are characterised by the following two syllabic structures. The first structure is a single syllabic surname + a single syllabic given name structure, as in the names 㜑䭖 Hú Jӿn, ⦻᭿ Wáng Mӿn and ᕐ㭺 ZhƗng Ruӿ. The second most common structure is the single syllabic surname + a disyllabic given name structure as seen in the names 亮䳵䶉 Gù Yӽjìng, ᵡᲃ⩣ Zhnj Xiӽolín and 䜝⾿㢟Guǀ Fúliáng. In the case of Shona names, the shortest would have two syllables on the first name and two syllables on the surname, as can be seen in the example Tsitsi Dombo — /tsi- + -tsi, do- + -mbo/. This implies that the majority of Shona full names are at least quadrisyllabic. In Shona, there is no maximum limit for the number syllables, since a name can have more than five syllables, as evident in the decasyllabic name: /Nye- + -nge- + -te- + -ra- + -i + Ma- + -ta- + -mba- + -na- + -dzo-/ In contrast, the longest name in the Chinese naming system has a maximum of three syllables, as seen in the name ᵾᔰ᰾ / Lӿ + kƗi + míng/. These syllabic differences are directly linked to the phonetic system of these two languages. The Shona language is an inflecting or agglutinating language (Mukaro, 2012), whereas the Chinese language is an isolating, character-based language. Each Chinese character reflects a syllable as well as a unit of meaning or morpheme (Catherine McBride-Chang & Connie Suk-Han Ho, 2000). Therefore, each syllable might have a meaning equivalent to a pentasyllabic Shona name, for instance, a Shona name /Sarudzai/ can be translated into a single character word such as /䘹 xuӽn/. The very nature of the Chinese language is such that a single character is an independent word with significant meaning. In Chinese, there are only 418 syllables, which can be converted to 1672 different morphemes by attaching the four different tones. Characters are also used to differentiate between those morphemes with similar tones; for instance, the name Liu can be ࡈ (weapon) or ḣ (one of the Lunar Mansions). This is quite similar to some Shona names, such as doro, which can mean both ‘beer’ and ‘wet land’. According to the 1996 Chinese Surnames Dictionary, there are about 5327 Chinese surnames, excluding those for tribes from Korea, Vietnam and other neighbouring countries. Shona surnames, on the other

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hand, are unlimited, which in itself implies that the Shona language is open to the adoption of any word as a name. Chinese names, like Shona ones, seek to express certain thoughts or desired values for the named person. Chinese surnames, like Shona ones, are not determined by name-givers but family names passed from one generation to another. In both cultures, surnames are inherited at birth depending on the family where one was born. Chinese surnames, as already mentioned, are monosyllabic, with meanings which might not be relevant to the present day. The majority of Shona surnames, unlike Chinese surnames, are at least disyllabic and often commentaries of the past and present experiences of the families concerned. Some of the meanings of these surnames have become lost over long stretches of time. The following is a table of Chinese and Shona surnames with their possible meanings. Table 4: Chinese and Shona surnames with indirect equivalence Chinese surname ᕐ

English

ᵾ li ᵘ mu

A type of tree Tree

Chimuti Kamuti

ԫ Ren

Allow

哴 Huang

Yellow (possibly linked to skin colour)

Mubvumira Mabvumira Kabvumira Mutema Muchena

Open

Shona surname Mazarura Mavhura

meaning He who opens (rather than just open as in Chinese) A small tree

The one who allows (rather than just allow, as in Chinese) Black (linked to skin colour)

These names seem to describe the same things because they are mainly guided by both nature and human sentiments. Also, there are other surnames in these two cultures which are linked to past political entities or states. Such surnames do not have meanings determined by the word itself, but by its association with a certain period of time. The following table shows examples of such surnames.

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Table 5: Surnames linked to past political states ੤ Wu 䎥 Zhao ᾊChu ⠅ Yan 丙 Han 喀 Qi

These were the names of political states during the Zhou dynasty and are now the family names for millions of Chinese who are linked to these states.

Mapondera Mutota Torwa Rozvi Matope Mbire Rozvi

These names existed before the invasion of Africa by Europeans and are still being used by some families as surnames.

The above Chinese names are understood and only make sense to the Chinese people. If they are translated into Shona or English, the meaning is not at all clear. The same applies to those Shona names listed in the table below, whose significance is only known to the Shona people, highlighting the fact that names are specific to a given culture. There are, however, some other Chinese surnames that appear to have direct equivalence with those in the Shona language. Table 5: Chinese and Shona surnames for which there are direct equivalences Chinese surname ⦻ Wang ࡈ Liu 傜 Ma

English

Shona surname

Meaning

King Weapon Horse

King Weapon Horse

ਦ Ye

Leaf

㜑 Hu ∋ Mao

Beards Fur/hair

⋣ He ⊏ Jiang

River

Mambo Chombo Mabhiza Bhiza Shizha Mashizha Ndebvu/Mandebvu Mvere Chimvere Kamvere Mavhudzi Rwizi Karwizi Chirwizi Marwizi Hova

Leaf Beard/s Fur/hair

All these are variations of the surname ‘rwizi’ (river), depending on the nature or size of the river.

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The Chinese surnames cited above appear to have meanings for which direct equivalents exist in Shona. These Shona equivalents are almost like short phrases or commentary, owing to the nature of the nouns used in that language. While the Chinese language is an isolating language, where a single morpheme is an independent word represented by a single character (Huang, Peng, Wu, Yuan, Wang & Liu, 2003), Shona is an agglutinating4 language (Mukaro, 2012). In Shona, nouns consist of the construction pattern prefix + stem, and most noun prefixes, such as chi-, ka, zi, ru-, and svi-, etc., are commentary. Mapara (2013) also observes that Shona names are short sentences, making them more descriptive than Chinese ones. For instance, He (⋣) and Jiang (⊏) both mean river, but one cannot tell whether the river is big or small. Shona equivalents for such surnames, such as Rwizi, Marwizi and Karwizi, differentiate between a normal river, rivers and a small river respectively. A similar trend is also evident in given names. There is an interesting relationship between Chinese and Shona surnames because in both cultures, names seem to be directly influenced by the language and other factors surrounding the name-givers. In both the Chinese and Shona language, names carry significant meaning, which gives identity to the persons being named. People who adopt Chinese names for the sake of prestige or fashion normally prefer transliteration5 or the adaptation of these names as they are. Based on the above comparison and evidence of linguistic borrowing already experienced between Shona and Portuguese, we will therefore attempt to predict how Chinese names might be incorporated into the Shona language.

A Discussion of Shona Name-borrowing Methods In this chapter, the incorporation of Portuguese nouns and names into Shona names was examined – a process which produced unique names that still sound foreign to this day. Such names as Torto, Alfazema, Ferro, Gola and Sampayo do not conform to the Shona phonological structure; 4 ‘An agglutinative language is a type of language in which the relationships between words in a sentence are indicated primarily by bound morphemes; morphemes are joined together loosely so that it is easy to determine where the boundaries between morphemes are; each morpheme would carry exactly one meaning.’ (Janice Fon, Lecture notes available from: http://www.ling.ohiostate.edu/~jfon/ling201/typology.pdf)

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thus, it may be argued that such linguistic borrowing does not enrich the vocabulary of the borrowing language. Continuous interaction between cultures normally results in the exchange of ideas, values, goods, and linguistic materials, so that, over a period of time, the original meaning and pronunciation of the borrowed names might be completely blurred. For instance, the following names, Toro, Gota, Sinyoro, Kuvheya, Zifodya, Masawu and Seti are very likely to have originated from Portuguese but no longer sound like foreign names because they have adopted the Shona phonological structure. However, many Portuguese names transferred into the Shona language seem to have failed to gain acceptance into mainstream Shona because, although these names have appropriated the Shona phonological structure, their meanings remain unknown to the majority of Shona people. If one takes a borrowed name like Kombiyuta and Maria or Josefa, for example, one understands the significance of these names in Shona without the need for their translation. Contrary to this trend, Portuguese names adopted into Shona culture sound unusual or foreign and their meaning is unknown to the majority of Shona speakers. The Portuguese name Vareta or ‘rod’, for instance, which is transliterated as Vhareta, does not have any recognised meaning in the Shona language. The same applies to other names such as Kuzinyero borrowed from cozinheiro meaning ‘cook’, Kanyeka, likely borrowed from caneca for ‘mug’, Kanyoto likely to have been borrowed from canhoto for ‘left handed’, and Kativhu borrowed from cativo meaning ‘captive’. Based on the above analysis, one can conclude that many Portuguese names used in Zimbabwe still remain foreign in terms of both phonological and semantic structure. When these foreign names are transliterated into the receiving language, they do not carry any known meaning. It is no wonder, therefore, that people with such names are assumed to be foreigners from Mozambique. The adoption of Portuguese nouns and names, then, to some degree, reflects a loss of identity rather than a form of cultural diversity in Zimbabwe. When they are used, the identity of the bearer of that name is not easily identifiable with the Shona culture. In the case of Portuguese names used in Zimbabwe, when one is called Noiti, Butao, Zhuwao, Arumando or Ferenando, one automatically assumes that the name holders are of foreign origin or that such names are Mozambican. The borrowing tendency observed above makes Shona name borrowing a mere adoption of a combination of foreign sounds or words for the sake of

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fashion or prestige, rather than for any significant meaning that gives identity. The Shona-Chinese cultural contact which might reach its peak any time soon is also likely to bring a set of names such as Xiaomeili (ሿ 㖾ѭ) meaning ‘little Beauty’, Wangjiaming (⦻ᇦ᰾) meaning ‘King’s bright home’ and Zhangjianshun ( ᕐ ᔪ 亪 ) meaning ‘Open Suitable Construction’ which might have to take some Shona phonological structures as follows: Shawomeyiri, Wan’ijiyamin’ and Zhan’ijiyenishuni respectively. Such phonological structures contradict the Chinese disyllabic and trisyllabic name structure and, at the same time, produce meaningless names that can easily mislead listeners to think that the bearers of the name are foreigners. Particularly since, in the Shona language, when borrowing foreign names there is a tendency to alter vowels and consonants to suit the Shona CV syllabic structure, transliteration of Chinese names with CVC patterns will end up being CVCV or just CV, altering the original meanings of the names being borrowed. It is our hope that in this age of twenty-first-century globalisation, the Shona naming system will gain more positively from linguistic borrowing, while at the same time retaining its status and identity. As more and more Chinese people settle in Zimbabwe for business, and with the teaching of the Chinese language in Zimbabwe, it is inevitable that Shona culture will borrow from Chinese culture. It is our responsibility to consider what can and cannot be borrowed from the Chinese culture. When Chinese people are naming their children, they give full consideration of the Chinese characters’ pronunciation, form and meaning. Consequently, when one adopts Chinese or other foreign names, one should also consider such factors. In this chapter, the authors neither completely oppose the borrowing of foreign names nor attempt to prescribe a method on how names should be borrowed. The above analysis reveals that name borrowing from the Portuguese into Shona is motivated more by social and aesthetic impulses rather than economic or functional needs. In this regard, Shona name borrowing seems to be more inclined towards the direct adoption of foreign language words as they are contrary to the principles of some linguistic borrowing theories. Stojiþiü (2004, p. 30) observes that the borrowing of vocabulary from another language implies that the borrowed vocabulary should adapt ‘to the phonetic and morphological systems of the receiving language’. Such borrowing should result in words that can be easily integrated into the vocabulary of the borrowing language to such an

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extent that the borrowed words are no longer recognised as being of foreign origin. The majority of Portuguese names borrowed into the Shona naming system seem to ignore the Shona phonetic and morphological systems. The Shona naming system, therefore, experiences linguistic loss in that, instead of gaining new vocabulary (including names), local names are substituted by foreign vocabulary. The intention here is to bring to light the fact that name borrowing for reasons of prestige or fashion should not ignore the significance of names as an icon of identity. As Pfukwa (2007, p. 59) aptly observes, naming is the equivalent of owning, controlling and possessing. Pfukwa notes, furthermore, that the process of naming enables one to claim space, whether this is social or political. Mashiri and Chabata (2010) concur that naming allows one to lay claim to physical or territorial space, too. Any borrowing resulting from current cultural contact between Shona and other cultures, therefore, should be cognisant of the fact that in so doing, they are defining themselves, possessing and controlling their own identity. It is hoped, therefore, that in the twenty-first century, where various cultures, including the Chinese one, are penetrating Zimbabwean culture, the Shona naming system will gain more from linguistic borrowing.

Conclusion The contact between the Shona and Lusophone cultures and between the Shona and Chinese cultures is similar in the sense that, in both cases, the languages coming into contact with Shona culture are both foreign. Unlike second languages, such as English, in the case of Zimbabwe, a foreign language does not have official status and is not used in daily conversation. Therefore, its impact cannot be compared to that of a second language. Moreover, since relatively few individuals understand these foreign languages, their impact on our local naming system seems to be similar in the sense that they make names in Zimbabwe more akin to icons for individual identification rather than for cultural identity. In this chapter, it has been established that the contact between Shona and Portuguese-speaking peoples brought some nouns and names that did not completely adapt to the Shona phonology, thus making it difficult for these names to be recognised as Shona-borrowed words. Such names are, therefore, Portuguese names adopted by Zimbabweans, rather than borrowed names in the Shona language. Since names are a form of

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identity, the conclusion is that such names, which do not go through rephonologisation to fit the phonology of the borrowing language, are just a form of alienation because the meaning(s) or the motivation behind such names is not understood by the majority of people. Based on the Shona-Portuguese cultural encounter, where the majority of Portuguese names were borrowed through transliteration, we can predict that a similar trend is likely to emerge from the current Shona-Chinese cultural contact. With the advent of the Chinese cultural influence across Africa, it is likely that Chinese names will be adopted in a similar way as the majority of Portuguese names were adopted.

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Linguistics, 4(1), pp. 220–236. Pfukwa, C. (2007). The function and significance of war names in the Zimbabwean armed conflict (1966–1979) (Unpublished doctoral thesis). University of South Africa, Pretoria. —. (2012). A Dictionary of Chimurenga war names. Harare: Africa Institute for Culture, Dialogue, Peace and Tolerance Studies. Russell, J. & Cohn, R. (2012). Portuguese Name. United Kingdom: Bookvika Publishing. Sapir, E. (1921). Language. Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., New York. Stojiþiü, V. (2004). Sociolinguistic stimuli to development of the English lexicon – Language contact and social need. Linguistics and Literature, 3(1), pp. 29–36. The Chinese Academy of Social Sciences Research centre for dictionary editorial office. (2012). Modern Chinese Dictionary (6th edition). Beijing: The Commercial press. Thompson, D. (2000). The pocket Oxford dictionary of current English (8th edition). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Watson, R. (1986). The Named and Nameless: Gender and person in Chinese society. American Anthropological Association, 13(14), pp. 619–631. Yuan, Y. & Ruofu, D. (Eds). (1996). Chinese Surnames Dictionary. Beijing: Education and Science Press.

CHAPTER SIX SPIRITUALITY IN THE SHONA CHRISTIAN NAMING SYSTEM RICHARD MAPOSA AND BERNARD HUMBE

The practice of giving names constitutes an existential script that underlies the sanctity of humanity. In focusing on the practice of naming by the Shona people of Zimbabwe, the thrust of this study is to evaluate these naming practices as representatives of African indigenous Christians. This is in the light of the new ethos as vocalised by the surging discipline of African theology in contemporary scholarship. In part, the study argues that this new discipline of African theology engages the indigenous culture to bolster the Biblical Christian faith as a programme to make ‘African Christianity’ authentic and resilient on the African soil. The study observes that the naming practice provides one of the principal ways for the Shona people to engage and re-situate their Christian faith more relevantly by a tendency of blending indigenous names with Christian doctrines, beliefs and teachings. Accordingly, the chapter posits that to appreciate the true essence of African Christianity, it is vital to decode phenomenologically the human spirituality embedded in the indigenoChristocentric names that are popularly used in the contemporary Shona society in Zimbabwe. To understand people in situ and culture, there is always the need to examine their history, particularly from where they originated. For instance, it is also generally upheld by a number of anthropologists, sociologists, historians and liberation theologians that every ethnic group has its own unique culture, assumptions about life, myths and legends of origin that narrate all the aspects of their history. This history moves backwards from the moment of intense trans-historical experience to the period beyond, which tends to be telescoped through the oral tradition (Mbiti, 1969, p. 23). From the outset, it must be made clear that people

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cannot ordinarily understand the peculiar nature of indigenous African people except in conjunction with their ideas and practice of naming. The Shona naming system is influenced by their indigenous religious belief system and this is an ontological phenomenon since it pertains to the question of metaphysical existence. This study contends that every name carries some suggestion of both ontological and metaphysical meaning. Consequently, within the indigenous life, a person is immersed in a religious participation that starts before birth and continues after death. In other words, because man lives in the religious universe and within a context of ritual drama, names of people have religious meanings embedded into them (Mbiti, 1969, p. 15). In Shona society, it must be noted that naming can be done by either the mother or father of the child, by relatives, the midwife or even by the community. In any case, only a baby who comes out alive receives a name as an indication of the interconnectedness between a name and life. In the Shona society, the act of naming is a bestowal of a soul on the one who receives the name. According to Deluzain (1996), the person who receives a name also receives an identity and a place within the society. Yet, it must also be noted that the act of naming also reflects the dynamics of possession since the name-giver claims the physical, cultural, social and indeed the political space as well (The Patriot, 2014, p. 8). Nevertheless, in modern life, the parents acquire a birth certificate for the child and, in this way, the child’s name becomes part of the public record of that society. The birth certificate becomes a kind of ticket or passport to some of the essential services that a modern society offers its members (Deluzain, 1996). However, for the indigenous Shona, the existence of the individual in society is not determined by the acquisition and availability of a birth certificate. Instead, personal records are deeply rooted in their memories, which are passed down orally to become a permanent component of the indigenous heritage. This is the sine qua non of the African spirituality as a legitimate terrain of research in the framework of African studies in postcolonial Zimbabwe.

Re-visiting the Notion of Spirituality Within the church circles and religions of the world, the word ‘spirituality’ is in vogue. In the corridors of its long usage, spirituality is defined in a range of incongruous ways and has been conceptualised to have a variety of meanings at quite different times in the history of humanity. At any rate, the biblical understanding was drawn from the benchmark provided

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by the Pauline notions. Paul’s understanding of the word ‘spiritual’ is that a spiritual person is under the control of the Holy Spirit (see, for instance, 1 Corinthians 6:20). Later thinkers drew a close demarcation between the spiritual and material life that was alien to the Scriptural sense. According to Fabella and Surgitharajah (2000), spirituality is described as the cry for life, the power to resist death and its agents. From an African perspective, the Nigerian writer, Orobator (2008, p. 141) says that spirituality portrays the energy that comes from the awareness that human beings are not alone in the universe. In this study, spirituality is a person’s connectedness to the divine, to the human roots, and to oneself. What it means is that spirituality unites human beings and their divine source who as people relate with each other in the context of their situatedness and culturedness. The study rests on the belief that the naming system presupposes a close relationship between people and the divine, a kind of relationship which brings in human connectedness, harmony, love and helps to unite the fabric of human society. One of the principal ways to express this African spirituality is the indigenous naming practice. The study exemplifies the foregoing insight by engaging the Shona society. It is prudent to proffer the Shona symbolism, function and interpretation usually associated with the indigenous practice of naming in the Zimbabwean context.

African Mind as a Spiritual Script The spirituality of names in the indigenous Shona society in Zimbabwe is well conceived if one takes cognisance of the concept of the ‘African mind’. Nyasani, (cited in Lassiter, 1999), believes that, in the same way, reference was made to the Greek or Roman civilisation, it must be quite appropriate to refer to a particular strand of mind that is quite peculiar to Africa and which shapes the prevailing conditions or permits itself to adapt to those conditions. There is a distinctive feature of the African mind that seems to support the claim that the human mind may not necessarily operate in the same strict pattern as minds elsewhere in the world. It is the way the African mind functions and operates under certain conditions that leads the Shona people to appropriate for themselves a peculiar status, social identification and label that work together to proffer a particularistic identity in Zimbabwe. Against this backdrop, it is compelling to accept that among the Shona people, a name is a script and a manifestation of ownership of one’s life bestowing aesthetic values on society. Some of the Shona names that depict the quintessence of the African mind are Upenyu

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(life), Pfungwa (mind), Rangarirai (always remember) and Sunungurai (liberate or deliver). In functionalist perspectives, these names have a binary character. That is to say, the names positively or negatively mirror the situation that elicits them. Certainly, our investigations yielded to the fact that no name is neutral. No name is given for its own sake! Rather, it must be noted that every name is assigned to an individual in response to a certain historical situation in which human beings are participants. This is why African theology grows from the heartbeat of the particularistic realities that prevail in societies. Thus, African Christianity will only be relevant if it respects the immediate existentialities of the local people, as both Africans and Christians. According to Nyasani (1997, p. 56), the African mind is a product of the unique cultural edifices and cultural streams that arose from the environmental conditioning and long-standing cultural traditions. As the study observed from the fieldwork carried out on a rural family in Nehumbambi village in Buhera district, a certain mother toiled to educate her children. The first-born child, called Nhamo, was trained as a teacher. In the end, the community started addressing the mother as mai Ticha (mother of a teacher). Although the change of name was not effected on the bearer’s documents, the society had endorsed the new social name. Pongweni (1983, p. 2) calls the new name zita rekudzandura, implying that it is a social name adopted by a family or an individual to replace the original name. The society found it imperative to change the name since the old name was connecting the family with poverty. Dropping the name Nhamo and adopting the new name, Ticha, was a way of mitigating and eradicating the old social stereotypes surrounding poverty and marginalisation in the society. The Shona people have a proverb called, chaitemura chave kuseva (literally, ‘things can change’). From a communitarian perspective, a change could be viewed as either good or bad. Although Ticha is not indigenous in origin, what can be appropriated from its use is the need of the society to attach it to someone who deserves it, that is, to a poor boy who made good in life. In Muswere’s (2000) submission, the African personal names have multitudinous functions such as those associated with one’s occupation. For instance, Ticha assumed the role of a father and a role model in the community, thereby enlightening it. Some of the names marking progress in a family include, Pfumai (be rich) and Mariyawanda (abundant money). Observable here is the fact that, through the naming practice, an individual becomes part of the history of the family and society, and, because of their name, his or her deeds will exist separate from the deeds of others (Deluzain, 1996). Names may categorise events or phenomena, acculturate, act as mechanisms for social

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control and justify behaviour (Pongweni, 1983). In this way, Pfukwa notes in The Patriot (23–29 May 2014, p. 8) that a name is a ‘social beacon, an anchor that places a person or an entity in some cultural or historical context’.

Naming as Human Experience Marriage as an institution is of paramount importance in the quest to understand the Shona indigenous names in the context of their socioreligious setup. Accordingly, the experience of the mwenga (new bride) is worth exploring to illustrate the gist of the study. Almost every Shona homestead domesticates imbwa (dogs). In some cases, on joining the new family, the mwenga is assigned to take care of one dog. In fact, the dog becomes her best intimate such that, after cooking, when dishing sadza, the first portion is served to the dog. It is the mwenga who gives the dog a name. The name ascribed to the dog is reflective of the mwenga’s new experiences. Her joys, sorrows, protests are communicated through the dog. Therefore, the name of the dog is always on her lips. For example, if the mwenga is always in conflict with her vana tete or hanzvadzi dzemurume (aunts), one would hear such a name as Zvinotinoupenzi (they seem to be mad). It has been the tradition that the mwenga shares the vamwene’s kitchen and this scenario is sometimes characterised by conflict. Sanity is restored only after a ritual of kubikiswa is performed. Thus, the mwenga, now autonomous, hits back by using names that she equates to dogs. It must be noted that the numerical calendars do not exist in African indigenous societies; rather there is what one would call phenomenon calendars, in which the events or phenomena that constitute time are reckoned or considered in their relation with one another. The day, the month, the year, one’s lifetime or human history, as it is experienced, are all divided up or reckoned according to their specific events (Mbiti, 1969, pp. 18–19). Considering the fact that women were married through a ritual process of kumema/kuzivisa, it is common that the mwenga could spend three to five years without a child. Such a state for a married woman attracted criticism, stereotyping and branding, for the general understanding is that it is the duty of the woman to ensure the expansion of the clan or lineage through childbirth. Some of the piercing scolds range from barrenness to witchcraft. More often than not, these social pressures are exerted by family members, especially amongst the in-laws, the vanatete and vanababamunini, which degrades the bride’s dignity.

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Sometimes the problem is solved after consulting traditional practitioners or prophets and the bride conceives; soon after birth, the mother gives the baby the name Mucharevei (meaning, you were despising me saying I do not conceive; now that I have given birth to this child, it is over). This message is communicated to the family members. Some family members may confess that they spoke evil, especially the vanatete and babamunini, during the time their maiguru did not have a child. In response to the illsayings which come from the babamunini and vanatete while still unmarried, the second-born child is given the name Tichaonei or Toonei (meaning, you are despising me but yet you are not yet in my situation, so we shall see what is going to be your fate when you get married). If the bride feels a continuance of the hatred even though she now has children, her concerns are then expressed through the third-born baby whom she calls Muneni. Her complaint will be along the lines of why should the family be focusing on her alone when there are other in-laws besides her. The fourth born is a confirmation that the family hate her, thus naming her child Vengai. If the hatred ends up adopted by most of the family members and the muroora does not foresee any positive change, she concedes and calls her fifth born Takawira (meaning, falling in a den of haters). Interestingly, the husband approves some names that come from the wife. Given this scenario, Pongweni (1983, p. 4) has argued that the Shona names, like those from other African cultures, function as the authentic expression of human experience or attitude in their historical milieu.

Naming as a Stockroom of Values According to McCalla (2009, p. 86), ‘one way of looking at “human values” is to consider them as, “something we qualify as good, and are prepared to set as goals in life”’. People have various values instilled in them through the process of their upbringing and through the process of their life experiences: we inherit, through society and culture, belief systems and religious traditions. The Shona people have values that are rooted in the very conditions of their existence. These values are depicted through the Shona naming system in Zimbabwe. Cooperation flows in every vein of the African. The value of cooperation is a sine qua non in any African spirituality discourse. Cooperation in African spirituality is based on a broader understanding that all humanity is the children of God (Mwari). The Shona people’s zests to cooperate ‘are linked by shared values that are fundamental features of African identity and culture’. These, for example, include hospitality, friendliness, the consensus and common framework-seeking principle, ubuntu, and the emphasis on

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community rather than on the individual. It is not surprising to hear names such as Batanai (be united), Batsirai (help one another) and Gamuchirai (show hospitality). These names carry moral features that typically underpin the variations of the indigenous Shona culture and identity everywhere (Nyasani, 1997, p. 197). The following are typical examples of Shona values that are enshrined in the indigenous Shona names.

Rukudzo The values of rukudzo (respect) reign supreme among the indigenous Shona people. These moral values are expected to be upheld by every person, including the elderly and children in Shona society. Every clan or dynasty has its important figures and particular attention here shall be given to the midwife. The midwife is seen as the giver of life to a baby and the saver of the mother’s life. In a certain clan, the midwife felt that the women and were despising her office. Thus, when nursing a young woman through the birth of her first child, the midwife gave the new baby a name that was meant to communicate her worries; she named him Hamundityi (you do not fear me). The midwives hold a very important office in the indigenous Shona society that is associated with preserving the life of human beings. Therefore, they deserve much respect from the community to which they render their services. Mbuya Nyamukuta had realised that there was a certain section of the community that was undermining her authority. It was imperative to put in place a corrective measure to this social demeanour. But some of the people whose attitude needed to be checked were the men and it was unacceptable for women to openly challenge men; therefore, the opportune time came with the birth of Hamundityi. Again, Pongweni (1983) identifies a name given by midwives as a maternity home name, which is zita redumba. Pongweni says that just soon after birth at the midwife’s home, the midwives and other female relatives congratulate the parents, expressing their excitement for the arrival of a new family member by giving this name. In this situation, it was very relevant for the clan, which had been under serious threat of misfortune since no first-born baby had ever survived. Hamundityi was the first to survive and many expected a praise-name. However, the motives behind the name Hamundityi were far from celebratory, for the name served as a corrective measure on the behaviour of what happened during the pregnancy of the mother or shortly after the birth of the child (Deluzain, 1996).

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Mushandirapamwe Mushandirapamwe (communalism) is another fundamental value which expresses a deep sense of belonging, connectedness or ‘we-feeling’ among a group of people that result in the group participating in a shared community. This sense of connectedness is prevalent in Shona naming (Botchway & Agyemang, 2012). Generally, the African concept of community involves the extended family and the village community (Saayman, 1994, p. 175). The individual has little latitude for selfdetermination outside the context of the traditional African family and community. ‘Whatever happens to the individual happens to the whole group, and whatever happens to the whole group happens to the individual. The individual can only say: “I am, because we are; and since we are, therefore I am.”’ This is a cardinal metaphysical statement in the philosophy of the indigenous people in Africa (Mbiti, 1969, p. 109). It makes sense if we take cognisance of the fact that the majority of the Shona are still ‘rural’. By rural here, the researchers do not intend to label them backward; rather, ‘rural’ points to an identity whereby the Shona have their cultural roots preserved in a traditional lifestyle. Nevertheless, this does not mean that the concept of rural is immune to modernisation, especially at this time when the majority of the Shona people were mostly residing in urban areas. However, there is evidence that many of the Shona urban dwellers in Zimbabwe keep their rural links alive and will, in times of crises (such as illness), turn to their village or extended family for support. The community also appeals to the Shona who have become permanently urbanised through creating various alternatives to the extended family or village community, such as the African Initiated Churches and burial societies. The community is the predominant rootmetaphor in the African view of naming (Saayman, 1994, p. 175). The family expresses a collective view through the name they give to their bride’s child; they normally use sentential forms with the first-person plural marker t-, (Pongweni, 1983, p. 8). Most of the Shona names show pluralism and an inclusiveness of the community, for example, Tafara, Takarindwa, Tendeukai, Pindukai, Rumbidzai, Tashinga and Tapera.

Hanya Hanya (care) is an intrinsic value that underpins the human relationship in society. Bestowal of name and identity is a kind of symbolic contract between the society and the individual. Seen from one side of the contract, by giving a name, the society confirms the individual’s existence and

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acknowledges its responsibilities toward that person (Deluzain, 1996). Among others, essentially what characterises the contract between an individual and the society is sociality, patience, tolerance, sympathy and acceptance. Based on the name, the African thought pattern reveals itself through a congenital trait of sociality or sociability. It further reveals itself as a virtuous natural endowment of patience and tolerance. Lastly, it manifests itself as a natural disposition for mutual sympathy and acceptance. These three areas then appear to serve as important landmarks in the general description of the phenomenology of the African mind (Lassiter, 1999).

Kudyidzana Kudyidzana (reciprocity) is a virtue that underlies the sanctity of humanity. To the Shona, the value of care is a gesture of reciprocity. Reciprocity is a form of showing gratitude for a past benefit. A Shona proverb – kandiro kanoenda kunobva kamwe – captures this value succinctly. Reciprocity encompasses gratitude, which is one of the most important values of the Shona people. It must be understood that human dependency is reciprocal in order not to be parasitic, unless the other party cannot in any way give in return. Among the Shona people, even a simple ‘thank you’ from a poor person is a blessing to the giver and to the poor person (Botchway & Agyemang, 2012). Some examples of names that treasure this important virtue of reciprocity are Vongai (thank you), Tendeukai (reform), Tambirai (accept), Chipo (gift), Rangarirai (remember), Tatenda (thanks) and Gamuchirai (receive). Reciprocity expressed in some naming practices is also extended to conflict management. There is a certain way of extending a hand of forgiveness to a family that has asked for forgiveness or peace to do away with longstanding grudges. The aggrieved people will give their newly born baby a fitting name, say Kanganwiro. This is an assurance that peace and tranquillity will now prevail between the two families. Another name that expresses reconciliation is Wadzanai, and the messages carried by these names are intended to ease social tensions and defuse potentially volatile situations (Pongweni, 1983).

Naming and Immortality In many Shona societies, a person is not considered a complete human being until one has gone through the whole process of physical birth, naming ceremonies, puberty and initiation rites, and finally marriage (and

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even procreation). Then one is fully ‘born’, one is a complete person (Mbiti, 1969, p. 24). This explains why, in their day-to-day language, the Shona people say ‘ikozvino ave munhu’ referring to the maturity of a person. When someone dies, one is remembered by relatives and friends who knew that person in one’s life. The living recall their dead relative by name; they remember their personality, character, words and life experiences (Mbiti, 1969). The recall and imitation ritual starts during the funeral when everything is dramatised by the vanasahwira (the deceased’s friends), among the Zezuru, and by the varamu (the deceased’s sisters-inlaw), among the Manyika, Karanga and Ndau people who are part-andparcel of the Shona linguistic speakers. If one ‘appears’, one is recognised by name. Normally, one appears through dreams and spirit possession. Evidently, this recognition by name is extremely important. In 1978, in the eastern Manicaland province, in the village of Nehumambi, one informant, Tendai Gadzai’s second born, Pindukai, fell seriously ill. Then, there were no clinics in the village. The informant testified how she rushed her baby to a local prophet who was a specialist in child illness. After the prophet attended the sick baby, she announced that the baby’s chances of surviving were next to zero for he had been struck by an ailment that was impossible to reverse. This was convincing, for the mother’s breast milk had dried up. That very night, mai Pindukai had a vision in a dream of a very handsome old man who told her to rise and go back home with the child Pindukai for he was well. The old man told maiPindukai that he was the great ancestor of the family and was going to protect the son from all the evils and enemies who wanted to kill him. When she woke from the dream, milk was already oozing from the oncedry breasts and the baby suckled again. She complied with the instructions she had received from the great ancestor. Since then, the family has been receiving protection from this great ancestor and if any of the family member is in serious trouble, by merely mentioning the name of this great ancestor the situation becomes normal again. The fact that the departed person is remembered by name is an indication that he is not really dead, for earlier it has been noted how a name is used with reference to someone who is alive. Accordingly, Mbiti (1969, p. 25) found it worthy to coin the phrase the ‘living dead’. The living dead represents a person who is physically dead but alive in the memory of those who knew him in his life, as well as being alive in the world of the spirits. So long as the living dead are remembered, they are perceived to dwell in the state of immortality. This is how indigenous metaphysics emerges in the Shona society. This personal immortality is externalised in the physical continuation of the individual through procreation. It is a very common situation that children

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are born closely resembling the departed members of the family or progenitors in terms of their voice projection, complexion, body structure and intelligence. The foregoing aspect of personal immortality should be an aid to understanding the religious significance of marriage in African societies. Unless a person has close relatives to remember them when they physically die, then they are nobody and simply vanish from human existence like a flame when it is extinguished (Mbiti, 1969, p. 25). Therefore, it is a duty, religious and ontological, for everyone to get married, and if a man has no children or only daughters, he finds another wife so that through her, children may be born who would survive him and keep him (along with the other living dead of the family) in personal immortality. Procreation is the absolute way of ensuring that a person is not deprived of personal immortality (Mbiti, 1969, p. 25). The Manyika, Ndau and Karanga people perform a common ritual called kugadza zita. The name of the deceased is conferred to the elder son. This means the same name will be now shared by two people, one in the physical world and the other in the spiritual world – the nyikadzimu. Thus, Musere (2000) argues that names are part of all African traditions and virtually every African indigenous name has a distinct meaning or connotation. The above paragraphs vivify the notion that many African names emanate from one’s ancestry through their clan, ethnic or religious affiliation. It must be realised that indigenous names play a very important role in the establishment of the family genealogy, particularly if one wants to trace an individual’s family tree. While the Shona do not pen a record of the names of their ancestors, the oral literature is always used to recite it and the names are passed from generation to generation smoothly in this way. A common observation was that when one asks a child his or her name, the question does not only require the first and the surname, but the name of the father should also be given for specification purposes. The following is an example of what an eight-year-old child said when she was asked her name: ‘My name is Danai [‘call me’], the daughter of Pindukai [‘repent’], son of Hamundityi [‘you do not fear me’], son of Zuvarimwe [‘one day’], son of Mucheka [‘one who cuts’], who descended from Mafuruse [‘one who bores people’] family’. In so doing, she was outlining her family tree through the paternal lineage that she had memorised at a tender age. The names are very sacred among the Shona people and once a person is given a name, it implies that the bond of the name and its bearer is transmitted to the spiritual realm of existence. This is why when the Shona

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people perform various rituals that show the interconnectedness between the living people and the dead elder, they mention the name of the person who is seeking their intervention. The same departed elder is given to a bull ‘bhuru remusha’ (‘bull of the clan’) and that bull is respected and revered so much such that it is not killed or sold for meat until it is very old. Some indigenous Shona names are restitution-oriented in nature. At one of the homesteads visited by the researchers, the head of the clan went to South Africa looking for employment. He left soon after marrying a girl of considerable age. The man stayed away for a couple of years working for the family. When he came back, his cousin’s son had snatched his youngest wife. The offenders (the adulterers) lacked the courage to admit openly that they had wronged the husband of the wife, and then the adulterous couple went on to have five children born but sickly and dying. The elders of the village advised them to apologise to the wronged husband. Soon after the birth of the sixth child, it was announced that the name was Ripisai ‘punish them’. The name was a plea to the offended that the parents of the child were guilty and very sorry for the crime they had committed. Nevertheless, the indigenous people usually recognise a verbal apology which is accompanied by restitution. Therefore, Ripisai was also requesting the offended to charge what he wanted for the crime committed. After the ritual was performed, the child survived and others followed.

Influence of Modernity In several African societies, the indigenous naming system has been pervaded by modernisation, especially due to urbanisation and labour migration. Some of the names of the Shona people are adopted from their workplaces. For instance, a certain man from Buhera district who used to work on a white commercial farm for a long time in the Chivhu district, had a very big head that gained the attention of his white employers. Therefore, the story was told how the white men dubbed him ‘Big head’ although he was a hard worker. Then, when he came back home, he introduced himself as Bhegedhe – a mispronunciation of Big head. To date, the whole local clan and village in Buhera district are known as Bhegedhe. In addition, the researchers were told of another man who was always identified as a foreigner at the white workplaces in South Africa. When the man came back home in Zimbabwe, he proudly and boastfully called himself Foreni – a corrupted version of the English word

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‘foreigner’ – and that is the name that has come to be used by all his descendants. According to Pongweni (1983), a name like this, descriptive of a character or inclinations, is known as zitaremadunhurirwa. The common thing about this name is that it is given to a grown-up person meaning he/she already possesses a name, but this new name will be simply an addition to the original name. It is also common to see the majority of people with names that have exotic origins who want to be superior in their community, perhaps it is an indication of compensatory behaviour for an inferiority complex or ill-treatment they suffered at their workplaces as a result of these loathsome names. This example shows how the phenomenon of giving names is a probing process for all in Shona society.

Conclusion The study made it evident that a name is a multiple poetical summary of a person’s experience. The bearer of the name and the specific meaning thereto are intrinsically related to the historical and immediate contexts of an individual. It was also shown that the indigenous spirituality of naming among the Shona is vital in expressing a person’s relationship with the holy realms of existence. As part of the findings, this study underscored the fact that the spirituality of naming practices should not be divorced from the milieu in which life is lived. Undoubtedly, this insight was significant in the configuration of the growing African theology at the services of the Christian church in Africa. Such liberation theology is informed and draws inspiration from the nutritive material culture of the local people. The study certainly recognised that, from the panAfrican standpoint, the system of naming is not something neutral because, as the inspiring insights of Pfukwa (2014, p. 8) acclaim, ‘To name is to control, re-define and de-mystify and by naming a thing (person), we make it knowable and controllable’.

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Fabella, M.M & Surgirtharajah, R.S. (2000). (Eds.) Dictionary of Third World Theologies. New York: Orbis Books. Lassiter, J.E. (1999). African Culture and Personality: Bad Social Science, Effective Social Activism, or A Call to Re-invent Ethnology? [Online] Available from http://web.africa.ufl.edu/asq/v3/v3i2a1.htm. [Accessed: 12 June 2013]. Mbiti, J.S. (1969). African Religions and Philosophy. London: Heinemann. McCalla, S. (2009). Human Values in a Global Environment. BOLESWA: Journal of Theology, Religion and Philosophy, 3(1), pp. 31 -48. Musere, J. (2000). Traditional African Names. Lanham: Scarecrow Press. Nyasani, J. (1997). The African Psyche. Nairobi: University of Nairobi Press. Orobator, A. (1970). Theology Brewed in an African Pot. New York: Orbis Books. Pfukwa, C. (2014). Ignorance that is Disturbing. The Patriot, 23–29 May. [Online] Available from http://www.thepatriot.co.zw/old_posts/ignorance-that-is-disturbing/. [Accessed: 29 December 2014]. Pongweni, A.J.C. (1983). What is in a Name? Gweru: Mambo Press. Saayman, W. (1994). Containing AIDS: Community and Closed Relationships. In C.V. Vicencio, D. Gruchy & D. Philip (Eds.) Doing Ethics in Context, South African Perspective. New York: Orbis Books.

CHAPTER SEVEN PSEUDONYMITY AS SELF-NAMING: THE PSEUDONYM AND THE PERFORMER IN ZIMBABWEAN SOCIO-TECHNICAL SPACES NHLANHLA LANDA

Introduction and Background This chapter explores naming practices in the virtual community of the internet age in Zimbabwe. It analyses pseudonyms taken from ten sample articles drawn from two online newspapers in Zimbabwe, The Herald and The Daily News, which are among the biggest online newspapers in the country. The focus of the analysis is on the pseudonyms that performers use to either identify themselves or hide their identities when they comment on news articles in the feedback forum provided by these online newspapers. The term performer is used in this paper to denote individuals who take the time to engage in discussions about news stories online. Readers become performers as soon as they take a step further to contribute to the discourse by commenting, taking turns with several other readers who have chosen the same path. The chapter traces the link between the self-given names and the name bearers as betrayed by the offline semantic and pragmatic value of the pseudonyms, which are almost always chosen to communicate significantly about the name bearer or the subject. It is premised on the argument that often the self-given names communicate, among other emotions, fear, joy, hope, disgust, admiration, hostility, disagreement or agreement with certain lines of arguments or with other performers. Pseudonyms also communicate or describe characteristics of the individual such as courage, impatience, ruthlessness and politeness. They also give indications on political affiliation, ideological preferences, ethnicity, religious beliefs, nationality and race, among others.

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Little attention has been directed towards studying pseudonyms in online mass communication. This new type of mass communication appears to be a very significant aspect of onomastics in the late twentieth into the twenty-first centuries. Online mass communication has since claimed the attention of a significant portion of the community especially because of the social players’ desire to use social platforms for both interpersonal and mass communication. This chapter has two major aims. The first aim is to trace the offline characteristics, qualities and reputations of the online performer as informed by the pseudonyms that performers choose for themselves in the socio-technical space of the online newspaper’s feedback forum. Secondly, this study aims at interrogating the use of pseudonyms in sociotechnical spaces as a distinct naming practice falling within the unique tradition of self-naming. Self-naming has been discussed by African onomasticians in passing in research on war names and code names, but it has hardly been treated in these studies as a unique and purposive practice. In Zimbabwe, Mashiri (2004) and Pfukwa (2007) have discussed selfnaming in relation to nicknames and war and code names respectively. While research on pseudonyms and pseudonymity is sprinkled in the field of onomastics (Dalton, 2013; Gatson, 2011), not much has been done in the direction of treating the pseudonym as a rich source of information about the mysterious performer behind the false name. Treating pseudonyms as a major way of self-naming has also not received much attention in onomastics research, especially in southern Africa, hence the preoccupation with these two aspects in the present study. The study of pseudonyms is in line with the study of several other related name categories. These include allusive names, nicknames and code names (war names in the Zimbabwean liberation struggle are such a case here). Code names for informers and of secret service agents or their collaborators, what Felecan & Bughesiu (2013) call ‘camouflage’ names, are also a case here. The study of pseudonyms also falls under the field of anthroponomastics as pseudonyms are personal names, albeit false. The internet has become one of the major drivers of both interpersonal and mass communication since the late twentieth century. It has led to new and faster forms of communication between individuals and between communities traditionally separated by time and distance. This cybercommunication platform allows for real-time textual, audio and video communication between peoples separated by distance without incurring

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the costs of travelling. It has also allowed social players from different ideological backgrounds and political affiliations a platform to exchange views on issues they would ordinarily not be able to discuss offline because they cannot be found at the same place due to political differences. Traditional print newspaper owners have also utilised this platform by loading their newspapers online to catch the attention of more readers, who are increasingly turning away from hard-copy print newspapers to online versions. Readers are finding online newspapers more easily accessible and cheaper than print newspapers. These online services are preferred as they offer their users real-time exchange of information with others on the feedback platforms and the protection of their identities, thus pseudonymity. They also allow users to choose names and identities for themselves (Gatson, 2011). According to Gatson (2011), some virtual performers find the socio-technical platforms attractive because their identity is protected and others because they have a rare opportunity to be somebody new. Performers can say whatever they want to communicate with minimal fear of retribution as they use pseudonyms. While problems relating to hacking exist in online communication, retribution is still minimal as most players use public computers to participate in these sociotechnical activities. Most importantly, however, is the emergence of new naming practices in these socio-technical spaces. While naming is a universal cultural practice (Al-Zumor, 2002), naming patterns in different communities take different shapes and traditions. The same applies to names and self-naming in socio-technical spaces as these are still influenced by the communities where performers and name-givers come from and their individual preferences, interests, fears and hopes, which are also influenced by their experiences in the community. In a study of war names in the Zimbabwean armed struggle, Pfukwa (2007) confirms from interviews that the names and naming processes for war names adopted by freedom fighters were influenced by socio-linguistic, socio-cultural and religious preferences. The rise of the online newspaper has allowed ordinary citizens, who have traditionally been strict readers of newspaper content, to be active participants in the news processes. Online news articles are increasingly including platforms for readers to discuss the events and ideas presented in the articles through a feedback section usually entitled ‘comments’. The

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‘comments’ section is a major characteristic of online newspapers or online news articles and it invites readers to give feedback on the articles they have read and, more often than not, the readers who respond to this call use pseudonyms to identify themselves or to hide their identities. Therefore, pseudonyms have become a major defining characteristic of the ‘comments’ section of online news. The factors influencing the choice of these pseudonyms are multifarious and major sources include nicknames, code names, inverting names, compounding one’s first and last name, names of actors, names of sporting personalities and celebrities, and names of politicians and so on. However, pseudonyms in the news did not suddenly develop with the arrival of online newspapers. The ‘letters to the editor’ section has traditionally been characterised by pseudonyms, which are used to hide the true identity of the writer. With advancements in technology over the last few decades, print newspapers can also now publish mobile phone numbers and email addresses for readers to text or email, giving their own feedback on the stories they are interested in. This concept allows private citizens to participate in public affairs without disclosing their identity if they wish to remain unknown. The way the public perceive, use and interact with journalistic information in the internet era has changed tremendously, as computers and cell phones have somewhat replaced the television and the newspaper (Steensen, 2011). Global technological advancements and especially the rise of the camera phone have seen ordinary citizens being transformed into journalists, hence the emergence of the concept of citizen journalism (van Cuilenburg & MacQuail, 2003; Jenkins, 2004), which is becoming a major area of interest for researchers in the social sciences in the twentyfirst century (Hyde-Clarke, 2010). With advancements in technology, the public now has easy access to information, making them active participants who can also easily contribute to and comment on the news (Morley, 1992; Costello & Moore, 2007). Readers or audiences with new technology and socio-technical spaces can respond to texts and, even more significantly, help change it (Tincknell & Raghuran, 2002). This is also because of what has been called convergence, a concept that has received the attention of several scholars that include Jenkins (2006), Jenkins & Deuze (2008) and Deuze (2008). Deuze (2007) has called it the convergence of the ‘cultures of media production and consumption’. Technology has allowed consumers

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of media texts to be receivers as well as producers of media texts (Livingstone, 2004; Deuze, 2008). This has been made possible by, on one hand, the feedback section of newspapers and, on the other, the fact that citizens can generate news and initiate discussions on the internet. More interestingly, in all these developments is the emergence of pseudonyms as the most popular identity construction process in these socio-technical spaces. It is the rise of the genre of self-naming in the virtual society that this study particularly interests itself with. The study uses the online newspaper feedback forum, usually entitled ‘comments’, as the sample for this analysis.

The Sample For data, the study makes use of pseudonyms retrieved from comments invited on news articles published online in Zimbabwe. A total of 10 newspaper articles were chosen for this study and these were taken from two major Zimbabwean online newspapers, The Herald and The Daily News. The Herald and The Daily News are daily newspapers which publish six days of the week. Purposive sampling was used as the type of newspaper and other issues, such as ideology, editorial policy and so on, were material to the choice of the two newspapers. The two newspapers were deliberately selected for the fact that they come from two extreme ideologies and represent especially different political viewpoints. The Herald is obviously biased towards a favourable representation of the government and all associated state departments, companies and organisations, like ZANU-PF, while The Daily News is obviously not very tolerant of these and would rather represent opposition forces favourably. While the focus of the study was on feedback and the nature of false or created names that readers chose for themselves as they performed in the virtual society, these newspapers (with their different editorial policies) were chosen to deliberately field a diversity of performers and thus a diversity of pseudonyms for the analysis. A major assumption of the research was that using the two newspapers would provide a variety of social views as the two attract different readers. The study relied on document analysis as it focused on analysing content and pseudonyms used in online comments. A total of 73 pseudonyms were collected from these 10 articles and were subjected to analysis. News stories were randomly taken from different thematic areas of these two newspapers that include politics, religion and sports between October and

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November 2013. A few pseudonyms used in each thematic area were then analysed. The researchers purposively selected from the sample those pseudonyms that were neither just the first name (common names used in offline identities) nor the initials of one’s name like J.Z. or J.B. Tools from critical discourse analysis (CDA) theoretical approach, as discussed by Hancock et al., (2007), Fairclough & Wodak (1997) and Wodak (2006), were employed in the study. CDA was relevant for this study due to its focus on language as used in social contexts. The use of pseudonyms online to communicate or hide an identity incurs the use of language in social context, albeit techno-social. CDA is credited for employing multifarious analysis tools, such as Political Discourse Analysis, Discourse Analysis and Conversation Analysis, as it has no unitary methodology. This gives it a holistic effect in the process of analysis.

Pseudonymity in the Virtual Society: Online Newspaper Feedback Forum The choice of a pseudonym by the performer in the virtual society is influenced by several factors which include, the performer’s private life, cultural practices, individual preferences, political ideology and several other aspects of civil society. However, the pseudonym in the context of comments on articles, unlike in other purely social platforms, is not just used for the sake of naming the individual but to also communicate emotions associated with the particular subject being discussed or the other people involved in the discussion; such emotions are antagonism, hatred, trust, mistrust, disgust, surprise or admiration, among several others. Therefore, names and the naming process are associated with values, traditions, hopes, beliefs, aspirations and fears of the name-bearer and of, in particular, the name-giver (Rosenhouse, 2002; Pfukwa, 2007; Al-Zumor, 2009). The pseudonym, whether nominal (single word) or syntagmatic (made up of sentences or part of sentences), communicates the named individual’s worldviews, political ideology and social and individual preferences. This way, the role of the onomastician is to reconstruct the motivations, reasons and other influential factors that have gone into devising the name and the naming process; that which has made the performer bestow that particular pseudonym on themselves. These are influenced by both the personal and group experiences of the performer.

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We will take, for instance, the pseudonym ‘Mwanawevhu’ (‘son of the soil’), which appeared three times in the sampled articles. In English, this Shona term translates into ‘son of the soil’, which in Zimbabwe is a prominent description of ‘patriotic’ cadres, a reference especially to those who participated in the struggle for liberation that resulted in the country’s independence in 1980. Identifying himself or herself as such, the performer is distinguishing themselves as a patriot, a legitimate and deserving son of the soil. This way the performer’s chosen name tells us about their political interests, preferences, beliefs and their ideological inclinations. Performers who use the name ‘Mwanawevhu’ or other related ones like ‘Mwana we Zimbabwe’ (‘son of Zimbabwe’) or ‘The Patriot’ are expressing not only their socio-political preferences but, also, their love for the country. If taken as political discourse, the performer who assumes the pseudonym Mwanawevhu is associating themselves with the ideology of the liberating political party, the Zimbabwe African National Union Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF). The performer is also communicating that, having said what he has said, it should go on record that he is a patriot, a legitimate son of Zimbabwe. Often, the performer is discrediting certain players or sources in the news story that are at the centre of the discussion, or other commentators whose comments he or she is responding to and does not agree with. In essence, the use of such a name has the effect of legitimising what the performer has just said or is about to say and dares other performers to prove their legitimacy before contradicting him in as far as commenting on those ‘grave matters’ concerned. Furthermore, and perhaps most interestingly, such a name reflects political alignment. However, it is prudent to note that while a person has one legal name(s), performers in socio-technical spaces can have more than one pseudonym and they can drop and pick them up at will, depending on circumstances or on what type of story they are commenting on. Such names as Mwanawevhu, Cde Churucheminzwa (Comrade Hill of Thorns), Boorangoma (the one who plays the drum until it bursts) and Gandanga (Dissident/Non-conformist) are especially associated with comments on news articles that deal with politics and crime, whereas names such as Mufudzi Akanaka (Good Shepherd), The Son of God and Mutendi Akanaka (True Believer) are associated with news stories with a religious theme. There are other names that can be used in both these and many more contexts, and these include ‘compound’ names, proper names and pseudonymous totemic derivations, such as Mhofu, Mukanya and Chitova,

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that exist in offline contexts but are not legal names and can refer to a limitless number of persons in a context. While such names are in use in the real-world customary contexts, they are not legal names, and in the virtual world, they do not have an identificatory function. They do, however, have a communicative function, and totems and totemic derivations are almost always associated with such characteristics as pride and high self-esteem. Virtual society performers’ choice of names is influenced just as much by their socio-political experiences as by several other experiences, which might be religious, cultural, economic, socio-linguistic and sociotechnical. This makes the choice of pseudonyms by performers contextual and reactionary and influenced by the performer’s feelings towards the subject of the story, other performers, the writer of the story or towards the different players in the news article. The same performer who gives themselves the pseudonym ‘Mwanawevhu’ in a news story of political controversy might have to choose another name for a news story that is religious in nature; such names might include ‘Mwanawashe’ (Son of God/King’s son/the Lord’s son), ‘Mufudzi Akanaka’, ‘Wezvokwadi’ (The True One), ‘Mutendi Chaiye’ (The True Believer), ‘The Son of God’ or just ‘God fearing’. In both circumstances, political and religious, the performer is seeking legitimacy; he is professing love for the country in the first case and for God in the second. In both instances, the performer gives himself or herself these particular names so that they will be taken seriously or respected. In other circumstances, they might want to negotiate peace and tolerance towards certain social groupings or individuals, particularly after a heated debate. For instance, Mufudzi Akanaka, after a heated debate among Cde Churucheminzwa, Boorangoma and Garwe (Crocodile) on the ZANU-PF succession issue, pleaded, ‘Pliz leave Cde J Moyo alone he is doing his job splendidly’ (The Daily News, 25 November, 2013). Here, the performer is trying to negotiate tolerance towards his/her preferred political player in the issue at stake. The name Wezvokwadi is one example of a pseudonym that cuts across all fields of news categories. It can be found in news stories that deal with politics or crime and still be common in religious discussions. In political discourse, the performer is negotiating or declaring legitimacy as either an honest analyst of the matter at hand or a dedicated and loyal member of the said grouping, whether a political party faction or civil society organisation. For instance, Wezvokwadi says, in response to a story on the ZANU-PF succession issue,

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So, in political discourse, Wezvokwadi translates into ‘True Cadre’, ‘Loyal one’, ‘Honest Analyst’ or ‘Dedicated Member’ of the political grouping. In religious discussions, it translates into ‘True Child of God’, ‘True Believer’, and ‘True Worshiper’, among other such declarations. In whatever context or type of discussion, the performer is associating themselves with such qualities as truth, honesty and transparency. Other pseudonyms from the sample articles that behave in the way described above include ‘Truth’, ‘Truth001’, ‘Munhu’ (Real man/woman) and pseudonyms that are compound words of the first name and last name. The first two, as has been said before, are negotiating legitimacy for what the performer has just said. While Munhu (‘person’) can be taken as the surest way to disassociate the performer from what they say by implying that any person (Munhu) could have said this obvious fact, it can also be used to imply that the performer is in the group of people that can be called vanhu (‘people’). This emanates from the Shona saying ‘munhu pavanhu’ (a person among people), which distinguishes an individual as significant in the community. The performer is telling the other performers to take him or her seriously. Close to the name Munhu above is the pseudonym ‘Munhumutema’ (‘black person’). From the sample articles, this pseudonym is used in circumstances where the performer wants to identify themselves with what they believe to be in the interests of the black people in Zimbabwe. This includes issues to do with the land redistribution programme and process, religion and Satanism, black pride, the indigenisation policy, youth empowerment programmes, community share ownership schemes and the debate around sanctions, among other such issues and causes that claim to have the indigenous people at their heart. The choice of such a name is a conscious decision by the performer to dissociate themselves from anything that is anti-black, anything that is not indigenous people-oriented, and anything that is anti-social in general. In most cases, this pride in blackness is cemented by the use of the vernacular. For example, in one instance, Munhu Mutema rages: Vakadzi vacho ndoopfambi [...] varume tirikugara nepfambi mudzimba umu. Ndashatirwa mhaaaaani, Haaaaa. Mukadzi wemunhu anobvuma izvozvo? (It’s the women who are prostitutes; I am so angry, haaaaa. A

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married woman who agrees to such?) – The Daily News, 22 November, 2013.

This was in response to a story about the RMG Independent End Time Message of leader Robert Gumbura abusing women in his church. More than any group of pseudonyms discussed above, such names as Boorangoma and Black Crow attempt to tell us about the performer as opposed to what they feel or think about the subject or other performers. Other names in this category that are found in the sample articles are The Hammer and Cde Churucheminzwa. In one instance, Cde Churucheminzwa comments: Jonso is just a kid suckling from its mother’s breast when it comes to zanu pf’s cannibalistic politics. haana door navanaMutasa naGumbo, aya madhara epolitics not zvenyu zvana jonso zvekuti ndakamboticha pauniversity (he has no chance where the likes of Mutasa and Gumbo are concerned as these are veteran politicians and not the likes of Jonathan who boast of university teaching experience). – The Daily News, 25 November, 2013.

Churucheminzwa is a comrade, so he knows best, after all, akarwa hondo (he/she was in the liberation struggle). As opposed to what performers feel about themselves, the subject of the story or other performers in the discussion, this group of pseudonyms reveals what the performers think of themselves as individuals; they show an attempt at describing their own character. However, the character description is still meant to cement the message that the performer is putting across. Boorangoma is a Shona term that is commonly used to refer to an individual who is difficult to deal with, essentially a hard nut to crack. While the term is not usually used in official circles in the Shona community, Boorangoma is a widely used term in Zimbabwe, especially in communication among young people. The performer is ideally telling other performers that he is a difficult person to deal with as he/she can boora ngoma (beat the drum till it has holes); therefore, they might as well accept his argument as it would be useless to try to dissuade him from his line of thinking. He or she will not give up but argue his point through. In other contexts, the term also paints a picture of a carefree individual. Boorangoma is used synonymously with other more official Shona terms like nhubu (scoundrel/rascal) and nhunzvatunzva (rogue/scoundrel), which are also commonly used as pseudonyms in the virtual society. Such names

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give us hints on the reputation associated with the performer offline, at least from the performer’s own point of view about themselves. An interesting pseudonym from the sample articles is Black Crow. Black Crow generally symbolises death; it denotes a death omen, the turning of the tables and witchcraft in many cultures, including those in southern Africa. In most of the southern African communities, this black bird, just like the black cat, is associated with death, witchcraft and bad omens. One major biblical reference to the crow is found in Proverbs 30 verse 17 where the crow is painted as an agent of punishment and suffering among those who disregard and lack respect for their parents. However, the bird is also associated, in many cultures, with such characteristics as courage, fearlessness and audacity. So, in choosing such a pseudonym for themselves, the performer is communicating possession of the qualities listed above. This appears to be an attempt by the performer to either intimidate or challenge other performers in the virtual community. The Hammer has its origins in the West and is mainly used in line with military operations. Significant operations code-named Operation Hammer include the 1969 Australian military operation during the Vietnam War, a Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) CRUSH operation of 1987, the Turkey military operation in Iraq in 1997, and an operation initiated in 2007 amidst the Afghanistan war. Adopted partly from world news on wars and military operations, and especially from Western movies, The Hammer is popularly used in online interactions as a pseudonym by those performers who think of themselves as ruthless and militaristic. The performer does not present themselves as part of a military operation but as The Hammer himself – an individual who can deliver as much damage as a military operation would. The intention is to intimidate other performers. The same applies to the pseudonym Colonel that we also find in our sample articles. Offline, a Colonel belongs in the army, thus the choice of such a name in the virtual community is an attempt at asserting authority over other performers. In one instance, the Colonel comments: Tsvangirai kutaura kwevasina musha kusvika rini uri kunze makore mashanhu 5 years in waiting unege wapera mira uone zvatichakuita ZANU PF inoranga mapenzi sewe. (Until when will you wait to become the President, just wait and see what we will do to you; ZANU PF disciplines mad people like you). – The Daily News, 28 November, 2013.

Whether the performer is a military colonel in real life offline or not, he or she thinks of themselves as a colonel in action; intimidating, authoritative

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and commanding, or demanding, respect from others. However, this does not always work as performers in the virtual society have protection from their anonymous pseudonyms and can easily challenge any performer they do not agree with. Another common pseudonym in the sampled articles is ‘Kachembere KekwaChivi’ (The old woman from Chivi District). This has its origins in Shona tales and is used by the Shona to communicate that nothing is impossible. Informing this Shona mythical story is the tale that there was a certain old woman from Chivi, a drought-prone district in Zimbabwe’s Masvingo Province, who, because of hunger, boiled stones and drank the soup from them. So, often the performer is furthering the argument that nothing is impossible and encourages the involved parties to keep pushing. It paints the picture of a performer who is stoic and patient; a fighter who does not give up easily, not even when problems seem to be insurmountable. Ideally, the picture we get is of an individual who would boil stones and drink the soup from them just to keep going. There is a group of pseudonyms that, more than anything else, simply describe the emotions of the performer towards the subject of discussion, the status quo and towards other performers (discussants) in the same socio-technical space. These include such names as Muchangwara (‘you will wisen up’), Hayewawo and Chakachaya (‘time is up’). These bring out what Batoma (2006) has called the cultural layer of the onomastic meanings of words. Such names express the message, prayers, fears, wishes and hopes of the performers, and perpetuate the cultural or religious practices of the name-giver (Alford, 1987). Often performers who assume these names have emotional connections to the subject or other performers; such emotions as fear, grief, joy, surprise, trust, mistrust and disgust, among others. For instance, in response to a story (The Herald, 29 November, 2013) suggesting that former Reserve Bank Governor Dr Gideon Gono’s term must be extended, Chakachaya comments, ‘Go to hell’. While expressing his/her certainty that Gono’s term will not be extended because Chakachaya (‘his time is up’), the comment also expresses the commentator’s disgust, disappointment and fury towards the writer for suggesting an extension of the term of somebody whose time is up. The only significant difference between Alford’s (1987) study of personal names and the current study is the concept of pseudonyms that the current study interests itself with; for in pseudonyms, the name-giver and the

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name-bearer are the same person and, as such, the emotions expressed in the name are those of the name-bearer who is also the name-giver. This concept of self-naming puts the name-bearer on a pedestal as soon as the performer chooses the name they want to be identified by, whether it is to hide their offline identity or simply to describe what they think or feel about themselves, others, and about the issues being raised in the discussion. The desire to their hide offline identity in online communication ideally makes the pseudonym independent of the offline identity of the performer (Döring, 2002; Ellison & Boyd, 2013). However, the choice of the online identity is significantly influenced by concepts and factors associated with the offline individual. Often, performers use names and trade names of well-known personnel as their identity on the web. One such name is Joseph Chinotimba, the leader of War Veterans who played an important role in the land redistribution programme more than a decade ago. Joseph Chinotimba is often ridiculed by Zimbabweans, whether online or offline, for his lack of eloquence in both the English language and political issues in general. He is also widely known for his uncouth English. However, Cde Joseph Chinotimba, who is now a legislator in the House of Assembly in Zimbabwe, is also known for his unyielding stoicism and extremist tendencies whenever he is pushing for something. Recently, many Zimbabweans laughed when they heard that this subject of national ridicule was contesting for a seat in parliament during the 2013 harmonised elections and were shocked when he won the seat and went into parliament. There are two groups of performers who choose to call themselves Joseph Chinotimba, Cde Chinos or Josefa Chinotimba. The first group is of those performers who want to lighten up the mood after a heated debate in these online interactive communications. These will also use such names as Mutirowafanza, Parafini, Kapfupi and Gringo, who are all popular comedians in the country. At one point, Mutirowafanza comments on a story alleging serious factionalism in ZAN PF by saying, Nikuv makaizivisa here kuti kuno kwaita mushando? Azviiti varume kuti tingaita basa rakakura kudai mahandlers edu eMossad asingazivi (Had you told Nikuv that there is work in Zimbabwe? It’s not proper that we can handle such a big job without the knowledge of our Mossad handlers) – The Daily News, 29 November, 2013.

While this comment might betray the political preferences of the performer and their hostility to ZANU-PF, the comment eases the tension

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in the heated debate. Evidence that the comments are a debate is there in the texts as commentators often respond to each other, criticise each other for poor arguments, or commend each other for making good points. The second group of performers who use Joseph Chinotimba as their name want to communicate stoicism and that whatever one puts their mind to can be done, the same way Cde Chinotimba pushes for ‘his causes’ (i.e. the land redistribution exercise and his recent election into parliament). These are also known for their unapologetic expression of opinions as matter-of-fact issues. At one point in the sample articles, a Josepha Chinotimba responds to other commentators saying; Colonel, Chief and you Nyundo bloody idiots. Is The Herald not a zanu pf newspaper? No one is forcing you to read or swallow news in The Daily News okay. So if you don't have anything to do you better shut up, empty zanu pf vessels. Stop attacking Dr Tsvangirai and The Daily News okay. Bullshit Nyundo, Colonel and Chief. – The Daily News, 29 November, 2013.

The commentator refers to Tsvangirai as Dr Tsvangirai in a matter-of-fact attitude when he is responding to comments that criticise Tsvangirai for not going to school. The language used is also crude and openly provocative, explaining why the performer chose to call themselves Josepha Chinotimba, who is known for this approach to debate.

Conclusion The virtual society is growing synonymously with the concept of pseudonymity, which is the most used form of identification in social networks. Often, the performers who use pseudonyms want to hide their identity. However, this chapter argues that while an analysis of these pseudonyms will not give us information on where to find the online performers in the real offline communities, we get significant information on what kinds of people they are, their socio-political interests, their individual preferences, their emotions, their notions about issues and their hopes and fears. The name one chooses for oneself always betrays something about the name-bearer, either their emotions, state of mind of reputation (character). Researchers who are interested in socio-technical identities will be at a great advantage if they investigate the offline social, socio-political, socio-linguistic and socio-economic contexts of the names, terms, words and phrases that performers in the virtual society pick for themselves. These, together with what these performers actually say in

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these networks, provide us with significant information on the reputations, qualities and characteristics of the offline individuals who are performing online and using pseudo identities to do so. Future research could focus on the relationship between the semantic value of the pseudonyms that performers choose for themselves and the messages they convey to gain even more information about the mysterious performer in online communication.

References Alford, R.D. (1987). Naming and identity: A cross-cultural study of personal naming practices. New Haven: HRAF Press. Al-Zumor, A.W.Q.G. (2009). A Socio-Cultural and Linguistic Analysis of Yemeni Arabic Personal Names. GEMA Online Journal of Language Studies, (2), pp. 15–27. Batoma, A. (2006). African ethnonyms and toponyms: An annotated bibliography. Electronic Journal of African Bibliography, 10, pp. 1-40. Costello, V. & Moore, B. (2007). Cultural outlaws: An examination of audience activity and online television fandom. Television and New Media, 8(2), pp. 124–143. Dalton, B. (2013). WWW ’13 Companion. Paper presented at the 22nd International Conference on World Wide Web Companion, Rio de Janeiro. Deuze, M. (2007). Convergence Culture in creative industries. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 10(2), pp. 243–263. —. (2008). The professional identity of journalists in the context of convergence culture. Observatorio Journal, 7, pp. 103–117. Ellison, N.B. & Boyd, D. (2013). Sociality through Social Network Sites. In W. H. Dutton (Ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Internet Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Döring, N. (2002). Personal home pages on the Web: A review of research. Journal of ComputerǦMediated Communication, 7(3), 0-0.. Fairclough, N. & Wodak, R. (1997). Critical Discourse Analysis. In Teun van Dijk (Ed.), Discourse as Social Interaction. London: Sage. Felecan, O. & Bughesiu, A. (2013). Onomastics in Contemporary Public Spaces. New York: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Gatson, S.N. (2011). Self-Naming Practices on the Internet: Identity, Authenticity and Community. Cultural Studies, Critical Methodologies, 11(3), pp. 224–235. Hancock, B., Windridge, K. & Ockleford, E. 2007. An Introduction to Qualitative Research. [Online] Available from https://www.rds-

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yh.nihr.ac.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/5_Introduction-toqualitative-research-2009.pdf. [Accessed 8 June 2014)]. Hyde-Clarke, N. (2010). The citizen in communication: Re-visiting traditional, new and community media practices in South Africa. Cape Town: Juta Press. Jenkins, H. (2006). Convergence culture: Where old and new media collide. New York and London: New York University Press. Jenkins, H. & Deuze, M. (2008). Convergence: The International Journal of Research into Media Technologies, 14(1), pp. 5–12. Livingstone, S. (2004). The challenge of changing audiences: Or, what is the audience researcher to do in the age of the internet? European Journal of Communication, 19(1), pp. 75–86. Mashiri, P. (2004). More than Mere Linguistic Tricks: The Sociopragmatic Functions of Some Nicknames Used by Shona-speaking People in Harare. Zambezia, 31(1), pp. 22–45. Morley, D. (1992). Populism, revisionism & the new audience research. Poetics, 21, pp. 329–344. Pfukwa, C. (2007). The Function and Significance of War Names in the Zimbabwean Armed Conflict (1966–1979) (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of South Africa, Pretoria. Rosenhouse, J. (2002). Personal Names in Hebrew and Arabic: Modern trends compared to the past. Journal of Semiotic Studies, XLVII (1), pp. 97–114. Steensen, S. (2009). Online Feature Journalism: a clash of discourses. Journalism Practice, 3(1), pp. 13–29. The Holy Bible. (1982). New King James Version. Thomas Nelson Inc. Tincknell, E. & Raghuram, P. (2002). Big Brother: Reconfiguring the ‘active’ audience of cultural studies? European Journal of Cultural Studies, 5(2), 199–215. Van Cuilenburg, J. & McQuail, D. (2003). Media Policy Paradigm Shifts: Towards a New Communications Policy Paradigm. European Journal of Communication, 18(2), pp. 181–207. Wodak, R. (2006). Critical Linguistics and Critical Discourse Analysis. In J. Ostoman and J. Verscheren (Eds.), Handbook of Pragmatics. Amsterdam: John Benjamins. .

SECTION 2: LITERARY ONOMASTICS

CHAPTER EIGHT ‘DOING THINGS’ WITH TITLES: ZIMBABWEAN LITERARY TITLES (PRE- AND EARLY POST-INDEPENDENCE) OLIVER NYAMBI

Introduction and Conceptual Framework: Titles as Meta-Narrative Zimbabwean literature in English has come of age. From the early writings of the British South Africa Company to the present characterised by international award-winning writers, the literature has experienced massive growth. But how do we make sense of this formidable canon? How can we trace its evolution over time to find out, inter alia, its major aesthetical, ideological and stylistic underpinnings? This chapter sets out to ‘experiment’ with book titles; exploring the possibility of titles to subtly archive the passage of Zimbabwean literature over time. It is proposed that an onomastic approach is taken here to understand the evolutionary trajectory of Zimbabwean literature by viewing its titles and putting into perspective what can be loosely termed ‘the history of Zimbabwean literature in English’. This connotes the historical development of creative writing, putting special stress on how it not only captures the spirit of key historical moments, but also how it reflects on the ideals of a society and nation at specific historical intervals. This is not to suggest that creative works are essentially historical narratives but that fiction has a way of creating imaginative worlds that relate, and influence us to relate, to history in new and fascinating ways. Perhaps a study on extra-textual imports in readings and meanings of creative texts is long overdue. The closest this writer has come to such a critical scholarship in the African context was listening to Robert Muponde’s seminar presentation on the ‘bewitching’ potentialities of

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images and other forms of graphics on book covers of literary texts.1 The crux of Muponde’s argument is that a book’s cover can easily become one of its most important semantic properties. In this day and age of high-tech artistic impressions and graphics, book covers are increasingly becoming part of the narrative and even narratives in their own right. One could call such narratives (including their titles) ‘cover narratives’. A good case in point is Ngugi wa Thiongo’s Wizard of the crow: A novel. Prima facie, the novel’s object of satire is an imaginary African kleptocracy called the Free Republic of Aburiria. However, the book’s cover illustration of the original Anchor edition proffers a strong hint at the possible identity of the satirical butts: Mugabe and Zimbabwe. This can be inferred from the truncated images of two crows on the cover of the 2007 Anchor edition. The bigger crow is evoked as a version of the Zimbabwean ruler. It is dressed in a Zimbabwean flag and wears a military hat emblazoned with the Zimbabwe coat of arms. The bird is perched on a twig, panoptically overlooking, in an overbearing manner, the smaller crow wearing a civilian hat. When read in the context of widespread profiling of Mugabe as a dictator and a sense of mysterious power created by the allusion to wizardry, this image ‘bewitches’ (to use Muponde’s word) us to feel a strong impression that the novel is about Zimbabwean politics. The writer of this chapter does not claim to account for every title of published texts in this time frame. Rather, it is a purposeful sample of titles that show a discernible pattern which suggests an onomastic system. The focal titles in this study cover the colonial, liberation struggle and early post-independence (pre-1990) eras. This time, delimitation is both a method of narrowing the ‘sample’ to a manageable size and, perhaps more importantly, an attempt to establish titular representations of the significance of the liberation struggle at either side of the independence event. The use of titles as a mechanism to map the literary history of the young nation is informed by a conceptualisation of titles as forms of names. Koopman and Zungu (2013, p. 61) identify four universal elements of systems of naming that inform this conceptual framework: ‘(1) the names; (2) the named entity; (3) the namers; (4) the context within which naming takes place’. These elements will also inform this author’s understanding of book titles as forms of names that archive, in a complex way, the historical development of Zimbabwean literature in the given 1 Muponde’s paper was published as ‘History as Witchcraft’ in the edited book Redemption or Grotesque Nationalism: Rethinking Contemporary Politics in Zimbabwe (2011).

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transitional periods. In this case, then, the ‘name’ (Koopman & Zungu, 2013, p. 61) refers to the title of a given literary text. Here, what is to be analysed are the title’s lexis, diction, imagery and symbolic and metaphorical allusions embedded in it. These elements of style provide a hint at the intrinsic meaning of the title. While one cannot totally black-out subconscious inferences from the text’s narrative proper, particular emphasis will be placed on the significance of the title as a complete narrative; that is, as a self-contained meta-text. Yet the title is often connected to the ‘inside story’, functioning more or less as a semantic charm. Readers are ‘bewitched’ by this charm, which influences them to expect certain themes, plots and characters. In short, the titles lead us to search for textual meaning with a preconceived expectation. In this view, the titles can be understood as epithets whose creation is shaped by their creator’s prior intentions to prefigure the literary narrative – ‘the named entity’ in Koopman and Zungu’s (2013) theorisation above. Titles are, therefore, inherently communicative. The author performs the roles of what Koopman and Zungu (2013, p. 61) have called ‘the namer’. Formalist perspectives epitomised by the Barthesian poststructuralist notion of the ‘death of the author’ (Barthes, 1967) dissuades us from searching for literary meaning outside the text. However, the critical theory exemplified by Achebe (1989) and Felski (2008) allays fears raised by strict formalists, arguing instead that contextbased readings help the reader to pursue linkages and fissures between created and real-life worlds. This connection helps the reader to infer the aesthetic implications of the fictional world to his or her imagined and existential experience. Like names, the titles are a cache of identity ascriptions since they are essentially given as names to identify the book. As with most personal names and, to some extent, nicknames and toponyms, the identity that a title constructs is meant to first and foremost set the titled book apart. The aspect of distinction implies the existence of other titles and, by implication, other books and narratives. Beyond identifying a book for the purposes of knowing it as distinctive from others, titles are self-reflexive. They covertly make reference to their contrivance and in the process betray the aesthetical, stylistic and spatiotemporal situation of texts.

Zimbabwean Literature It is difficult to pin down with precision what is meant by Zimbabwean literature. The reasons are many, not least of which is the increasing

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fluidity and complexity of the identity tag ‘Zimbabwean’. Ndlovu-Gatsheni’s (2009) book Do Zimbabweans Exist: Trajectories of Nationalism, National Identity Formation and Crisis in a Postcolonial State offers an apt discussion of the problem of citizenship and identity in Zimbabwe. In my present case, the immediate questions are: does one have to be of Zimbabwean citizenship to produce ‘Zimbabwean literature?; can we categorise texts by every Zimbabwe-born writer as Zimbabwean? Paula Hawkins might have been born and raised in Harare but that may not necessarily make her 2015 New York Times bestseller The Girl on the Train a Zimbabwean novel. To the best of my knowledge, even as Hawkins is now a British citizen, no critic or reviewer has described her text as either a British or English novel. Yet another multiple-award winner NoViolet Bulawayo, who was born in Zimbabwe and has lived for many years in the United States of America, is widely regarded as Zimbabwe’s current top writer. Similarly, though born in South Africa, John Eppel’s writings are often rated as some of Zimbabwe’s best satire. Perhaps the biggest controversy is with the Nobel laureate Doris Lessing, who was born in Persia, grew up in Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) and lived throughout her old age as a British citizen. Her writings occupy a liminal space between Englishness and Zimbabweaness and the identities of Zimbabwean and British writer are attached to her and used almost interchangeably. Zimbabwean literature, then, is an elusive construction. The phrase describes an open-ended category of cultural products by cultural individuals whose identities cannot be fixed. For the purposes of this article, however, I strategically map Zimbabwean literature as characterising creative literature that aesthetically deals with aspects of Zimbabwean life in Zimbabwe and the diaspora and written by authors with Zimbabwean origins. Since my focus is mainly on the interface of the literary imagination and the empirical experiences of the formerly colonised, my notion of Zimbabwean literature is biased towards literature written by black writers.

Colonisation and Decolonisation Like most literatures of colonised and formerly colonised societies, Zimbabwean literature grapples with the concept and practice of colonialism and the counter-cultures it triggered. Colonisation impacted on virtually every aspect of black people’s existence, including their creative imagination. Thus, alongside the more overt forms of reaction, such as protests, violence (the liberation war) and peaceful engagements, writers

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also captured the moment in their imaginative works. The titles of some of the conspicuous texts on colonisation reflect the ways writers engaged with some of the major existential and psychic effects of colonialism. These titles can be divided into two categories; those of texts that exclusively deal with the colonial experience and those of texts that grapple with such experiences as they inform the revolutionary consciousness of the colonised. Texts in the first category generally share the same aesthetical, moral and ideological texture with texts from other parts of Africa. These texts include Achebe’s famous African trilogy comprising the novels Things Fall Apart, No Longer At Ease and Arrow of God, as well as Oyono’s Houseboy, Ndebele’s Fools and Other Stories, etc. Common to these texts is their implicit interrogation of colonial modernity in relation to its influence on various facets of African life. Weaving through this canon are the connected tropes of cultural contamination, disruption of indigenous systems governing economic, philosophical and political relations, and the strategic (to the colonial venture) debasement of Africans. One of the most prolific Zimbabwean writers to engage with similar themes mentioned above is Charles Mungoshi. His first collection of short stories is entitled Coming of the Dry Season (1972). The title is pregnant with symbolic allusions which coagulate to produce an imagery of changing times. Breaking the title into its constitutive parts can help us to unlock the meaning in this imagery. ‘Dry season’ can be split into two parts which contribute to meaning in different ways. The noun ‘season’ is a symbol that is steeped in the calendric configurations of time according to the rainfall pattern. The Zimbabwean rainfall calendar comprises two seasons: the wet and the dry seasons. The most dominant characteristics of the weather of these seasons give us a hint about the negative associations attached to the ‘dry season’ in Mungoshi’s title. As the opposite of the wet or rainfall season, the dry season is most marked by the absence of rain and, by implication, of the life that is inextricably linked to it. Compared to the rain season’s generally warm and pleasant temperatures which vitalise plants and animal species, the dry season is characterised by coldness and a generally lifeless natural feel. The dry season, then, can be interpreted as symbolically signifying the colonial period. The dry season triggers vivid images of a desolate land and ‘socio-scape’, which create a mood of pensive pessimism and bleakness. To a reader who is acquainted with the aridity and drab nature of the Zimbabwean dry season, the imagery and symbolical effect it produces become affective. The symbolical allusions manipulate the close connection between our senses of perception and emotion to influence us to recognise black life under

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colonialism with almost the same antipathetic feeling we would have for a typical dry season. Yet the title also suggests that the dry season is only ‘coming’. If we think of the title as a self-contained and complete text, then we can locate the narrative voice in Coming of the Dry Season in two temporal spaces. We can imagine a human face behind the narrative voice as either inhabiting the rain season and contemplating the impending discomforts of the dry season or occupying a liminal space between the two seasons, albeit with a clear mind on where he or she would rather be. Mungoshi’s first novel Waiting for the Rain (1975) is more unequivocal about the location of the narrative voice. Apparently, ‘waiting for the rain’ implies that the waiting subject is in the dry season, suffering the inconveniences of its harsh weather and longing for its passing. The ‘waiting’ in the title can be fruitfully understood if read in the context of the unpleasant temporal space occupied by the waiting subject. In this light, beyond reflecting apathy, ‘waiting’ betrays the excruciating forces and circumstances constraining the subject’s capacity to rein in the situation. The metaphorical correlation between the two seasons and black experience under colonialism is manipulated to evocatively illuminate the distress of colonial life. In the symbolic plane, the subject caught up in the dry season’s agonising weather has only one course of action: inaction, waiting for the phase to pass. Like Mungoshi’s two titles, Marechera’s (1978) House of Hunger is a metaphor that weaves the two symbols of ‘a house’ and ‘hunger’ to articulate the despairing state of the colonised. The marked interest in metaphorical titles demands a deeper enquiry vis-à-vis their potential to appeal to our sense of emotion. The metaphor in House of Hunger is a complex one. It is not a conventional metaphor in the strictest sense in which the source and target domains 2 are clearly delineated. The complexity of the metaphor in House of Hunger is caused by the absence of the target domain. In this metaphor, the target domain is implied by the symbolic significance of the semantic field of a ‘house’, that is, a habitat. The house thus refers to the colonised nation and, adjunct to that, the situation of black experience under colonialism. If, as Ortony (1993, p. 7) argues, a metaphor is ‘a feature of language use rather than language per 2

Lakoff and Johnson (1980) describe the ‘target domain’ as the conceptual domain that we try to comprehend. The ‘source domain’, on the other hand, is the conceptual domain from which we derive the metaphorical statement.

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se’, then the semantics of the metaphor in House of Hunger can best be approached from a pragmatic approach. This entails understanding the metaphor as linked to the initial urge to exercise linguistic power in the Firthian sense3 – that is, the prior impulse to deploy language to perform a semantic act. It would also help to conceptualise the metaphor according to Lakoff and Johnson’s (1980, p. 5) framing of its essence as ‘experiencing one kind of thing in terms of another’. In this light, understanding the state of the colonised nation involves a close appreciation of the literal incongruity of the title metaphor’s target and source domains; that is, Zimbabwe or the then Rhodesia and the ‘house of hunger’. The two domains may be said to belong to the same semantic field4 (habitat) which is defined by belonging. The domains are also different. Not only are the two forms of habitat (country and house) different in size, the ‘hunger’ ascribed to the habitat in the source domain carries connotations of privation absent in the target domain. These negative associations rub off onto the meaning of the habitat in the target domain through symbolic implicature. The consequential impression is that the colonised nation is a ‘house of hunger’. This metaphorical construction of the nation is further buttressed by the etymology of Zimbabwe. A Shona name, Zimbabwe can be split into two parts ‘dzimba’ (houses) and ‘bwe’ (a stone). The resultant compound noun, ‘Zimbabwe’ means a ‘house of stone’. It is derived from the Great Zimbabwe Monuments – the ruins of the Iron Age city which housed the monarch of Zimbabwe. Both Marechera’s ‘house of hunger’ and the ‘house of stone’ reflect aspects of the political identity of the nation symbolised by the ‘house’. Unlike the terrifying imagery of a famishing, colonised nation in Marechera’s ‘house of hunger’, ‘house of stone’ suggests a sovereign nation priding itself in its defence capabilities. The Iron Age ‘house’ of Zimbabwe is named for its solid standing – a trait that is etched in the people’s architecture. The colonised nation in Marechera’s title, on the other hand, is the opposite of the Iron Age meaning of the Great Zimbabwe nation. A house ravished by hunger ceases to be secure. It is weak and vulnerable.

3

I am referring to Firth’s (1957, p. 11) notion of words as capable of ‘doing things’. 4 The semantic field theory views the meaning of a word as partly a function of its relationship to other words sharing the same semantic relation. For instance, the meaning of ‘red’ can be deduced from other related terms such as blue, green, etc.

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The Liberation Struggle The titles discussed above reflect a common narrative thread that critically engages with the extent and nature of colonial dismemberment of black life. Yet besides grappling with the overt and covert manifestations of the colonial scourge, creative literature also discoursed with the various forms of reactions and responses by black people. The Second Chimurenga/Umvukela or liberation war (1966–1979) is the main trope in these texts. The titles of the texts proffer fascinating nuances to the ways that literary perspectives of the war evolve with time. These texts include Stanlake Samkange’s historical novels On Trial for My Country (1966) and Year of the Uprising (1978), Solomon Mutswairo’s Mapondera: Soldier of Zimbabwe (1978) and Chaminuka: Prophet of Zimbabwe (1982), and Edmund Chipamaunga’s (1983) A Fighter for Freedom. The narratives of these texts differ in their discourse, aesthetics, theme and style. However, their titles reveal a common thematic thread which is connected to the urgent issues of their time, the struggle for independence and the implications for the nature of the idyllic independent state. A common feature weaving the titles above relates to the implied attitude to the struggle. The titles underline the justice of the war by, inter alia, celebrating both the names of some of its heroes and the very act of participating in it. The names such as Mapondera and Chaminuka in Mutswairo’s novels are historical. They are names of some of the prominent leaders of previous versions of the liberation struggle, the First Chimurenga/Umvukela (1896–1897) and the Mapondera rebellion (1901). The heroes’ names are remembered and reinscribed onto the narrative of the second liberation war. The names resuscitate a past of symbolic motivation and consciousness required to inspire the second generation of liberation war fighters. Mapondera and Chaminuka would not have read Marx and Lenin, but their anti-colonial philosophy is much akin to the Marxist notion of true consciousness, which is why their memory became crucial in prosecuting the second liberation struggle. In history and in Marxist-Leninist ideology, which inspired the second liberation struggle, the existential pain caused by colonisation was the trigger factor in the colonised subjects’ awakening ‘true’ consciousness. A discursive counter-discourse permeates these titles, creating a strong sense of the morality of violent justice and the heroism of challenging colonial hegemony. The title On Trial for My Country best illustrates this point. The nouns ‘trial’ and ‘my country’ are key to discerning the title’s embedded ‘argument’. In the history of colonial conquest and its

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resistance by the natives, the ‘trial’ was often part of an elaborate defence mechanism used by the colonial regime. The strategy involved the arrest, trial, conviction, imprisonment and execution of rebellion leaders. This was meant to weaken the organisation and the coordination of native insurgencies, leading to the successful suppression of earlier uprisings. Prominent native leaders whose influence was suppressed in this way include Nehanda and Kaguvi5 during the first liberation war and most of the nationalist leaders, including Ndabaningi Sithole, Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe, in the second liberation war. Read in this context, the colonial ‘trial’ ceases to signify a platform for justice, at least for the colonised subject. It takes on symbolic significance as the various instruments of hegemonic sustenance that the liberation fighter must surmount in order to attain freedom. ‘Trial’ entails a crime or case, a defendant and a prosecutor. The identities of the implied prosecutor and defendant are critical to our understanding of the aesthetic and epistemological function of On Trial for My Country. If the trial was essentially a hegemonic gimmick for the colonial regime, it follows that the prosecuting authority is the colonial administration and the speaking subject standing trial ‘for [his or her] country’ is a native fighting for liberation. The native’s struggle for independence in the second liberation struggle becomes the crime for which he can be convicted and executed in accordance with the principle of precedence. A highly affective reading of the speaker’s subtle defence, embedded in his claim to ownership of the country, is unmistaken. The possessive adjective ‘my’ used before ‘Country’ not only identifies the native fighter as the original owner of the country, but also exposes the injustice of his denial of the right to ownership by the colonialist. The possessive adjective thus reconstructs the implied crime as an act of patriotism. This can emotionally stimulate us to perceive the justice of the native’s fight which is made especially apparent by the injustice of the colonialist’s instruments of power retention. Autochthony is invoked to recast the native as ‘the’ citizen and to profile the coloniser as a despicable outsider. In view of the above, the title On Trial for My Country can be read as a metaphorical statement of intention and show of audacity to reclaim the nation from colonial rule.

5

Nehanda and Kaguvi are the most popular leaders of the First Chimurengain, the Shona-speaking parts of the country, while Mkwati and Mlimo are some of the eminent heroes of the Ndebele version of the war called Umvukela.

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Early Independence As in many parts of Africa, the political and especially economic outlook of post-independence Zimbabwe is contrary to the people’s high expectations formed in part by the protracted nature of the struggle for liberation and the euphoria upon its attainment. While people could now access the mundane privileges, such as walking in the streets, which were previously denied them and basic rights, including the right to vote, they were disillusioned by the slow progress in their inclusion in broad-based economic empowerment. This was made all the more agonizing by reports of high-profile graft typified by the so-called Willowgate scandal (1988– 9).6 Politically, perhaps one of the early major blights in the forging of a national consciousness was the Gukurahundi. Officially portrayed as an operation to clear the country of armed dissidents, the Gukurahundi turned into a civil strife with ethnic undertones.7 While the postcolonial entrapments of the early Zimbabwean problem may show a certain distinctiveness, they also display a considerable typicality that makes them interpretable by some of the long circulating (though sometimes debated) critical frameworks, especially the one offered by (1963) in his chapter ‘The Pitfalls of National Consciousness’ from the text The Wretched of the Earth. Fanon’s critique is important to this study because, more than lucidly projecting the paradoxes of independence as part of the consequence of neo-colonialism, it illuminates some of the major ‘localised’ or indigenous causalities of the problems of independence that characterised the early post-independence period and re-discoursed by creative literature. Fanon (1963, p. 134) is, therefore, more important to this study when he reflects on the consequences of the postcolonial leaders’ ‘politics of the belly’ – which he finds the postindependence ‘national bourgeoisie’ to be ‘speedy and pitiless’ in 6

The Willowgate scandal was an elaborate underhand trade in cars by government officials. The officials fraudulently bought the cars at wholesale prices under a government subsidy and resold them at exorbitant prices. The busting of the syndicate by the Chronicle newspaper led to the resignation of at least five ministers, while one (Maurice Nyagumbo) committed suicide. For more information on the scandal, see Chung (2006). 7 The Gukurahundi is a controversial topic in Zimbabwe. While the current President Robert Mugabe is on record describing the killings of people mainly in Matabeleland as ‘a moment of madness’, the Gukurahundi triggered ethnic tensions between the Shona and Ndebele-speakers (Ndlovu & Dube, 2013).

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instituting – and the awakening mass consciousness and subsequent protest that (must) result. Since the national bourgeoisie concentrates its energies on ‘replac[ing] the foreigner’ (Fanon, 1963, p. 124), no sooner does the generality of the citizens awaken to this reality of the ‘new colonist’ than the nation makes a ‘heart-breaking return to chauvinism in its bitter and detestable form’ (Fanon, 1963, p. 126). For Fanon (1963, p. 134), the erosion of the people’s spontaneous support of the national bourgeoisie’s ‘scandalous enrichment […] is accompanied by a decisive awakening on the part of the people, and a growing awareness that promises stormy days to come. The shift to personal interest marks ‘the fundamental immorality’ (Fanon, 1963, p. 135) of the national bourgeoisie, but, most importantly, it marks the emergence of a more frictional relationship between the ‘awakening’ people and their erstwhile leaders, which puts the leadership on the defensive ‘as a braking power on the awakening consciousness of the people’ (Fanon, 1963, p. 135). As with their African counterparts, such as Ngugi wa Thiongo, Chinua Achebe and AyiKwei Armah, many Zimbabwean artists have grappled with the theme of disillusionment and its various manifestations and causes in many artistic genres. Some of the writers who have dealt with the economic and psychological effects of the tension between the promises of the liberation struggle and a disillusioning post-independence reality are Shimmer Chinodya in his novel Harvest of Thorns (1989) and Alexander Kanengoni in the novel Echoing Silences (1997). Gonzo Musengezi’s (1984) satirical play, The Honourable MP critically reflected on the independent state’s ‘dishonourable’ failure to tame the scourge of corruption. Yvonne Vera’s (1993) novel Nehanda and Tsitsi Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions (1988) revisited the colonial moment to retrieve a hurtful history of female subjugation which they use to unsettle the continuing patriarchal nationalism. In political circles, Joshua Nkomo’s autobiography Nkomo: The Story of My Life (1985) was among the first autobiographical texts to reflect on the dangers of ethnic ‘pitfalls’ (in Fanon’s [1963] postcolonial sense) to a young nation carving an identity. While these texts expend much of their energy on re-discoursing obstructions to transformation, they do so from a point of knowing that is informed by their flashbacks to the colonial past and the liberation struggle. Perhaps two literary titles that most effectively reflect on the theme of disillusionment in light of the liberation struggle are Chinodya’s Harvest

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of Thorns (1989) and Freedom Nyamubaya’s poetry collection On the Road Again: Poems during and after the Liberation War (1986). The two texts have attracted enormous critical attention mainly because they are some of the earliest texts to express a pessimistic view of independence amid generally high expectations. Gunner (1991) has explored the various ways through which Harvest of Thorns ruptures the early postindependence excitement bubble, articulating, instead, the lurking threats to the country’s development agenda (see Chirere and Mhandu, 2008). Perhaps the critical aspect distinguishing the two titles from the rest of the literature on the liberation war and post-independence periods is their subtle critique of what independence has become in contradistinction to what it was meant to be. That is, the texts’ inhabiting of a liminal space between the moment of post-independence and its conception years during the liberation war. The titles straddle the two epochs, culling from the liberation war the prospects of its successful prosecution which are then juxtaposed with the attainment of post-independence, complete with all its dashed hopes and a sense of foreboding. Nyamubaya’s title deploys the symbolic imagery of a journey to critically reflect on the young nation’s lethargic transformation into an inclusive society; inclusivity in terms of all aspects defining independence. Published in 1986 (just six years into independence), Nyamubaya’s text is among the earliest literary texts to suspect the country’s leadership and development path. However, Nyamubaya’s text is certainly not the first to see through the smokescreen of independence euphoria. In a typical Marecheran example of scatology, Philip in Marechera’s 1978 novella House of Hunger perceives ‘white shit in our leaders and white shit in our history and white shit on our hands in anything we build or pray for’ (Marechera, 1978, p. 59). Marechera would, later on in 1980 (the year of Zimbabwe’s independence), publish Black Sunlight. Marechera’s political hesitancy and scepticism can be located in the ironic evocation of ‘sunlight’ as ‘black’; that is, a corrupted sunlight incapable of providing light. It is no wonder, then, that the book was initially banned in the country before protests by writers unions and academics forced the government to rescind its censorship of the book. Ngara (1990, p. 124) rates Nyamubaya as ‘so far the most authentic spokesperson of ex-combatants in Zimbabwean literature’. Ngara is here indicating a crucial factor in Nyamubaya’s political consciousness, which has a palpable bearing on her creative imagination. As a veteran of the country’s liberation struggle, Nyamubaya is intimately connected to the nation’s political, socio-political and economic transformation. Her war

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combatant past makes her more politically sensitive and restless to realise the fruits of the struggle. Yet, like Marechera before her and Chinodya, and Musengezi after her, Nyamubaya is frustrated by the absence or slow pace of change. Her title articulates this frustration which borders on regret. The title also functions on the level of symbolism. It is divided into two parts, each of which is a version of the other. The main title, On the Road Again invokes the symbolic image of the road to create a sense of a journey. The journey here can be conceptualised as an ideal of independence which first exists as an abstract. A journey implies departing, travelling and an ambition to reach a preconceived destiny. The subtitle, Poems during and after the Liberation of Zimbabwe decrypts the symbolism ascribed to the road, journey and destiny implied in the main title. In the sub-title, liberation is clearly used to denote the event of political independence which can be fixed to a known date, 18 April, 1980. Yet this may not necessarily be the destiny – or it was when political independence was naïvely equated to liberation. The frustrations of independence, it seems, have impressed on Nyamubaya the need to reconceptualise independence as a journey that is yet to reach a destiny; it is an ideal that the event of independence has failed to transform into practice. Arrival is thus postponed. Going ‘on the road again’ is thus a spurious testimonial to the reality that the destiny is reached; it is Nyamubaya’s attempt to search for an alternative handle on destiny as it is shaped by her liberation struggle experiences and aspirations. Like On the Road Again and the rest of the titles analysed above, Harvest of Thorns is essentially a figurative statement with symbolic attachments. The symbolic codes in the title can be usefully deciphered by comprehending the title as an utterance that depends for its meaning on, inter alia, the social context of its expression. As hinted above, the early post-independence period is marked by anticipation and the anxiety caused by uncertainty over the country’s political and economic direction. Amid this socio-political conundrum characterised by the absence of clarity, the title Harvest of Thorns was a bold statement ‘announcing’ the agonising culmination of the struggle for independence. In a literal context, this title is ironic. The irony inhabits the discrepancy in the connotations of ‘harvest’ and ‘thorns’. ‘Harvest’ can generally function as both a verb and a noun. As a verb, ‘harvest’ denotes the act of gathering crops and connotes a terminal phase of a process conceived to benefit the person who initiates it. The verb ‘harvest’ derives its meaning, in part, from its intimate connection to the wider agricultural system, which particularly involves planting. As in the Biblical maxim ‘a man reaps what he sows’

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(see Galatians 6: 7-9), harvesting is semantically linked to planting. Planting, on the other hand, connotes the various agrarian processes that are essential to reach the harvesting phase. Thus, if construed as symbolic, the verb ‘harvest’ can be read as not only signifying independence, but also alluding to its roots (the liberation struggle) as these roots informed the route of its becoming. In Zimbabwe, farming has always been a labour-intensive occupation. Harvesting is often a consummation of long periods of hard labour and commitment. It is, then, a moment of achievement, celebration and reflection. If planting symbolises the liberation struggle, then the hard labour prerequisite to the attainment of a harvest suggests the sacrifices of the liberation war. Thus, as a harvest is expected to be inherently pleasant and beneficial to the farmer, the liberation war fighter in this sense qualifying the ‘harvest’ (the noun form which symbolises independence) as ‘thorns’ suggests an unexpected and undesirable outcome. Literally, ‘harvest of thorns’ creates a situational irony. It assumes the role of appraisal. As Grice (1991, p. 53) argues, ‘irony is intimately connected with the expression of a feeling, attitude, or evaluation’. The evaluative dimension to the irony in the title can be explained in terms of the pretence theory of irony, and this theory is best summed up by Grice (as cited in Clark & Gerrig, 2007, p. 26) who claims that, ‘[to] be ironic is, among other things, to pretend’. In Chinodya’s case, the irony’s pretence can be located in the attempt to sound unaware of the conflicting semantic relationship between harvest and thorns. In this light, the figurative statement would, prima facie, evoke ‘thorns’ as a ‘harvest’. Clark and Gerrig (2007, p. 26) further posit that ‘speakers are not just ironic: they are ironic only to certain listeners’. According to this view, the irony in the title is easily accessible to readers who are au fait with the difficulties along the ‘road’ to the harvest; that is, the liberation struggle leading to the attainment of independence. Such readers would be in a better position to comprehend why conceiving independence as ‘thorns’ is inherently evaluative.

Conclusion This chapter set out to use titles of creative texts to proffer an overview of the history of Zimbabwean literature up to early independence (pre-1990). The analysed focal titles revealed that ascribing a title to a creative text is not an innocent act; that titles so given can function as meta-narratives which not only corroborate the meaning of the ‘main’ text but also exist as

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a complex independent narrative in their own right. While the main text creates meaning through an extended narrative that involves a plot, setting, characters, and so on, the title or ‘cover narrative’, in contrast, produces meaning through a compact cache of figurative language, symbolism, metaphor and imagery. Deciphering the meaning so produced requires one to comprehend the title as a form of speech-act, which can be best understood in the context of its utterance. Read in such historical contexts as the liberation struggle and the early post-independence period, the imagery, symbolism and metaphors in the titles weave a narrative that illuminates and reflects on the creative writing as it grapples with some of the most defining moments in the passage of a nation at the time of its becoming and shortly after its becoming. Thus, as part of what this writer calls the ‘cover narrative’, a title can be viewed as an additional ‘voice’ existing among other ‘voices’ contributing to meaning in the Bakhtinian sense of polyphony (Bakhtin, 1986); that is, the multiplicity of points of view and voices in texts.

References Achebe, C. (1960). No longer at ease. Nairobi: East African Publishers. —. (1986). Arrow of God. London: Heinemann. —. (1986). Things fall apart. London: Heinemann. —. (1989). Hopes and Impediments: Selected Essays. New York: Doubleday. Bakhtin, M. (1986). The Problems of Speech Genres. In C. Emerson, and M. Holquist (Eds.), Speech Genres and other Late Essays (pp. 60-102). Austin: University of Texas Press. Barthes, R. (1967). The death of the author. [Online] Available from http://www.ubu.com/aspen/aspen5and6/threeEssays.html#barthes. [Accessed: 18 January 2015]. Chinodya, S. (1989). Harvest of Thorns. Harare: Baobab. Chipamaunga, E. (1983). A Fighter for Freedom. Zimbabwe: Mambo. Chirere, M., & Mhandu, E. (2008). Songs that won the War of Liberation and Poems that grapple with the War and its aftermath. Muziki: Journal of Music Research in Africa, 5(2), pp. 271–283. Clark, H.H. & Gerrig, R.J. (2007). On the Pretense Theory of Irony. In R. W. Gibbs. & H. L. Colston (Eds.), Irony in Language and Thought: A Cognitive Science Reader (pp. 25-33). New York: Taylor and Francis. Dangarembga, T. (1988). Nervous Conditions. London: Women’s Press. Fanon, F. (1963). The Wretched of the Earth. Middlesex: Penguin. Felski, R. (2008). Uses of Literature. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Firth, J.R. (1957). Papers in linguistics 1934–1951. Oxford University Press: London. Grice, P.H. (1989). Studies in the Way of Words. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Hawkins, P. (2015). The Girl on The Train. Michigan: Cengage Gale. Kanengoni, A. (1997). Echoing Silences. Harare: Baobab. Koopman, A. & Zungu, B.E. (2013). Naming combinations in the Zulu anthroponymic system. Nomina Africana, 27(2), pp. 61–78. Lakoff, G. & Johnson, M. (1980). The metaphorical structure of the human conceptual system. Cognitive Science, 4(2), pp. 195–208. Mapondera, S. (1983). Chaminuka, Prophet of Zimbabwe. Washington DC: Three Continents Press. Marechera, D. (1978). The house of Hunger: a novella & short stories. London: Heinemann. —. (1980). Black Sunlight. London: Heinemann. Mungoshi, C. (1972). Coming of the Dry Season. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House. —. (1975). Waiting for the Rain. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House. Muponde, R. (2011). History as Witchcraft: the Narcissism of Warrior Masculinities in Edmund Chipamaunga’s war and post-war novels. In S. Ndlovu-Gatsheni & J. Muzondidya (Eds.), Redemptive Or Grotesque Nationalism?: Rethinking Contemporary Politics in Zimbabwe (pp. 81-106). Berlin: Peter Lang. Musengezi, G.H. (1984). The Honourable MP. Gweru: Mambo. Mutswairo, S. (1978). Mapondera, Soldier of Zimbabwe. Washington DC: Three Continents Press. Mutswairo, G.H. (1983). Chaminuka, Prophet of Zimbabwe. Washington DC: Three Continents Press. Ndebele, N. (1983). Fools and other Stories. Johhanesburg: Ravan Press. Ndlovu-Gatsheni, S.J. (2009). ‘Do Zimbabweans Exist?:’ Trajectories of nationalism, national identity formation and crisis in a postcolonial state. Berlin: Peter Lang AG International Academic Publishers. Ngara, E. (1990). Ideology and Form in African Poetry. Harare: Baobab. Ngugi waT. (2007). Wizard of the Crow. New York: Anchor. Nkomo, J. (1984). The Story of My Life. London: Methuen. Nyamubaya, F. (1986). On the Road Again. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House. Ortony, A. (1993). Metaphor, Language, and Thought. In A. Ortony (Ed.), Metaphor and Thought (pp.1-16). Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press. Oyono, F. (1975). Houseboy. London: Heinemann.

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Samkange, S.J.T. (1967). On Trial for my Country. London: Heinemann. —. (1978). Year of the Uprising. London: Heinemann. Vera, Y. (1993). Nehanda. Harare: Baobab.

CHAPTER NINE THE ADAMIC LICENCE IN ELLEN BANDA-AAKU’S PATCHWORK CHEELA HIMUTWE CHILALA

Introduction This chapter is concerned with the onomastic aspects of Patchwork, a novel written by Zambian author Ellen Banda-Aaku. The chapter refers to the use of names in the context of fictional works as the Adamic licence: the freedom and space the author has to name characters and places in a particular way. What types of names does the author give the characters in the novel and what is their significance culturally, thematically, and in the development of the plot, setting, characters and narrative? The chapter will particularly focus on the novel’s use of toponyms and anthroponyms, with particular attention to aptronyms.1

The Adamic Licence Naming is an important literary device and no less so in Patchwork (2011), the award-winning novel2 by Zambian writer, Ellen Banda-Aaku. The names of characters in a literary work help us get a better understanding of the text: its setting, narrative, characters and themes. The names of characters can, therefore, not be isolated from the content of the text. Lodge (1992, p. 37) acknowledges the importance of names and naming in works of fiction: 1 2

Charactonyms. 2010 Penguin Prize for African Writing.

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Chapter Nine Our first names are usually given to us with semantic intent, having for our parents some pleasant or hopeful association which we may or may not live up to. Surnames however are generally perceived as arbitrary, whatever descriptive force they may once have had. We don’t expect our neighbour Mr Shepherd to look after sheep, or mentally associate him with that occupation. If he is a character in a novel, however, pastoral and perhaps biblical associations will inevitably come into play […]. In a novel names are never neutral. They always signify, if it is only ordinariness. Comic, satiric or didactic writers can afford to be exuberantly inventive, or obviously allegorical, in their naming (Thwackum, Pumblechook, Pilgrim).

Lodge argues that names of fictional characters are never neutral, meaning, inessence, that the names are given for a purpose. This is also true in real life because, as Nkolola-Wakumelo (2013, p. 88) notes, ‘there is general consensus that personal names in a given society are not given at random’. This is especially so in African societies, which tend to have strong naming traditions. Mbiti (1969, pp. 118–9), the renowned African philosopher and theologian, further highlights the place of names and naming in African society: Nearly all African names have meaning. The naming of children is therefore an important occasion which is often marked by ceremonies in many societies. Some names may mark the occasion of the child’s birth [...] Some names describe the personality of the individual, or his character, or some key events in his life […] The name is the person, and many names are often descriptive of the individual, particularly names acquired as the person grows.

The close relationship between the name and the person in the African tradition is often reflected in the naming of characters in the African oral narratives as well as in contemporary African works of fiction and dramatic works. However, the naming of characters is of special significance, even in non-African literary works. Hence, the famous Shakespearean question, ‘What’s in a name?’ This question may be asked not only of names in society itself but also those in works of fiction. Therefore, the question may be asked: What’s the significance of the names of characters in Patchwork? In the course of the characterisation process, every writer of literary works exercises what we would call the Adamic licence – the power and freedom to name as exercised by Adam in Genesis 2: 19: ‘whatever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof’. The Adamic licence, of course, is not confined to the naming of living things such as dogs, cows,

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horses, birds or human beings, but also to the naming of non-living things within the literary work such as places and objects. Naming serves more purposes than mere identification. It also helps us understand the purpose of the named thing, for, as Solomon (1988, p. 33) argues in The Signs of our Times, to name a thing ‘is to define its uses’. We shall attempt to show how Banda-Aaku utilises the Adamic licence in terms of the naming of places (toponymy) and people (anthroponymy). We shall explore the relationship between name and function in the context of Patchwork. According to Banda-Aaku, the main guiding principle when naming her characters is ‘to look up or make up names that are catchy or easy to remember’.3

Theoretical Framework The significance of names and naming systems is in part reflected by the fact that scholars in the fields of language and philosophy have made several attempts to theorise about names and the logic associated with them. Among the prominent theories are the Sense Theory and the NoSense Theory. According to the Sense Theory, ‘names only describe what a thing or an individual already is’ (Penda, 2013, p. xv), meaning, in essence, that naming is only done based on what the object or person is, or how the object or person is described. On the other hand, the No-Sense Theory postulates that the naming of an object or person precedes the description. That is to say, the person is named first then they become what their name implies. Proponents of this theory argue that the name shapes or determines the person’s behaviour and or future. In the context of Zambia, aside from nicknames, which tend to fall in the category of the Sense Theory, most names are associated with the NoSense Theory since the bearers of the names are expected to fulfil the meaning of their name. In addition, as Penda (2013, p. 2) notes: Zambian names come from the natural environment, circumstances of birth and the socio-psychological experience. Names from circumstances of birth include physical appearance, position of birth, place of birth, and so on. Those from the natural environment include names from plants, animals and other natural phenomena. Nevertheless, the broadest category in Zambian nomenclature is the socio-psychological environment. 3

Banda-Aaku’s response to a question by the author, July 2013.

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The names in Patchwork, and the author’s use of the Adamic licence, largely reflect the socio-psychological nature of most Zambian names. The sentence, ‘That is a lion’ and ‘That is the king of the jungle’ both have the same reference: lion. In other words, the Lion is also King of the Jungle. However, their meanings (sense) are not the same. From the perspective of semiotic theory, however, the reference does not have inherent meaning. In other words, objects only bear the meaning imputed to them by a ‘competent observer’ (Martin & Ringham, 2006, p. 10) or a subject capable of exercising the Adamic licence over the object. In the context of semiotics, which is ‘the analysis of signs or the study of the functioning of sign systems’ (Cobley & Jansz, 1997, p. 4), a name may be interpreted as a sign. Clarke (1990, p. 1) refers to a sign as ‘any object of interpretation, a thing or event that has significance for some interpreter’. Bate (2002, p. 93) argues that signs ‘signify a certain reality’. Semiotic theory owes much of its foundation to Charles Saunders Peirce and Ferdinand de Saussure, two late-nineteenth-century thinkers. The former was an American logician and physicist and the latter a Swiss linguist and psychologist. As Solomon (1988, p. 14) observes, the two ‘established the foundation for the fundamental semiotic conviction that the meaning of a sign is not to be found in the object to which it appears to refer but in a concept that functions within a culturally constituted system’. Names, as signs, signify a reality of both social and cultural significance. It may be argued, therefore, that names as signs signify a reality of social and cultural significance. If names are signs, then they may be interpreted in relation to signification, which is ‘the relationship between the signifier and signified’ (Martin & Ringham, 2006, p. 186). As Saussure postulates, the concept of a sign consists of the two components of signifier and signified. While signifier refers to the concrete world of the written icon or word or its sound, the signified refers to the concept or idea expressed by the icon or sound. In this regard then, we would argue that a name, as a word or sound, can be perceived as a signifier signifying a concept or idea. The signified is what the name means or refers to. Hence, it may be argued, therefore, that it would be possible to determine what the name of a character in a work of fiction signifies on the basis of the social and cultural context. It is important, therefore, to have an idea of the culture that informs the author’s use of the Adamic licence. As Hirsch (1967, p. 8) argues, ‘that which is represented by the text’, is created by

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the author. It is always difficult to determine whether the meaning actualised by the reader from their own reading of the text is the same as the meaning intended by the author, especially where the reader is not familiar with the author’s cultural orientation. Be that as it may, the reader should still attempt ‘to reconstruct authorial meaning’ (Hirsch, 1976, p. 8). The process of reconstructing authorial meaning involves interpreting the names of characters in relation to the Zambian socio-cultural context. Just as the names given to the people within Zambian society largely reflect Zambian cultural practice, so do the names of Zambian fictional characters, especially because, as Bal (1977, p. 115) contends, characters resemble people. In addition, in much the same way as people are given names that suit them, in fiction, characters are given names that suit them and their situation (Jones & Pollinger, 2010, p. 135). Hence, because, as Hodgson (1988, p. 57) argues, characterisation involves the selection of a name, understanding anthroponyms helps understand the characters, in much the same way as understanding toponyms helps understand the setting. Apart from assisting in the understanding of characters and setting, names also help understand the narrative because name-bearing characters are woven into the story or plot. In his seminal work, Beginning Theory, Barry (2002, p. 224) highlights the fact that character is ‘revealed through action, which is to say through aspects of the plot’. In other words, since the action of a work of fiction is moved by characters, it is not possible to separate the characters and narrative. Egri (1960) postulates that human beings are tridimensional characters – composed of physical, sociological and psychological elements. Each of these three dimensions affects and shapes the action and narrative of a work of fiction.

Toponymy in Patchwork Much of the action in the novel takes place in Lusaka and the immediate surrounding area. In Lusaka, our attention is drawn to Tudu Court, where the protagonist, Pumpkin, lives with her mother as a nine-year-old. The year is 1978. Pumpkin’s life is also associated with the farm on the outskirts of Lusaka where her father, Sakavungo, lives in the vicinity of a camp housing freedom fighters from the Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU). In addition, Pumpkin gives us a glimpse into New Town, where Grandma Ponga lives. Together, the three Lusaka locations present

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us with a mosaic, albeit fictionalised, of the Lusaka of 1978 and, to some extent, of later years. While the word ‘Tudu’ does not have a particular meaning, the name Tudu Court epitomises the middle-class communities of Lusaka. The name does not have any symbolic significance, as is the case, for instance, with the river Honia in Ngugi’s The River Between: ‘The river was called Honia, which means cure, or bringing-back-to-life’ (Ngugi, 1965, p. 1). The name of the river, to some extent, symbolises the yearning of the two communities in conflict to arrive at a healing point of reconciliation. The word ‘court’, at least in the case of Lusaka, is used in relation to flats or apartments of good standard – never in relation to poor communities. The name Tudu Court therefore helps create part of the setting for the story. It also helps in the process of characterisation as we are able to associate the families living in the flats with the middle-class category of Zambians. Pumpkin provides some details about Tudu Court (Banda-Aaku, 2011, p. 3): ‘two white single-storey blocks facing each other, surrounded by a high wall with a black gate. Each block has four flats. In front of each flat there’s a parking space and a square patch of green lawn the size of our living room carpet’. This description fits what is expected of a middleclass block of flats, especially when we also take into account the fact that Tudu Court also includes the house of a caretaker and some of the inhabitants have houseboys. In the vicinity of Tudu Court is Sibanda’s Grocery & Bottle Store. This name provides more details about the setting, both spatially and in terms of the story’s chronological position in the history of Lusaka city. The name ‘Sibanda’ suggests that the owner of the store – old man Sibanda – is of Zimbabwean origin as the name is Ndebele. The historical significance of this name consists in the fact that at this point in the story – 1978 – Zambia was hosting refugees from Zimbabwe, then known as Rhodesia. Many of them, however, lived among Zambians and some were allowed to own property and run businesses. This interpretation is given more currency by the fact that, according to the text, there was a camp for ZAPU freedom fighters on the outskirts of Lusaka. Of historical significance, too, is the fact that within the premises of the store sits the ‘battered body of a white Peugeot 404’ which, according to Bee (one of the characters), ‘belonged to the previous owner of the bottlestore’ (2011, p. 13). In the 70s, the Peugeot 404 was a very common

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sight on the streets of Lusaka and was particularly popular with the Zimbabwean settler community. Pumpkin’s life is not only associated with Tudu Court, but also with a township called New Town, where her grandmother, Grandma Ponga, lives. Pumpkin says of the township: I don’t know why the area is still called New town because the small houses were built for blacks about thirty years ago, in the 1940s, before Northern Rhodesia became Zambia and when ‘God Save the Queen’ was still the country’s national anthem. Anyway, New Town is still New Town, although it’s old, and that is where Grandma Ponga lives. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from New Town, it’s how to throw a punch (2011, p. 11).

As illustrated in Pumpkin’s words, the name New Town is ironic, if not humorous, in view of the fact that the township is, at the time when the protagonist is nine years of age, already about 38 years old and, in all probability, most of the houses are in bad shape. New Town, however, is epitomic of the townships built for black people by the Northern Rhodesian colonial government: small and unattractive, with communal toilets. Grandma Ponga lives in the house courtesy of her late husband, who must have been allocated the house by the colonial Northern Rhodesia government by virtue of having been a soldier in the First Battalion of the Northern Rhodesia Regiment that was sent to guard the border with the Belgian Congo in 1939. New Town also represents an important part of the historical development of residential areas of Lusaka. During the colonial era, the townships built for blacks represented the ‘best’ that could be offered to Africans, while the upper-class residential areas, including those epitomised by Tudu Court, were reserved mainly for white settlers. After the attainment of independence, however, a paradigm shift occurred: the upper class and middle-class Africans moved into areas previously synonymous with having a white skin pigment. In the changed circumstances, the townships previously reserved for Africans, such as New Town, absorbed the lowerclass Zambians, not just because of the structures but also because of the fact that it is clearly associated with poor Zambians – the unemployed, the self-employed and the unskilled workers, among others. There is also a hint in the text that the area is crime-infested when Pumpkin says – in the above quote – that she learnt how to throw a punch in New Town.

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In fact, Grandma Ponga, who runs a tavern in the township, does not think it is a good place to raise a child when Pumpkin’s mother takes her to New Town to stay with the old woman for some time while she sorts out her problems with Pumpkin’s father, Sakavungo. ‘I can only keep a child here, I can’t raise her in this place,’ Grandma Ponga says. ‘There’s a difference as you know. Keeping here? Okay. She’ll eat, sleep and go to school. But I can’t raise her. Not in this environment. This is a tavern. Prostitutes and drunks are around the whole time. I can’t cage her in the house like a bird’ (2011, p. 31). The name New Town not only reminds us of life in a Lusaka ghetto or low-class township; it also helps with the characterisation process of Grandma Ponga. In view of the fact that she has lived in the township for many years and runs a tavern there, amidst the prostitution, drunkenness and crime, we would be justified to suggest that Grandma Ponga is a tough woman with crude ways. Pumpkin recalls an incident at the tavern: ‘My grandmother did it to a man at the tavern, when he refused to pay. She grabbed him between the legs and turned her hand like she was closing a tap. He screamed and fell down’ (2011, pp. 22–3). Pumpkin also lets us know that the old lady had done the same thing to Sakavungo, Pumpkin’s father, during a conflict. She recalls her grandmother boasting: ‘I used my hands. I grabbed his ujeni in my fist and twisted it like I was closing a tap. Tight. To stop it leaking bad seed all over the place’ (2011, p. viii). New Town and Tudu Court help in the characterisation process of key characters. New Town, for example, enables us to have a better understanding of Grandma Ponga and Pumpkin, while Tudu Court also provides us with a vista from which to gain a better view of Pumpkin, her mother, Uncle Oscar and their middle-class world. In addition, New Town and Tudu Court play a major role in the novel’s narrative process as a lot of action occurs in these two places.

Anthroponymy in Patchwork The significance of anthroponyms, or personal names, in Patchwork is apparent in the very first paragraph of the novel’s Prologue when we are told that, according to the copy of Pumpkin’s birth certificate obtained by Grandma Ponga Unknown is entered against the provision for Father’s Name (2011, p. vii). On the other hand, the version of Pumpkin’s birth certificate kept by Sakavungo has the name Joseph Sakavungo entered against Father’s Name. Both certificates, however, state Mother’s Name as

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Totela Ponga. Pumpkin benefits three times from Banda-Aaku’s use of the Adamic licence: apart from her nickname Pumpkin, in the birth certificate obtained by Grandma Ponga, her name is entered as Natasha Ponga, while in the certificate in her father’s possession, her name is Pezo Sakavungo. However, she is known by neither of the two names, Pumpkin being the name people prefer to call her by: ‘I’m known neither as Pezo nor Natasha. Everyone calls me Pumpkin’ (2011, p. viii). She gives the reason for the intrusion of a third name into her life: ‘Firstly, because I was a fat, chubby-cheeked baby. And, secondly, because when Ma was pregnant with me, no matter how much pumpkin she ate, she just couldn’t get enough’ (2011, p. viii). The conflict over Pumpkin is not only reflected in her naming but also in the non-naming of her father in Grandma Ponga’s version of the birth certificate. The term Unknown is almost an eponym of Joseph Sakavungo’s role in Pumpkin’s life: he is initially an unknown quantity, especially during her years at Tudu Court, and even more unknown to Pumpkin’s neighbours such as Bee. Pumpkin often finds herself in the unenviable position of having to defend and explain her father’s absence from her mother’s home. Sakavungo’s failure to look after his own daughter makes him almost non-existent in the equation of her future – until he takes her away from her mother and stays with her at the farm. From Grandma Ponga’s perspective, Sakavungo cannot claim to be the father to Pumpkin because as far as she is concerned he is only a selfish philanderer with no regard for the feelings of women. What makes the situation worse is that he impregnates Totela without any interest in marrying her. The term ‘unknown’, therefore, as used in the certificate, is symptomatic of the deep-seated hatred and bitterness Grandma Ponga holds towards Sakavungo. Sakavungo’s fatherhood is ‘unknown’ in the sense that he hides it from most of the members of his family. He is also unknown to the inhabitants of Tudu Court, hence, the persistent questions by Bee regarding the absence of Sakavungo from Pumpkin’s home. The name Bee appears to be aptronymic because she keeps stinging Pumpkin with nasty questions and comments about her absentee father: She’s always asking me when Tata is coming, where he lives, why Ma always sends me to the store, why I’m an only child. She thinks she’s being clever, but I have answers for her. I say: ‘When you see my Tata

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Evidently, Pumpkin cannot convince Bee and her friends regarding the reason why her father is an ‘unknown’ quantity at Tudu Court. However, despite defending her father, Pumpkin still has to grapple with the many unknowns in her father’s life. She only gets to know some of the facts about her father and her birth by means of eavesdropping on conversations, particularly those involving her grandmother. Thus, the significance of characters in works of fiction resides as much in their not being named as in their being named. To Grandma Ponga, Sakavungo’s name represents all that she hates – deceitfulness, selfishness, promiscuity, instability, destructiveness and unbridled arrogance. To leave him unnamed on the birth certificate is, in essence, to name him: to place him in the same category as the scum of the earth, the lowly nobodies whose names are not worth mentioning. On the other hand, by inserting his name in the second birth certificate, Sakavungo declares his right to fatherhood, thus resisting Grandma Ponga’s scheme to shunt him out of his daughter’s life. Furthermore, Sakavungo gives Pumpkin his mother’s name, Pezo. However, Pezo is more than just a matronym; it is also a declaration of the special place the girl has in his life. In line with the Zambian naming tradition, Pezo is not just Sakavungo’s daughter but also his ‘mother’, and he tells Prakash, the family cameraman, as much: ‘She’s also my mother…Pezo was my mother’s name. She was a very strong woman. Just like this one. She’s just like my mother’ (2011, p. 78). So special is Pezo to Sakavungo that he considers her more important to his life than his sons; he even thinks of letting her inherit his business empire. Grandma Ponga, however, does not see Pumpkin as Sakavungo’s ‘mother’: she is not Pezo. Grandma Ponga and Totela name the girl Natasha which, in the Bemba language of Zambia, means ‘I am grateful’. The name underlines the ambivalence that characterises Grandma Ponga’s attitude to Sakavungo. She is grateful to God for the ‘gift’ of a child but is not grateful to Sakavungo as the vessel through which the child is provided. The name Natasha, however, is close in meaning to the name Totela, which in Bemba also carries connotations of gratefulness. In light

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of the name-propelled conflict between Sakavungo and Grandma Ponga, the name Pumpkin represents a compromise position, albeit unplanned, especially because it is ‘neutral’. It is one of the nicknames used in the story. Other characters with nicknames include Pumpkin’s stepmother, Sakavungo’s current wife, Teresa, and Bee’s mother. Teresa is nicknamed Mama T – a name that reflects her meanness rather than motherliness. According to Pumpkin’s observations as a nine-year-old, Mama T’s moods fluctuate like November weather: ‘Dull and overcast most of the time; rarely bright and sunny’ (p. 49). Bee’s mother goes by the nickname ‘Madam Kwacha’, perhaps because, as a traditional doctor, she promises to solve her clients’ problems, ranging from impotence to monetary challenges. Sakavungo’s driver bears a very descriptive nickname – Driver – which is more of an aptronym or charactonym. However, the moniker develops due to people’s discomfort with the driver’s actual name. ‘I have discovered why Tata’s driver is referred to as Driver and not by his real name,’ says Pumpkin during her stay at her father’s farm. ‘His real name is Fuckson Lungu. I saw it on his driving license when I was nosing around in the glove compartment of the car. With such a rude name, it’s no wonder he doesn’t seem to mind being called Driver’ (2011, pp. 49–50). In essence, therefore, the name Driver plays a euphemistic role. Worth noting is the fact that Lisimba (2000, p. 52) states that in his native Lozi culture, euphemistic names include those that refer to ‘an otherwise taboo subject’. However, it is Sakavungo who receives the most nicknames from BandaAaku’s use of the Adamic licence: ‘Penguin’ and ‘Neckless’. In contrast to the euphemistic nickname given to Lungu, however, Sakavungo’s nicknames are derogatory and only whispered in secret. The nickname ‘Penguin’ is given to Sakavungo by his farm foreman – but it is his daughter who reveals the secret to Pumpkin. ‘He does look like a penguin,’ the girl says as if to justify her father’s nicknaming Sakavungo. ‘What with his thick neck, and his big stomach and short legs’ (BandaAaku, 2011, p. 61). Ironically, it is his neck which earns him the second nickname, ‘Neckless,’ because, according to Pumpkin, ‘his neck is short and thick, it’s like his head sits straight on his shoulders’ (2011, p. 73). It is apparent that the two nicknames possess aptronymic significance, except they refer more to Sakavungo’s physical features than to his behavioural traits. This type of aptronym is different from the type that

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hints at the type of behaviour expected from a particular character. An example is the name Faithful-Mother in Tutuola’s The Palm-wine Drinkard. She takes care of the protagonist ‘with her faithfulness’ to the extent that his stay with her enables him to forget ‘past torments’ (Tutuola, 1984, pp. 249–50). Similarly, in Kasankha’s story ‘Good People Live Here’, the protagonist is called Saukani, which suggests a life of poverty and suffering. In the story, his wife dies because of his inability to find money for transport to donate blood to her at the hospital (Kasankha, 2000, pp. 1–9). If Sakavungo’s nicknames are reflective of his physical qualities, then his first name, Joseph, provides us with an ironic view of his personality. Joseph is a biblical name whose bearer, the son of Jacob, is a man of high moral standing; Sakavungo is not. Unlike the humble and selfless biblical Joseph, he is manipulative, narcissistic, arrogant, cantankerous, and sexually immoral. In Genesis 39: 7–12, we learn of how Joseph literally runs away from a sexual encounter with the wife of his boss Potiphar: And after a while his master’s wife took notice of Joseph and said, ‘Come to bed with me!’ But he refused. ‘With me in charge,’ he told her, ‘my master did not concern himself with anything in the house; everything he owns he has entrusted to my care. No one is greater in this house than I am. My master has withheld nothing from me except you, because you are his wife. How then could I do such a wicked thing and sin against God?’ And though she spoke to Joseph day after day, he refused to go to bed with her or even to be with her. One day he went into the house to attend to his duties, and none of the household servants was inside. She caught him by his cloak and said, ‘Come to bed with me!’ But he left his cloak in her hand and ran out of the house (The Holy Bible, New International Version, 1984, p. 35).

Banda-Aaku’s Joseph, however, is not one to run away from women; on the contrary, he actively pursues women, a trait that does not endear him to Grandma Ponga. It would appear, from textual evidence, that Sakavungo had an affair with Grandma Ponga before impregnating her daughter Totela, and even as an elderly man, he does not abandon his philandering ways. Much is revealed about Sakavungo’s character in the Prologue of the novel when Grandma Ponga says she once grabbed and twisted Sakavungo’s manhood to prevent it from ‘leaking bad seed all over the place’ (2011, p. viii). According to Sissy, Sakavungo’s maid at the farm, he is a generous man whose Achilles’ heel is ‘women – young, fair-skinned women’ (2011, p. 49). Throughout their marriage, Mama T has had to endure the pain of having a habitual philanderer for a husband.

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At one point, he moves out of the family home to live with his mistress from Barbados, Gloria, who is the only one able to call him Joe. Instead of driving him away from women, the impotence that strikes Sakavungo later in life makes him even more determined to pursue women – young women. Indeed, when he dies in a car accident, it is in the company of a young woman, Salome. To his credit, however, there is at least one characteristic which Sakavungo shares with the biblical Joseph: generosity. Sissy says that if he could feed the whole world, he would (2011, p. 49). He himself says, ‘Never in my life will I turn a hungry man away from my door’ (2011, p. 79). In addition, like the biblical Joseph, Sakavungo suffers at the hands of his own relatives before rising to a life of comfort, wealth and prominence. Pumpkin recalls this aspect of her father’s life experience: His relatives were crueller than Cinderella’s. Except that Tata didn’t only have a cruel stepmother and stepsisters. He had a cruel clan. Aunts who gave him dried nshima to eat with salt instead of vegetables or chicken. Uncles who put their cigarette butts out on Tata’s head and stepbrothers who made him wash their blankets even though he was much younger than them. (2011, p. 49)

Sakavungo bequeaths his biblical name on his first-born son, calling him Joseph Junior – but he is more commonly known simply as Junior, which bears patronymic significance. In Zambia, some fathers prefer to name one of their sons, usually the first, after themselves – and such children usually find themselves simply called Junior. Apart from Kapaji, all of Sakavungo’s other sons bear biblical names: Lazarus, Job and Amos. In keeping with the Zambian tradition of naming a father in relation to his first-born son, Sakavungo is also known as ‘BashiJunior’, which means ‘Father of Junior’. This is a form of Zambian teknonymy – as is the use of ‘Bana’ (‘mother of’) in the case of BanaBee (2011, p. 160). However, apart from prefixing some names with ‘Bashi’ and ‘Bana’, Banda-Aaku also uses the prefix ‘Ba’ in relation to some names, specifically BaDodo for Pumpkin’s neighbour at Tudu Court Dodo, and BaGertrude who briefly works for Uncle Oscar as a housemaid (p. 89). The use of ‘Ba’ in this context is a marker of respect as it is normally used to refer to people who are older than one. Hence, when Dodo first meets Pumpkin, she introduces herself as Ba Dodo, with some justification: ‘Hello, I’m BaDodo. Call me Ba because I’m older than you’ (2011, p. 21).

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As already noted, names and naming are a critical part of the development of works of fiction. Indeed, as Lodge (1992, p. 37) observes how ‘naming of characters is always an important part of creating them’ and that novelists favour giving personal names with ‘appropriate connotations’. Appropriate connotations, as can be seen in Patchwork, include implied messages about the person’s physical or behavioural traits. Thus, the anthroponymic aspects of the novel enable us to not only get a better understanding of the characters but also of the narrative and how it develops in relation to the role of the characters. For example, the various names given to Pumpkin help us to understand the conflicts involving her father, on the one hand, and her mother and grandmother on the other. However, they also enable us to understand Pumpkin and her past, as well as her personality, weaknesses and strengths, and her motivations in life.

Conclusion Based on the findings of the above analysis of the names in Patchwork, it may be concluded that some of the names can be identified with the Sense Theory, while others can be identified with the No-Sense Theory. In particular, the nicknames are associated with the Sense Theory because they are intended to add definition to an already-named character. Examples include the nicknames given to Sakavungo – ‘Neckless’ and ‘Penguin’ – both of which are related to Sakavungo’s physical features rather than his psychological make-up. However, while Sakavungo’s nicknames signify his physical qualities, the nickname ‘Driver’ signifies Fuckson Lungu’s role and function in the life of Sakavungo, as well as to the development of the plot. It also signifies the fact that the other characters are uncomfortable with Lungu’s first name and so choose to use a euphemistic name. Most of the names in the text, however, are associated with the No-Sense Theory. This includes names like Joseph, Natasha, Totela, Pezo, Theresa and Gloria, among others. To some extent, we would expect the characters bearing these names to behave according to what the names signify. The best example is the name Pezo, given to Pumpkin by her father, Sakavungo. As indicated above, he names her after his own mother, whom he had loved profoundly. Naming Pumpkin after his own mother is not just a way of appreciating and demonstrating his love for his late mother who had struggled to bring him up: it is also a way of seeing in his daughter a reincarnation of his late mother. He actually says to his

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photographer, Prakash, when introducing her to him: ‘She’s also my mother’ (2011, p. 78). In fact, Sakavungo already sees Pumpkin taking up the characteristics of his late mother. He adds in his conversation with Prakash that his mother ‘was a very strong woman’ (2011, p. 78) and that in this respect, the girl is ‘just like my mother’ (2011, p. 78). Hence, he expects Pumpkin to exhibit the traits of his mother. The fact that the names in the text include both Zambian and Western ones signifies, on the one hand, the multicultural nature of Zambian society and, on the other, Zambia’s colonial legacy. The names also help in the creation and development of the story’s themes. For example, the name of the bottle store, Sibanda’s Grocery & Bottle Store, helps to highlight the theme of help that Zambia gave to Zimbabwe during the latter’s struggle for independence when Zimbabweans settled among Zambians. Similarly, the multiplicity of names given to Pumpkin help to embed the theme of the paternity conflict between the two families of Pumpkin’s mother and father. From the perspective of the Fregian school of thought, Pumpkin, as a reference, has a variety of names, each of which provides the reader with a particular ‘sense’ or meaning – and this, in turn, helps in the development and interpretation of some of the themes. Similarly, Sakavungo is a character with several names. Therefore, there is one reference, Sakavungo, but his various names – Sakavungo, Penguin, Neckless, Joseph and Bashi Junior – all give us a different perspective on the reference. The name Sakavungo, for example, enables us to get a better understanding of the theme of his rise from poverty and shame to riches and fame. He argues that being a Luvale – a fact reflected in the name Sakavungo – he was discriminated against and looked down upon, but he triumphed over prejudice to become successful and wealthy (pp. 79–80). The mix of names in the text reflects the fact that, as the name or title of the novel suggests, it is a ‘patchwork’ of different characters who each affect the narrative in their own way. What, then, is the significance of Banda-Aaku’s decision to name her seminal work Patchwork? The word patchwork suggests the patching together of different parts, colours or designs to make one piece. The essence of patchwork is diversity. To this end, the author needles together a diversity of characters, experiences, settings, events and subtexts to create the work that is Patchwork. The title’s appropriateness becomes evident when we take into account the differences among the novel’s characters. Pumpkin’s family is a patchwork of mean individuals like Mama T and generous ones like

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Sakavungo; of enigmatic characters like Pumpkin and one-dimensional ones like Fuckson Lungu, otherwise known as Driver; of adventurous and highly ambitious characters like Sakavungo and simple everyday characters like Sissy. The lives of key characters like Pumpkin, Totela, Grandma Ponga and Sakavungo are also a patchwork of ups and downs, gains and losses, joys and sorrows. Even love and hate are part of the emotional and narrative patchwork, to the extent that Sissy, failing to see the divide, philosophises, ‘love and hate, same-same’ (2011, p. 216) – a sentiment with which Pumpkin finally agrees..

References Bal, M. (1977). Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Banda-Aaku, E. (2011). Patchwork. Johannesburg: Penguin Books. Barry, P. (2002). Beginning Theory: An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press. Bate, S.C. (2002). Human Life is Cultural: Introducing Antropology. Pietermaritzburg: Cluster Publications. Clarke Jr, D.S. (1990). Sources of Semiotic: Readings with Commentary from Antiquity to the Present. Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press. Cobley, P. & Litza J. (1997). Semiotics for Beginners. Cambridge: Icon. Egri, L. (1960). The Art of Dramatic Writing: Its Basis in the Creative Interpretation of Human Motives. New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc. Hirsch Jr, E.D. (1976). The Aims of Interpretation. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. —. (1967). Validity in Interpretation. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Hodgson, T. (1988). The Batsford Dictionary of Drama. London: B T Batsford. Jones, A.F. & Lesley, P. (2010). Write a Children’s Book and Get it Published. London: Hodder Education. Kasankha, S. (2000). Good People Live Here. In M. Sifuniso (Ed.), Eavesdropping: A Collection of Short Stories on Everyday Problems. Lusaka: Zambia Women Writers Association. Lisimba, M. (2000). Lozi Names in Language and Culture. Libreville: International Centre for Bantu Civilizations.

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Lodge, D. (1992). The Art of Fiction. London: Penguin Books. Martin, B. & Felizitas, R. (2006). Key Terms in Semiotics. New York: Continuum Books. Mbiti, J. (1969). African Religions and Philosophy. London: Heinemann. Nkolola-Wakumelo, M. (2013). Names of Cattle and the Cattle-Naming System Among the Tonga of Zambia. In L. Cliggett and V. Bond (Eds.), Tonga Timeline: Appraising Sixty Years of Multidisciplinary Research in Zambia and Zimbabwe. Lusaka: Lembani Trust. Ngugi, wa T. (1965). The River Between. Oxford: Heinemann Educational Publishers. Penda, C. (Ed.). (2013). Zambian Names: Reconciling Zambian and Global Worldviews. Lusaka: Pensulo Publishers Limited. Smith, W. (1948). A Dictionary of the Bible. McLean VA: MacDonald Publishing Company. Solomon, J. (1988). The Signs of Our Times: The Secret Meanings of Everyday Life. New York: Harper & Row. Teichman, J. & Katherine C.E. (1991). Philosophy: A Beginner’s Guide. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Tutuola, A. (1984). The Palm-wine Drinkard and My Life in the Bush of Ghosts. New York: Grove Press.

CHAPTER TEN METAPHORS OF RESISTANCE: NICKNAMES IN TANZANIAN FICTION JOHN WAKOTA

Introduction The claim that nicknames were given to colonists by the colonised African people cannot be overstated. Finnegan (2012) provides an account of how the Tonga people of Zimbabwe gave nicknames to European colonists as an ‘effective and quiet comment on their characters’ (p. 456). Elsewhere, Masaka et al. (2012, p. 479) provide examples of nicknames given to white farmers by the indigenous black people of Zimbabwe as ‘one way through which they expressed their utter discontentment’. Masaka et al. (2012, p. 479) further observe that the nicknames ‘reflected the nature of existing relations between white farmers and black indigenous people’. In the case of South Africa’s colonial period, the derogatory metaphor ‘salty dick’ was used in reference to a British colonist who worked in colonial South Africa while his family stayed in Britain. Derived from the Afrikaans word soutie or soutpiel, the person was so called because he had one foot in South Africa, the other in Britain, and his penis dangling in the Atlantic Ocean, which was thus salty due to the ocean waters. This chapter explores the fictional representation of Tanzania’s colonial history, especially the relations between the indigenous people and the colonists that are conveyed through the nicknames used in selected fiction. It proposes that nicknames in Tanzanian fiction that span the colonial period are some of the most straightforward ways of understanding relationships between the colonised indigenous people and their colonisers. Through the decoding of these fictionalised nicknames, the essay seeks to demonstrate the extent to which these nicknames can be considered as storehouses that offer a glimpse of social relations.

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Nicknames are often an inescapable part of human life and, like in real life, they are also found in many literary works. However, owing to their ubiquity and sense of informality, they are often seen as a simple verbal play on words. This accounts for the lack of scholarly interest in studying the use and representation of nicknames in African fiction. Yet, like ordinary names, they ‘can contribute to both positive and negative views of the self and others’ (Stark & Kerry 2006, p. 87). They can also relate to the bearer’s physical characteristics as well as to their personal histories and traits. For example, for his role in spearheading Tanzania’s transition from state-controlled economy under Ujamaa1 to the neoliberal economy, Ali Hassan Mwinyi, the second President of the United Republic of Tanzania (1985–1995), earned the moniker Mzee Ruksa as his nickname. Ruksa is a Swahili word for ‘permission’ and is associated with Mwinyi’s popular statement, ‘Kilakituniruksa’, meaning ‘everything is permissible’, which implied a move from Ujamaa’s state-controlled economy and culture to the Swahili notion of ruksa, which is synonymous with the French laissez-faire philosophy. The post-Ujamaa period is thus known in Tanzania as the kipindi cha mzeeRuksa or ‘Mr Ruksa’s presidency’. Ruksa was and still is his (perhaps only publicly known) nickname, and it owes a lot to Mwinyi’s philosophy in leading the country’s transition from Ujamaa to neoliberalism. As Masaka et al. (2012, p. 488) have explained, a nickname is a ‘sociolinguistic signpost that reveals the attributes and behaviour of the thing named as well as the perceptions of the one who ascribes a name for that thing [or person]’. Literary writers also tend to create imaginative worlds where such nicknames exist and need to be decoded by the reader. Wamitila (1999, p. 35) makes this point in his article ‘What’s in a Name: Towards Literary Onomastics in Kiswahili Literature’. He forcefully argues for the importance of analysing characters ‘by taking recourse to their names’. Characters’ names, he continues, are ‘semiotic signs that play a very crucial role in the overall linguistic structure of a literary text’ (1999. p. 35). For Wamitilia (1999, p. 36), a character’s name also distinguishes ‘one fictional character from another’, adding to the text’s ‘semantic, pragmatic, allusive, and symbolic import’. That is, ‘besides individualizing the characters, [nicknames] have important pragmatic allusions and a symbolic significance that must be seen in the perspective of the overall structure of a particular literary work’ (Welcome n.d.). They are the ‘nodal 1

The Kiswahili notion of familyhood and Tanzania’s version of socialism.

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points’ around which characters’ actions, behaviour, ideology, and descriptions converge or speak to each other. In this essay, it is argued that of all the name categories, nicknames are known – to use Finnegan’s words – to ‘tell all the truth’ about a person and his relationship with others. However, she insists, they (nicknames) ‘tell it [the truth] with a slant’. So, we can understand them as an ‘oblique way of commenting on their owners’ (Finnegan 2012, p. 456). Using this insight, one could ask: What kind of thinking and intuitions are involved in nicknaming the coloniser? What does the process of nicknaming say about the relationship between the coloniser and the colonised? How can we construe nicknaming as a form of speech by the colonised? In answering these questions, this chapter will proceed to demonstrate how the colonised may use nicknames to communicate among themselves in a ‘coded’ way. It shows nicknaming can be construed as an in-group way of communicating messages and ‘othering’ the coloniser while at the same time emphasising the power of nicknaming and its link to the anti-colonial propaganda.

Nickname Theory: Definition, Forms and Functions of Nicknames According to Kennedy and Zamuner (2006), a nickname is a moniker or an expression that ‘identifies an individual and that differs from the formal given names of the referent’ (p. 388). Kennedy and Zamuner (2006) have studied the use of nicknames in the lexicon of sports. They find a close relationship between the behaviour and traits of the nickname-bearer and the nickname itself. Other literature on nickname and nicknaming practices focus on the social meaning of nicknames (Alford, 1988; Burton, 1999; Aceto, 2002). According to this strand of literature, the function of nicknames depends greatly on the social context and society in which it is used. That is, in some cases, nicknames are considered disparaging, while in others, they are positive and seen as symbols of status and power. In general, such a sociological approach to nicknames sees the purpose of nicknames and the intuition involved in creating them as social in nature. As bynames, nicknames can be both overt and covert, single-word or phrasal. The overt ones are addressed to a person directly, while those that are covert are used to talk about people but are not used face-to-face to address the bearer.

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The second strand of scholarship on nicknames and nicknaming practices has focused more on the different domains in which nicknames and nicknaming practices are prevalent. Such studies find that nicknames and nicknaming practices are frequently found in schools (Back, 1991), political arenas (Adams, 2008), sports (Kennedy & Zamuner, 2006), gangs (Rymes, 1996), and the army (Potter, 2007). The main focus in these studies is the importance of nicknames – what nicknames reveal about the characteristics of the bearer. Linguistically, the analyses have tended to focus more on the various linguistic aspects and processes of nicknames and nickname formation. For example, Liao (2006) focuses on the phonological aspects, while Kennedy and Zamuner (2006) grapple with the word formation processes involved. , and while Holland (1990) studies the semantics of nicknames. Other studies combine the two approaches: sociological and linguistic. This is the approach that Mashiri (2004) takes when he attempts an analysis of the socio-pragmatic functions of nicknames among the Shona of Zimbabwe. Despite such differences in their approaches, these scholars agree on one thing: nicknames ‘can contribute both positive and negative views of self and others’ (Starks & Kerry 2006, p. 87). This is because they relate to the bearer’s physical, social and personal traits.

Nicknames and Nicknaming as Hidden Transcripts of the Colonised Foucault’s much-quoted statement, ‘where there is power, there is resistance’ (1978, p. 95) is an important launch-pad in seeking to analyse the relations between the colonists and the indigenous people in the context of fictionalised colonial Tanzania. That is, although colonists are generally portrayed as superiors, powerful and perpetrators of evils, and the colonised indigenous people as inferiors and victims, the submissive posture shown by the colonised does not necessarily indicate lack of resistance since, as Foucault has argued, ‘Where there is power, there is resistance’ and, more importantly, that ‘power is everywhere’ because it ‘comes from everywhere’ (p. 93) and is ‘exercised from innumerable points’ (p. 94). This formulation by Foucault is insightful and suggests that it would be wrong to assume that in a colonial situation power is monopolised by the coloniser since there are other sources of power that may be exploited by the colonised. As subalterns, the colonised are not ‘duped’, but, through nicknaming, they can attempt to undermine the coloniser’s power. This implies that there is a need to see it as resistance – although hidden – as with foot-dragging, passivity, theft and other

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techniques employed by the powerless. Here, Scott’s (1985) concept of ‘hidden transcripts’ becomes useful to explain the different strategies that the powerless and the oppressed use to carve out different discursive spaces for resistance. According to Scott, ‘when compliance is observed in public, critics may assume that the individuals [in this case, the colonised] are ‘duped’, but many individuals know what they must appear to do to survive and communicate their feelings in constraining situations’ (p. 4). Hidden transcripts, Scott theorises, refer to ‘discourses that take place offstage beyond the direct observation of the power holders’ (p. 4). Using this formulation, one could analyse nicknames (both overt and covert) as examples of ‘hidden transcripts [by which] the colonised – as subalterns – speak among themselves in a way that Hooks (1998) characterise[s] as ‘back talk’ – speaking as an equal to an authority figure […] daring to disagree and […] having an opinion’ (p. 5). As such, the nicknames provide a useful opportunity to capture this hidden speech as a gesture of rebellion and resistance. Through nicknaming the coloniser, the indigenous people can afford to participate directly in anti-colonial politics. The analysis also benefits from insights offered by the general theory of onomastics which is used, on the one hand, to disentangle how characters’ nicknames function to display social relations between the colonists and the indigenous people, and how, on the other, these nicknames may be understood as forms of resistance against colonial socio-economic and political injustices. As this chapter’s point of departure, scholars are used who particularly theorise about literary onomastics (the study of the nature and functions of names in literary works) such as Nesselroth (1996), Debus (2002), Altman-Alvarez (1987) and others. As ‘nodal’ points around which the analysis of colonial social relations can be recovered, nicknames used in literary works may serve a number of functions. First, as Holland (1990) argues, ‘nicknames rarely if ever, serve a single function, but instead simultaneously play a variety of roles within the environments in which they occur’ (p. 258). That is, they are ‘sociolinguistically complex’ and ‘serve a range of functions over and above the merely referential function fulfilled by the first name’ (De Klerk & Bosch, 1997, p. 102). This explains why Mashiri records six sociopragmatic functions of nicknames namely: ‘affectionate, social demarcation/solidarity, social control, intimate play, demeaning and praising’ (p. 43). Rather than analysing the nicknames as a display of linguistic invention and simple language play, the chapter investigates other utilities of nicknaming practices as portrayed in the Tanzanian

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fiction, in particular, the statements that nicknaming and nicknames make regarding the coloniser–colonised relationship.

Nicknames and the Indigenous–Coloniser Relationships in Literature According to Ohly (1990), Tanzanian literature of both Swahili and English expression suffer from too much preoccupation with ‘contemporaneousness’ (p. 22). That is, precolonial and colonial experiences feature to a lesser extent in Tanzanian literature. One finds brief and passing references to colonial plantations in the majority of Tanzanian fiction. In much of the fiction, the representation of colonialism is ‘only a prelude to the main actions of the novels’ (Mabala, 1997, p. 73) which (main actions of the novel) normally focus on the struggle for independence, neocolonialism and other post-independence social and political concerns. As a result, ‘European characters rarely appear in the novels’ (1997, p. 73). Both Mabala and Ohly’s assessments are true in as far as the Tanzanian case and its literature are concerned. However, even the few works that treat the theme of colonialism as a ‘prelude’ to the main action of the novels depict bitter relations between the coloniser and the colonised. This is especially the case in Kajubi Mukajanga’s Mpenzi,2 Ebrahim Hussein’s Kinjeketile, Village in Uhuru by Gabriel Ruhumbika, Vuta N’kuvute3 by Shafi Adam Shafi, Ismael Mbise’s Blood on our Land, and others. Ebrahim Hussein’s Kinjeketile relates the German colonisation of Tanzania and the famous war of resistance, Maji Maji, fought between the Germans and the people of southern Tanzania from 1905 to 1907. Its main action centres on the pains resulting from the intensification of colonial land alienation and forced labour. The southern Tanzanians have welcomed the Germans with both hands but they soon find that the former are making the hosts serfs and exploited labourers in their own land. Due to the sufferings of the indigenous people, there is depicted a way of conveying the brutality of the Germans: nicknaming. Throughout the text, the German is nicknamed the ‘red earth’ (p. 7) and Mkichi, one of the 2

Mpenzi is Swahili word for lover. Swahili speakers use vuta n’ kuvute to describe a ‘tug-of-war situation’. Shafi uses this image to describe the political and social tensions that characterise the nationalist phase in Tanzania.

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characters, abstracts the situation thus: ‘the red earth is still in our country. What’s more, he has taken our country from us by force […] Now he has forced us to cultivate his cotton plantation for him […] He has got us paying his taxes’ (p. 5). This is the reason why they need to ‘go to war against the red earth’ (p. 7). In his Kiswahili version of the text, the red earth is rightly translated as ‘Udongo mwekundu’ (p. 4). Although the German is referred to here as the ‘red earth’ due to his brutality, he has very little or no control at all regarding this tag. Unlike criminals who normally choose their aliases or writers who choose their pen names, the ‘red earth’ depicted here has no control because the power of naming now resides in the hands of the colonised. Here, we understand nicknaming as a process that empowers the colonised. The power of nicknaming in this case forms what Foucault calls ‘strategical situation’ in a colonised society – a situation that may be exploited by the powerless in order to undermine those with power. This way, we can argue here that in the depicted colonial period, power also comes from nicknaming and may thus be used strategically by the indigenous people. Although the colonised indigenous Tanzanian is generally depicted as a powerless being who is acted upon by the coloniser, the process of nicknaming, as Idowu (1962) has argued, ‘transforms the one who names into an actant gifted with the power of action upon the one who is named’ (p. 190). This is because the rule of nicknaming is simple: ‘one cannot give a nickname to himself-/herself. They are very different from pseudonyms or pet names, which one may choose for a specific purpose […] they are not invented by the person for their own use’ (Nashwan, 2012, p. 98). This is especially so when the intention is to convey the unfavourable traits of the bearer. The case in point comes from Kezilahabi’s novel Gamba la Nyoka4 (1979), a novel that relates a story about an adulterous and crooked white priest called Father Madevu who is also nicknamed Father Kichwamaji. Kichwamaji is a Swahili word for empty head. As an example of a covert nickname, the logic inherent in the tag ‘empty head’ is simple to grasp: the ‘servant of God’ is featherbrained; lacks intelligence; and preaches things that are not worth taking seriously. At one point, after having slept with mama Tinda, a woman with whom he has a semi-permanent relationship and has sex with her every Sunday after afternoon mass, he forgets his ‘holy cross’ and comes out 4

Swahili title for ‘Snake’s Scale’.

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wearing his shirt back to front. The general picture that is conveyed through his nickname and deeds is one of a hypocrite. The image created through the nickname serves to satirise the religious hypocrisy of the Servant of God. His empty-headedness is finally revealed when he uses the pulpit to sow seeds of hatred among his faithfuls. Brainlessly, he sends Mama Tinda to poison the village well, thereby killing twenty villagers before he himself stupidly succumbs to the same poison. Padre Madevu is indeed an empty head, both in name and deed. The tag of Father Emptyhead does not only serve to show that the bearer is so named because he is illogical and lacks intelligence, but it also serves to recategorise him as the ‘other’ in relation to the villagers. The aim is to stigmatise him. Evident in the novel is that many villagers are uncomfortable associating with him closely lest they acquire a courtesy stigma – a stigma one attains by associating with someone who has a stigmatising attribute. For example, mama Tinda’s daughter openly shows how she hates the man of God, Father Emptyhead: ‘Padre Madevu simpendi […] watu wanatusema vibaya’ (p. 11) (I don’t like Padre Madevu […] People are speaking badly about us). As a tag, his nickname helps to stigmatise him. Therefore, Father Emptyhead has been discredited because he possesses an attribute considered abnormal. Both Padre Madevu’s nickname in Gamba la Nyoka and the ‘red earth’ in Kinjeketile, as explained above, potentially help to dichotomise between the ‘we’ who are in this context, the indigenous people, and the ‘other’ who are the Germans. By calling the colonisers ‘Emptyhead’ and ‘red earth’ respectively, the colonised have stigmatised and ‘otherised’ them based on their unacceptable behaviour. By demonising the German as the ‘red earth’, the indigenous people are also conveying their discontentment towards German colonial exploitation and dehumanisation in the same way they are doing for Father Emptyhead. In elaborating his understanding of the metaphor of the ‘red earth’ or Udongo mwekundu, Solanke (2013) is of the opinion that: The Germans are referred to as ‘Red Earth’. The ‘earth’ is a universal icon; from where all humans are assumed to emanate; the mother of all. ‘Red’ in the African cosmogony represents danger. The Germans are seen as humans but dangerous ones not only to themselves but to all humans. (p. 113)

It is due to this ‘dangerous’ character of the ‘red earth’ that Mkichi, a character in Kinjeketile, sums up the brutality of the German thus: ‘it is better to die than to live like this. We are made to work like beasts in the

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cotton plantation. We are forced to pay tax. We die of hunger because we cannot work on our shambas. I say death is better than this life’ (p. 8). ‘Red’ as a symbol of danger is also a subject of analysis by Nashwan (2012), who studies Arabic nicknames. In explaining a category of nicknames which he calls ‘insulting nicknames’ – ‘nicknames formed from describing somebody through negative behaviour’, that is ‘somebody disliked or considered an enemy’ (p. 106) – he finds that the colour ‘red’ is in most cases used to add negative meaning to the nickname-bearer or the named thing. He gives the following examples, all of which are formed by the adjective ‘red’, which indicate, as in the example of ‘Red Earth’, negative behaviour of the vocative. The ‘Russian army is given the nicknames: ‘“Red Cancer” […] “Red Devil” […] “Red Plague”, [and] “Red crawling”’ (p. 106). Red clearly signifies danger and brutality. The two examples of nicknames, Red Earth and Emptyhead, contribute to the overarching anti-colonial theme and philosophy of the texts and what Wamitila (1999) refers to as the ‘ideological toning’ (p. 35) of the texts. This is to say, the nicknames serve as an ideological tool to ‘otherise’ the coloniser and to portray him as a dangerous being, thereby setting him apart from the indigenous people. As a metaphor, it helps to expel and repel the German exploiter and the crooked white priest while at the same time reinforcing the social bonds among the colonised people. As conveyors of the attitudes and sentiments of the colonised, the nicknames become a hidden form of resistance and a way of confronting the coloniser. Scott’s idea of ‘weapons of the weak’, which he explores in his book Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance, is a pointer here. The idea highlights the relations between the masters and the subordinates and the different ways in which the subordinates resist oppression, in particular through ‘behind-the-scenes’ forms of resistance. Such forms of resistance are like ‘infrared rays, beyond the visible end of the spectrum’ and their invisibility is ‘by design – a tactical choice, born out of a prudent awareness of the balance of power’ (p. 183). This is because, given the power imbalance between the Germans and the indigenous, using the tag of Red Earth becomes a fitting designation and a behind-the-scene mode of resistance against the portrayed Germans, who are brutal. The point is precisely that we need to understand resistance in a wider frame beyond whether or not such acts of resistance are recognised as such by the target. The weight of the nickname of ‘red earth’ in this case may not be recognisable to the German. This is the same reason why, as in the examples Scott gives, slaves spitting in their masters’ tea or the

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Egyptian peasant farting as he bows deeply in respect of the passing nobleman are important. It is about keeping alive the sense of injustice. The designation of the German as abrasive, which is encapsulated through the nickname of the red earth in Kinjeketile, is echoed in Ruhumbika’s Village in Uhuru. The novel recounts the political turmoil in the immediate post-independence Tanzania as a result of the government’s settlement project which forms an early stage of what came to be the nationwide villagisation process and Ujamaa villages. We are presented also with the nationalist period that saw Tanganyikans struggle to end British colonisation. The British were to rule Tanganyika on behalf of the League of Nations after the defeat of the Germans in the First World War. Comparing British and German rule, the narrator is of the view that the Germans were more brutal than the British. He therefore refers to the German colonialists as the Mzungu kali, a Kiswahili phrase meaning a bitter white man, indicating the abrasive behaviour of the German colonialist. The context in which Mzungu kali is used in the novel is such that the namer is warning the nationalists not to play with the smarter and more sophisticated British colonialism while at the same time disparaging the German’s behaviour. By referring to the coloniser as mzungu kali, the indigenous people seek to criticise his behaviour by simply establishing the part of the German’s behaviour that is unpalatable to them – abrasiveness. As a form of satire, the Mzungu kali is a direct ridicule of the German and its purpose is to expose and criticise his abrasive behaviour. The imagery suggested by the adjective kali here conveys to the reader the attitude of the namer (the colonised) towards the named (the coloniser), which is to indicate their discontentment. This is one side of the nickname. The other side manifests itself through the noun Mzungu itself. Perhaps having seen many of the colonial agents come into Kiswahili-speaking East Africa as tourists, traders or explorers, it was seen as a fitting designation to name them as Wazungu (plural for Mzungu) as they were (mistakenly) perceived as aimless wanderers. For a Swahili, a Mzungu is a person who wanders without purpose, a person who goes ‘around and around’. This nickname is demeaning to the Mzungu. The perception of the white man as a wanderer is also presented in another fiction, Blood on Our Land (1974) by Ismael Mbise. In this novel, the people of Engare Nanyuki are surprised at how the Europeans are encroaching upon their land. This novel recounts the contact of the Meru people of northern Tanzania with the British colonialists and documents the resulting land conflict. Yet, ‘what surprised the wananchi [people of the land] more was the mind of the white settler: how a human being under

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normal mental conditions could ever desert his motherland and, out of his own free will, choose to live in an alien and distant land forever. The mwananchi could not understand this’ (p. 37). A fitting name for this person, they reason, is a Mzungu, a wanderer. We can understand this as an affront to a European for being considered (wrongly) as an aimless wanderer. Again, the denigration of a European as the Mzungu falls within what Scott calls ‘resistance without protest and without organization’ because a ‘vast range of what counts – or should count – as resistance involves no overt protest’ and is always ‘less mechanical’ (‘Resistance’, p. 417). By nicknaming him a Mzungu, the colonialist is facing resistance and stigma from the indigenous people from the very beginning. Mzungu becomes a tag and a less direct way of conveying otherness on the part of the white man. Another issue to note here is the power of nicknaming. In reading Kinjeketile, it becomes clear that the people of southern Tanzania fear the power of the white man. The text reveals the fear of the indigenous about the military might of the Germans, on the one hand, and the problem of disunity among the tribal groups on the other. However, Foucault alerts us to the pervasiveness of power. Power, he claims, is present even in the smallest, often considered most inconsequential of human interaction and should not be seen as a preserve or a monopoly by one group: Power is not to be taken to be a phenomenon of one individual’s consolidated and homogeneous domination over others or that of one group or class over others. What, by contrast, should always be kept in mind is that power must be analysed as something that circulates. It is never localised here or there, never in anybody’s hands, never appropriated as a commodity or piece of wealth. And not only do individuals circulate between its threads; they are always in the position of simultaneously undergoing and exercising this power. (p. 98)

Through nicknaming him, the indigenous people are shown to exercise power over him. As Bosmajian has noted, ‘the power that comes from names and naming is related directly to the power to define others – individual, race, sexes, ethnic groups’ (quoted in Nuessel, 1992, p. 3). As a power to define the coloniser, the indigenous is able to disparage the former. That is, the coloniser can force them to work on his plantations and collect taxes from them, but he cannot afford to control their ability to nickname him. Consequently, the nicknames suggest that there is a hint of possession in nicknaming someone. That is, the namers (the indigenous)

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have, by calling him a Mzungu, claimed a right to a piece of the Mzungu’s identity. They can, through nicknaming, define him in the way they like. The references to the German as a ‘Red Earth’ or Mzungu as discussed above are construed here as community nicknames or vocatives referring to the Germans as a racial group. In Kinjeketile, Hussein further deploys nicknames that refer to individual Germans. In the same text, then, we are introduced to Bwana Kinoo, a German plantation owner and a special symbol of German brutality. A Kiswahili word for a sharpener, kinoo, is used by the Tanzanians to convey their negative image of this particular German and his ability to ‘straighten’ and make docile even the most troublesome people through forced labour and hard work. This example represents another character of nicknames: that of taking on an ironic sense. As Holland (1990) has noted, a nickname is a communication resource that functions over and above the mere surface referential function which may be fulfilled by ordinary names. Bwana Kinoo is portrayed as a victim of irony in the sense that an irony is a ‘device that uses contradictory statements or situations to reveal a reality different from what appears to be true’ (Bonn, 2010, p. 84). There is, therefore, a discrepancy between what Bwana Kinoo (the person) does and what the word (sharpener) means. Through the naming of the brutal farm-owner as the kinoo, the indigenous people expect to, ironically, put across a message about the behaviour of the plantation owner. It serves to highlight the communal evaluation of the German by the indigenous. Such a communal evaluation is condensed through the nickname, kinoo. The example of kinoo here as a carrier of the plantation owner’s brutal behaviour resonates with Okonkwo’s nickname in Things Fall Apart, an example of classical African fiction that recounts the impact of colonialism on the continent. Okonkwo, we learn, is nicknamed ‘The Roaring Flame’ (1958, p. 7). This tag clearly captures Okonkwo’s discipline and philosophy of life that not only defines his success as a warrior and farmer but also says a lot about the way he relates to his wives and the rest of the society. He is harsh in words as well in deeds. Whereas the kinoo nickname I explained above conveys the negative aspects of the plantation owner, the one that is given to Okonkwo carries both positive and negative traits. The ability of nicknames to convey more than one perception (or both positive and negative perceptions) about the referent is one of the aspects that shows how useful nicknames can be to act as a good source of understanding a person, their behaviour, and the way they relate to others in the society.

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As vocatives or address terms which the indigenous use to refer to the coloniser and their accomplices, nicknames in Tanzanian fiction spanning the colonial period have racial overtones. This is well demonstrated by Shafi Adam Shafi’s Vuta n’kuvute (p. 199) 5 , a novel that depicts the British colonialism in Zanzibar and the resultant nationalist struggle in the Island. Denge, a Russian-educated young black man, with the help of his lover, Yasmin, an Indian girl, is leading the anti-colonial campaign in Zanzibar against the British. Portraying the struggle against a backdrop of racialised and classed Zanzibar society, the love relationship between Denge and Yasmin is intricately entangled in a multiplicity of factors including racial and class stereotypes. According to the depicted racial stereotype, the Indians in Zanzibar do not support the nationalist struggle because they are pessimistic about the ability of the black man to rule and ‘dismiss nationalist ambitions with the question ‘How will he get the ability to rule’ (Brennan, 2012, p. 175). In view of this, Yasmin has gone far in committing an honour crime against her people. Her transgression is not only to relate to the Swahilis, the golos,6 as her (Indian) mother calls them, but even her very act of supporting the struggle is the opposite of how many ponjoros conceive of the struggle. Golo is a Gujarati word for ‘slave’, ‘a people destined for the conditions of slavery for all times’ (Brennan, 2012, p. 125) and in the Tanzanian nationalist political vocabulary, all the Indians were commonly referred to by blacks as the ponjoros, which means ‘exploiters’. Thus, the Swahili use golo, while the Indians use ponjoro to respectively denigrate and stigmatise each other. All Indians in Vuta n’kuvute are ponjoros, in the same way that all blacks are golos. Although there are bound to be differences in the degree and extents to which different Indians are ponjoros and blacks golos, the fact that these are used as collective tags deserves further explanation. In the depicted socio-economic and cultural environment of colonialism in Zanzibar, we notice that racism is portrayed as a state-sponsored project; the relations are such that ‘Muhindi anamwita Mswahili golo na Mswahili naye anamwita Muhindi ponjoro’ (p. 254). [An Indian calls an African golo and an African calls an Indian ponjoro].

5

Swahili title meaning ‘a tug of war’ situation. ‘Golo’ is a Gujarati word for ‘slave’, ‘a people destined for the conditions of slavery for all times’ (Brennan, 2012, p. 125).

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This equation points to the fact that the group monikers – golo and ponjoro – are badges of membership in the two racial groups in the depicted colonial Zanzibar. They take the power of defining and building the racial solidarity. Therefore, the behaviour of an individual character takes on a ‘corporate’ perspective, which is race. In other words, individuals are bound to fit themselves into the ‘corporate’ group or else they risk being considered deviants. This explains why Yasmin is seen by the Indian community as having gone too far and committing an honour crime against them. Firstly, the problem is to relate to the Swahilis, the golos, and secondly, her very act of supporting the struggle for independence is a betrayal of their racial privilege because, according to them (the Indians), it is the black man (not the Indian) who needs independence. For the Indians, Yasmin’s actions are a threat to the racial solidarity and, therefore, racial purity of the Indian community among the Zanzibaris. This way, community nicknames encapsulated through the golo-ponjoro metaphors are a form of collective societal sanction that defines what Gilmore calls the social ‘boundary-maintaining function of nicknames’ (p. 686). The abomination that Yasmin is accused of here suggests to us that collective or group nicknames, like ordinary names, are not innocent. By analysing the literal meaning of the group nicknames, golo and ponjoro, we see that they offer rudimentary definitions of racial relations in society. While this is insightful, it is also important to analyse how the nicknames are used and the feelings and emotions they arouse in the characters. It is, therefore, the extent to which Yasmin’s Indian community reacts to her relationship with the blacks, on the one hand, and Bukhet’s marriage proposal to her on the other, which seems to suggest that nicknames are portrayed as furthering social control and as strict markers of group boundaries. About this function of community nicknames in the depicted colonial Zanzibar, Bukhet, the black and the would-be husband of Yasmin, complains: ‘Jamaa zako [wahindi] unawajua tena, wao kama mtu si mhindi wanamwona ni kinyaa tu’ (p. 248) (As you are aware, for your people [Indians], if a person is not Indian he is considered as an unworthy human being). As metaphors that function as community nicknames, they assert the identities of dissimilar things: Africanness and goloism, on the one hand, and Indianness and ponjoroism on the other. Such metaphorical equations can be powerful and can significantly transform people’s mindsets, and when used in a colonial setting where racism is sanctioned by law, they speak louder. In the narrative, we are presented with an instance

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(abominable in this period) of a friendship between a black Zanzibari girl, Mwajuma, and Yasmin, an Indian. The unwritten racial rule is that Indians form a privileged racial group occupying a second tier in the racial hierarchy. James Brennan’s Taifa: Making the Nation and Race in Tanzania offers a useful analysis of race politics in colonial Tanzania where, like in other East African colonies, ‘European, Asian, and African races formed a ranked hierarchy’ (p. 47). The hierarchy, as Stephen Morris observes, was that ‘Europeans dominate[d] politically’; Indians ‘formed a kind of commercial middle class’ and ‘Africans constitute[d] a working class and undeveloped peasantry’ (p. 194). Thus, Mwajuma is hesitant to let Yasmin partake in her lifestyle of Uswahilini.7 Why? ‘Kwa vile yeye ni mtoto wa Kihindi asingelipenda kuonekana amefuatana na mtoto wa Kiswahili kwa kuhofu wahindi wenzake wasije wakamsema’ (p. 33) (She feared to be seen walking with an Indian girl lest her Indian friend is reprimanded by her Indian community). Mwajuma’s mindset reflected here indicates how mere nicknaming can have a serious psychological impact on the people involved in the process of nicknaming. Even Salum, Mwajuma’s boyfriend, is surprised at seeing Mwajuma, a Swahili girl, hosting an Indian girl: ‘He! Leo umepata mgeni wa Kihindi?’ (p. 24) (‘He! You have an Indian visitor today?’) Salum’s surprise indicates that racial nicknaming serves to inculcate a social distance between the two racial groups and therefore helps to keep the members of the two races in their respective racial ‘boxes’. As a love-conquers-all narrative, Vuta n’kuvute concludes with the marriage between Yasmin and Bukhet, and their wedding ceremony acts as a symbol of reconciliation for the two antagonistic races where ponjoroism and goloism are denounced. This optimism is captured through the wedding day where not only is Bashiri (Bukhet’s uncle) part of the ceremony, but even Gulam (Yasmin’s uncle) is in attendance, representing her mother who cannot make it because she is homebound due to sickness: ‘Arusi ilikuwa ya kukata na shoka […] Gulam naye alisahau Uhindi wake […] Ugolo na Uponjoro ukaisha’ (p. 275) (The wedding was wonderful. Gulam put aside his Indianness. Goloism and Ponjoroism disappeared).

7

Swahili word for ‘area for the Swahili people’. Amswahili is Shafi’s term for a black man; thus, the use of Swahili man or woman in my analysis of the novel. Uswahilini is derogatorily used to refer to an area where poor people live. Uhindini and Uzunguni signify affluent areas where Indians and Europeans live respectively.

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The deployment of the metaphorical group nicknames golo and ponjoro may be understood as part of the ideological maintenance of the society depicted. This is because, as vocatives, they also impact on the psychology of the addressee such that they become almost like a constitution, shaping how the members in the two racial groups may relate.

Conclusion From the foregoing discussion of the deployment of nicknames in selected Tanzanian fiction, we notice that there is a close connection between what we may construe to be nicknames and what we refer to as metaphors. This is to say, nicknames are in many ways metaphors. Also, metaphors can on their own be nicknames, especially when they refer to persons. Based on this understanding, we can therefore define a nickname as a metaphor that simply says that A is B. That is, B is defined by the attributes of A. In other words, like metaphors, a nickname usually creates a connection or association between the person nicknamed and the nickname given to him or her. This essay has, therefore, approached the portrayed nicknames both as implicit statements and categorical assertion about the coloniser. The portrayed colonialist is, therefore, a Udongo mwekundu (Red Earth), Mzungu (wanderer), kinoo (sharpener), and an empty head. This would qualify nicknames as metaphors. Yet still, we get an impression that the portrayed colonialist can be directly compared with the attributes contained in the nicknames. Thus, he is like Udongo mwekundu; he is like a kinoo; he is like a Mzungu, and the list goes. To this end, nicknames can also function as similes. They too indicate that they can be ironical, satirical, and sarcastic. In terms of social relations, the analysis reveals that the nicknames depict hostile relations between the coloniser and their accomplices (Indians) as a group, on the one hand, and the indigenous people on the other. Since all other sources of power are also tilted in favour of the colonialists, it is through the use of nicknames that the indigenous can seek to undermine the power of the former, on the one hand, and as a way to communicate his sentiments on the other. The overall picture is that nicknames used in the fiction that spans Tanzania’s colonial experience depict negative and bitter relations. By way of suggestion, if this chapter has done anything to reveal the bitter relations between the coloniser and the colonised, then there is now a need to understand the deployment of nicknames that depict the other side of

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these relations, that is, those which were positive and friendly, if they did indeed exist. There is also the need to examine how the deployments of nicknames in fiction contribute to the literary aesthetics or flavour of a text. That is, apart from nicknames functioning as social and political metaphors, what other (literary) roles do they play?

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Solanke, S. (2013). Deploying Myths through Facts and Fictions in the Struggle for Tanzanians’ National Soul in Ebrahim Hussein’s Kinjeketile. Cultural Heritage and Folk Studies, 4(1), n.p. Stark, D. & Kerry, L.T. (2006). Research Project on Nicknames and Adolescent Identities. New Zealand Studies in Applied Linguistics, 17(2), pp. 87–97. Stephen, M. (1956). Indians in East Africa: A Study in a Plural Society. The British Journal of Sociology,7(3), pp. 194–211. Wamitila, K.W. (1999). What’s in a Name: Towards Literary Onomastics in Kiswahili Literature. Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere, 60, pp. 35–44.

CHAPTER ELEVEN SYMBOLIC GEOGRAPHIES: PLACE NAMES IN SELECTED ZIMBABWEAN FICTION TENDAI MANGENA

Introduction In literature, as Ngonyani argues, ‘names often play a significant role in the narratives and lend a special aesthetic quality to stories. [...] They perform different functions: they telegraph allegories, clarify characters or places, and bear the ideas of the authors’ (2001, p. 126). Names in literature broadly encompass anthroponomy and toponymy. Place names constitute a significant and yet oft-neglected aspect of literary onomastics. Scholarship on literary onomastics is often limited to the study of names of characters.1 The intention in this chapter is to fill in that scholarship gap and discuss how selected Zimbabwean writers name places in selected texts, paying particular attention to both foreign and indigenous naming. Selected works to be discussed are Charles Mungoshi’s novel Waiting for the Rain, NoViolet Bulawayo’s We Need New Names, and Petina 1

See Kyllo Wadi Wamitila’s ‘What’s in a Name: Towards Literary Onomastics in Kiswahili Literature’. The article focuses entirely on characters’ names in Kiswahili literature. See also Grimaud, Michel, ‘Hermeneutics, Onomastics and Poetics in English and French Literature’, which focuses on English and French literature and largely demonstrates the study of characters’ names as a fundamental aspect of literary interpretation. Mangena and Nyambi in ‘The Significance of characters’ names in selected Zimbabwean Literature’ limit themselves to a discussion of selected characters in selected works of Zimbabwean literature in English. Gibson Ncube’s ‘Mapping the poetics of names in the novels of John Eppel, Petina Gappah and NoViolet Bulawayo’ (chapter 13 of this volume), makes minimal reference to place names in texts (it refers to Bulawayo’s use of ‘Paradise’ to name the shanty town that accommodates the displaced urbanites).

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Gappah’s short stories ‘In the Heart of the Golden Triangle’ and ‘An Elegy for Easterly’. In We Need New Names and ‘An Elegy for Easterly’, the authors use historical and invented names to bring out the characters of specific geographical spaces. Rigolot argues that ‘proper names, even historical ones when placed in a literary setting may be remotivated’ (as cited in Grimaud, 1997, p. 894). To this, one could add that, ‘[c]onspicuously fictional names underscore an imaginary world and invite the reader to travel through it in some role’ (Ngonyani, 2001, p. 127). This refers to the names and naming of places in selected texts, particularly highlighting the ‘interconnections between spatial relations and systems of power’. In Charles Mungoshi’s Waiting for the Rain, ‘The Hampshire Estates’ and ‘The Manyene Tribal Trust Lands’ are toponyms that are discussed in the context of power relations and space ownership in Rhodesia: the geographical layout of the native reserves and the coloniser’s space (Fanon, 1963, p. 29). Both Petina Gappah and NoViolet Bulawayo give place names that signify the socio-economic and political aspects of the Zimbabwean post-2000 crisis. From late 1999, Zimbabwe entered a period popularised as ‘the crisis’ period which ended with the inception of a Government of National Unity in 2009. Names such as Budapest, Paradise, Shanghai, America, golden triangle and Easterly Farm reveal versions of this crisis. In Zimbabwe, geographical space is basically dissected into two: rural (farms and reserves) and urban (suburbs and townships, including periurban). This Zimbabwean geography is described aptly by Kaarsholm as follows: The social geography is split between urban and rural areas; the countryside is divided between regions of very different fertility, and towns spread out between the affluence of low-density and poverty of high-density suburbs (1991, as cited in Primorac, 2006, p. 73)

The texts selected for this discussion are set in the rural and the urban. Mungoshi’s text is set in a rural area raising issues to do with land ownership in colonial Zimbabwe, while NoViolet Bulawayo and Tagwira’s texts selected here are set in the city, denoting urban culture in the Zimbabwean postcolony. In all cases selected for this study, the compartmentalisation of space cannot be missed in the toponyms; the coloniser and colonised spaces, the privileged and underprivileged in colonial and postcolonial spaces. The significance is located in the names as metaphors, attributed not just to the physical features of a place but also

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to the inhabitants. In my discussion, I refer to both the referential and connotative functions of the selected literary toponyms.

Hampshire Estates and Manyene Tribal Trust Lands As previously stated, significantly named places in Charles Mungoshi’s Waiting for the Rain are Hampshire Estates and the Manyene Tribal Trust Lands. These are the historical names of places on the Zimbabwean map (both are found in Chivhu areas). The two names have their origins in the colonial invasion and refer to two different spaces in the colonial time of the novel, inhabited by two distinct groups of people. Hampshire Estates has ‘tall grass and the fertile soils under that grass’ (p. 37) and these estates are owned by whites. The name is full of Englishness and it carries the double function of nostalgically linking the colony and the metropole and of inscribing Englishness on the African landscape. It also highlights the politics and practices of colonial dispossession as the terms ‘Estate’ and ‘Tribal Trust Lands’ carry connotations of the historic Land Apportionment Act of 1937 that was instituted through a policy of racial segregation. Central to the space demarcation and naming/names is what Primorac termed ‘the colonial boundaries […] this process of enclosure to introduce and facilitate the functioning of the capitalist economic system’ (2006, p. 67). The Tribal Trust Lands tag as descriptive of the Manyene area points towards the idea of a native reserve that is understood to be a limited, overcrowded space reserved for black people. The differences between Hampshire Estates and Manyene Tribal Trust Lands2 demonstrate the enforced space demarcations in a colonial world. Place is synonymous with identity – so the Manyene Tribal Trust Lands is a ‘native reserve (Communal Lands), viewed as the preserve of indigenous Africans’ (Muzondidya, 2007, p. 328). The Manyene Tribal Trust Land is so desolate and barren that some of the inhabitants are alienated. Lucifer Mandengu is alienated by the desert-like features of Manyene. He says, I do not like the look of this land at all [...] but in five or more years this land will be useless, too tired to support any form of life except the hard, thick-leafed charurwi. Charurwi and acacia, the curse of the dry land. 2

The same pattern is seen in South Africa as represented in the South African based film ‘Sarafina’ where Soweto is inhabited by black people and Parktown is where the whites stay in apartheid South Africa.

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Early critics of Zimbabwean literature (e.g. Zhuwarara and Zimunya) tend to link Lucifer’s alienation to his colonial education, but as Mangena and Mupondi argue, ‘Lucifer is rejecting sub-standard land which was not originally theirs. His rejection of Manyene could be seen as a form of protest because no one would want to live in Manyene’ (2011, p. 52). From the point of view of ecocriticism, ‘landscape as a textual construct’ evokes the injustices of colonial land re-appropriation (Oppermann, 2012, p. 95), and names such as ‘Hampshire Estates’ and ‘Manyene Tribal Trust Lands’ play a significant role in the above-referred textual construct.

We Need New Names: (Budapest, Paradise, Shanghai and America) NoViolet Bulawayo’s novel is set in an unnamed country and later on in America. What is quite interesting is how the unnamed country is easily identifiable as Zimbabwe in the last decade, also known as the ‘lost decade’. The intention in this part of the chapter is to demonstrate how place names (specifically Budapest, Paradise, Shanghai and America) in this text illuminate an analysis of the text. Historically, Budapest is the name of the capital city of Hungary, known as one of the largest cities in the European Union. Bulawayo uses ‘Budapest’ to name a small part of the unnamed country and city in her novel We Need New Names. The name Budapest is a combination of Buda (originally meaning water) and Pest (a Slavic name meaning furnace/oven). The origin of the name Budapest may not have an immediate relevance in respect of its use by Bulawayo in her novel, but what is significant is that the name is a foreign one used to name a Zimbabwean space. Such use of non-indigenous names in Zimbabwe has its origins in the coming of the whites, and in present-day Zimbabwe, this has come to be associated with class. In reading the novel, one comes to associate the name Budapest with its inhabitants who are either rich blacks or whites; this also demonstrates how one cannot continue to think of space as racialised, since so many black elites have moved into previously whites-

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only suburbs. From the point of view of the child narrator, ‘Budapest is big, big houses with satellite dishes on the roofs and neat gravelled yards or trimmed lawns, and the tall fences and the Durawalls and the flowers and the big trees heavy with fruit that’s waiting for us since nobody around here seems to know what to do with it’ (p. 4). The adoptive name Budapest (the name and the place) is significant as a contrast to Paradise (where the child narrator and other predominantly poor families reside) since the pursuit of the exotic is common in Zimbabwean culture and the exotic name Budapest is also associated with difference. A class of rich people inhabits Budapest, while those that are poor stay in Paradise. Budapest ‘is not like Paradise, it’s like being in a different country altogether […] where people who are not like us live’ (p. 4). The children belong to a different social class yet they disrespect the demarcations between Budapest and Paradise as they cross into the prohibited space because ‘there are guavas to steal in Budapest’ (p. 1) and ‘it’s the fruit that gives us courage, otherwise we would [not] dare be here’ (p. 4). Clearly, Budapest–Paradise spaces demonstrate some kind of compartmentalisation of the identities of the poor and the rich. But these boundaries/compartments are artificial since the children cross for guavas (for the children associate Budapest with guavas) and adults do so for serious political reasons (the Third Chimurenga3 is evoked). Adults cross from Paradise into Budapest to invade white-owned properties and, while the name Paradise evokes the abundance of the Biblical promise of heaven, those that occupy the space live in deprivation. It is also significant to note that one of the streets in Budapest is named Chimurenga Street. Read in the context of the Third Chimurenga, such street names make a symbolic reference to a reclamation of space by black people. Yet the fact is that the common people continue to be excluded from certain spaces like Budapest, as they are places that are occupied by the new political elite, and the name is associated with this group. Furthermore, in the novel, Bulawayo takes the Third Chimurenga to the city, yet, in reality, it was predominantly a land issue limited to rural farms. Paradise is a squatter camp and a new home for the displaced victims of Murambatsvina. As the narrator reminisces, they ‘didn’t always live in this 3

The agenda of the Third Chimurenga in Zimbabwe from 1997 onwards was ‘reclaiming land from the white commercial farmers (settlers/aliens) giving it back to the black Zimbabweans (natives) as part of the fulfilment of the objectives of the liberation struggle (Mugabe, 2001; Ndlovu-Gatsheni, 2006)’ (Ndlovu-Gatsheni, 2009, p. 62).

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tin, though. Before they had a home and everything and […] were happy’ (p. 62). Bulldozers and police brutality forced people into this Paradise and, ironically, in this way, undertones of injustice and its sprouting up are emphasised in the name. Biblically, Paradise (also known as Heaven) is associated with peace, prosperity and having led a good life. But Bulawayo’s Paradise is just the opposite of that. It is made up of ‘tiny shack after tiny shack crammed together like hot loaves of bread’ (p. 26). These shacks are homes to the inhabitants of Paradise who are always hungry and some people are killed for holding different political opinions. Thus, Paradise is symbolically constructed; the place is supposed to be an earthly paradise but residing in Bulawayo’s Paradise remains a hell of a life. With Budapest and Paradise, ‘splendour and squalor exist side by side’ respectively (Mbembe & Nuttall, 2004, p. 369). Looked at closely, Budapest and Paradise exude a hybrid history of displacement in the Third Chimurenga.4 Whites who occupy Budapest are displaced by war veterans, in the style of the violent farm invasions of 2000, while Paradise is also a home to those displaced urbanites through Murambatsvina. Shanghai is the name of the largest city in China and the world by its population count. In Bulawayo’s We Need New Names, the author names some area of the unnamed country and city which has been claimed by the Chinese. In the context of the novel, the name Shanghai acquires extra meaning. Obviously, the Chinese have named the place as such, and symbolically Shanghai announces a Chinese presence – the metaphoric Chinese expansion into other spaces outside itself, what Alden terms ‘China’s growing engagement with Africa’ (2005, p. 147), especially in the area of trade. Such contact with China is an example of a transnational connection. China, then, becomes the new ‘colonial’ master for, as the children suggest, ‘China is a red devil looking for people to eat so it can grow fat and strong’ (p. 47). Such ‘eating’ and ‘growing big’ metaphors evoke the colonial process characterised by the exploitation of African resources for the enrichment of China. The child narrator informs the reader that ‘it’s just madness inside Shanghai, machines hoist things in their terrible jaws, machines maul the earth, machines grind rocks, machines belch clouds of smoke, machines iron the ground. Everywhere machines’ (p. 42). The machines, the mauling, the rock grinding all 4

In the context of this statement, the Third Chimurenga phrase is used to encompass all aspects of Zimbabwean history that have come to be associated with what is popularised as the Zimbabwean crisis (see Muponde, 2004, p. 176, who has also described the Third Chimurenga as the crisis).

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describe a space being transformed. It is significant to note that the Chinese Shanghai was for a long time ‘ranked as the most pleasurablemad, rapacious, corrupt, strife-ridden, licentious, squalid, and decadent city in the world […] so much was Shanghai loathed that a missionary could proclaim, “if God lets Shanghai endure, he owes an apology to Sodom and Gomorrah”’ (Mbembe & Nuttall, 2004, p. 354). The Sodom and Gomorrah element of Bulawayo’s Shanghai can be located in the sexual relations between the Chinese boss and the girls. Such sexual relations can also be read as a metaphor for the economic relationship between the country and China. Like the English names that reflect the British power of influence in the countries they colonised, this Chinese Shanghai refers to Chinese domination. A shopping mall is, what Mbembe and Nuttall term, ‘a place of circulation and exchange’ (2004, p. 366): the Chinese will circulate Chinese products and Zimbabweans associate such products with ‘fake’ things that they have termed ‘zhing-zhongs’. Paradise residents get into Shanghai to provide labour and will do so to buy Chinese products like zhing-zhongs5 in the novel. In general Zimbabwean street talk, ‘zhing-zhong’ is a term used to mock Chinese products and the mockery can easily extend to a mockery of the ‘Zimbabwean “Look East Policy” – a government strategy to boost foreign trade after the post-2000 fall out with the European member states’ (Mangena & Nyambi, 2013, p. 78). One of the children says, ‘[D]idn’t I tell you the last time that China is a big dog?’ Thus naming one of her places, Shanghai affords Bulawayo to signify the China-Zimbabwe relations as problematic. In We Need New Names, Bulawayo follows the movement of the narrator to America, where the story ends. The name and place, ‘America’, will be discussed here with reference to its denotative meaning – the extralinguistic features associated with America. In the game of country-power played by the children in the story, America is one that they term ‘countrycountries’, 6 meaning powerful nations. Undoubtedly, the children (and adults) associate America with the good life and success stories. Compared to their own country, America will give the most needed economic relief. In the story, America is every child’s dreamland. America (and other places the children term country-countries) remains a ‘location of hope and opportunities’ (Mangena & Mupondi, 2011, p. 48). Darling’s 5

See also Edinger and Burke’s (2008, p. 2) reference to zhing-zhong products, which is also made in Gappah’s ‘An Elegy for Easterly’. These products are described as ‘the shiny clothes spelling out cheerful poverty’ (2009, p. 36). 6 ‘Country-countries’ include the USA, Canada, Australia and Britain.

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migrant identity is emphasised in the place and name of America – where she now stays. As a result of the immense scattering of Zimbabweans around the world, many writers have published works7 with foreign spaces as settings for their stories – the foreign as the location of the Diaspora.

Polarised Spaces: ‘In the Heart of the Golden Triangle’ and ‘An Elegy for Easterly’ Petina Gappah is one of the Zimbabwean female writers writing after 2000. She has published a significant number of short stories, but in this part of the chapter, particular reference is made to ‘In the Heart of the Golden Triangle’ and ‘An Elegy for Easterly’. Both stories are taken from her short story anthology named after the title of the second short story. In these two short stories, Gappah uses place names to evoke power relations in postcolonial Zimbabwe. ‘In the Heart of the Triangle’ is narrated by a wife of a rich man living in ‘the golden triangle’ (part of the capital city) and their neighbours are the Governor of the Central Bank, the French Ambassador, and the British High Commissioner. Muchemwa describes ‘the golden triangle’ as a ‘cultural and ideological trap of haute couture, foreign cuisine, elitist education, language and mimicry’ (2013, p. 139). The inhabitants of the golden triangle party, shop abroad, send their children (who only speak English) to very expensive schools and the men have ‘small houses’.8 They live very expensive lives, thus the ‘gold’ in the descriptive name of their space resonates well with their social status; in other words, the ‘gold’ of the ‘golden triangle’ is not on the landscape but is in the pockets of the inhabitants. Reference to the landscape is very minimal in the story as the narrator only refers to the landscape when she talks about the garden boy planting the ‘the birds of paradise’ (p. 109). Only the place name ‘golden triangle’ has anything to do with the landscape as it suggests very up and coming housing in the exclusive suburbs of the city. The name also relates to the social status of the people 7

Examples include Chikwava’s Harare North (2009) and some short stories in Hunting in Foreign Lands (2010). In general Zimbabwean talk, London has come to be associated with Harare North, and Johannesburg with Harare South, and this is aptly captured by Muchemwa in the following statement: ‘Harare travels north to inhabit London and south to appropriate Johannesburg in a process that marks the diaspora as the new site of constructions of the national imaginary’ (2010, p. 402). 8 ‘Small house’ is a Zimbabwean phrase for mistress.

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inhabiting the space who are very rich. Whoever resides in the golden triangle is ‘totally removed from the larger geography of the city and the crushing reality of the country’s economic crisis’ (Muchemwa, 2010, p. 138). Reference to the heart of the golden triangle is meant to emphasise the idea of ‘state and class power’ (Muchemwa, 2013, p. 143). A reading of ‘An Elegy for Easterly’ highlights the polarised spaces in postcolonial Zimbabwe, where the politically powerful reside in the golden triangle and the politically vulnerable reside on Easterly Farm. Easterly Farm9 is a literary version of the historical Porta Farm. The real Porta Farm is an informal settlement located on the outskirts of Harare. In Gappah’s narrative, Easterly Farm is also an area outside the city, where most of the people that reside there are informal traders who leave in the morning to conduct their business elsewhere and return in the evening. Easterly Farm is made up of ‘houses of pole and mud, of thick black plastic sheeting for walls and clear plastic for windows, houses that erupted without City permission, unnumbered houses identified only by reference to the names of their occupants’ (p. 27). There is only one water tap in this streetless squatter camp. The occupants stay on the margins of the city and they are considered the ‘dirty’ that the government cleaned out of Harare to make it ‘pristine for the three-day visit of the Queen of England’ (p. 31) in 1991. Therefore, Easterly Farm was one of the places the Queen did not see, others included ‘Porta Farm, Hatcliffe and Dzivarasekwa Extension’ (p. 32). Key to the Easterly Farm image is displacement – where the destitute were removed from Harare’s streets in 1991 – and it also remains a marker of the Zimbabwean Murambatsvina disaster. Easterly Farm disappears at the end of the story when the bulldozers reduce it to rubble: When the morning rose over Easterly, not even the children noticed Martha’s absence. They were running away from the bulldozers. It was only when Josephat and his wife had almost reached Chegutu that the bulldozers, having razed the entire line of houses from MaiJames to BaToby, having crushed beneath them the house from which Josephat and his wife had fled, and having razed that of the new couple that no one really knew, finally lumbered towards Martha’s house in the corner and exposed her body (pp. 51–52).

9

This is similar to Tagwira’s The Uncertainty of Hope, where the displaced inhabitants of Mbare relocated to Tsiga grounds, which is a literary version of the historical Caledonia Farm.

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What happened on Easterly Farm actually took place on Porta Farm as recorded by Amnesty International (2004): On 2 September 2004, riot police, war veterans and members of the youth ‘militia’ reportedly went to Porta Farm to forcibly evict some 10,000 people, many of whom have been living there since 1991. The police were acting in defiance of a court order prohibiting the eviction. According to eyewitness testimony, the police fired tear gas directly into the homes of the Porta Farm residents. Eleven people died, five of them children under the age of one.10

Short-story titles make reference to the places: Easterly Farm is located in the margins of the city, and those that reside here belong to the marginalised group. Easterly refers to the compass direction, but the place that Easterly Farm is suggestive of is located on the western side of Harare.

Conclusion The Hampshire Estates and Manyene Tribal Trust Lands in Mungoshi’s Waiting for the Rain are real, existing toponyms on the Zimbabwean map, and in the context of the story, they become general symbols of the injustices of colonial land appropriation in the 1930s. Rigolot’s idea of ‘remotivation’ is seen in Bulawayo’s We Need New Names, where proper names like Budapest and Shanghai travel to name Zimbabwean places but are re-motivated and acquire new meanings in a different environment from the original. Name ‘travelling’ too, what Tambiah describes as ‘foreign places’ and their cities of origin being located in other countries or regions (as cited in Muchemwa 2011: 401), signifies the concept of trans-nationalism. If one can have Shanghai and Budapest in Zimbabwe (at both name and political levels), then one cannot insist on the idea of nations as separate identities. Consequently, Shanghai becomes an apt metaphor for the Chinese presence in Zimbabwe, and America becomes a representative destiny for the scattered Zimbabweans. The place names in Bulawayo’s We Need New Names do not just have a referential function but are also denotative of what one comes to associate the names and places of Shanghai with the Chinese; Paradise with the deprived, displaced and poor blacks; Budapest with the rich (both whites and blacks) and 10

Amnesty International Press Release (22 September, 2004) AI Index: AFR46/027/2004 (Public) Zimbabwe: ‘Ten dead following police misuse of tear gas’.

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abundance. W.H. Auden’s poem ‘Refugee Blues’, referring to a city with ten million souls says, ‘some are living in mansions, some are living in holes’ pointing towards social, political and economic injustice – where citizenship is re-cast ‘in the terrain of racial difference but also serves to delineate different city spaces separated by boundaries of class’ (Mbembe & Nuttall, 2004, p. 357). In the same way, the transported Budapest, ‘the golden triangle’ and the Hampshire Estates are names associated with the privileged classes in different times ‘living in mansions’ (literal and metaphoric), while Paradise, Manyene Tribal Trust Land, and Easterly Farm are toponyms that one comes to associate with the underprivileged ‘living in holes’, in colonial and postcolonial periods respectively.

References Alden, C. (2005). China in Africa. Survival: Global Politics and Strategy, 47(3), pp. 147–164. Auden, W.H. (n.d.). Refugee Blues. [Online] Available from http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/refugee-blues/ [Accessed: 19 June 2014]. Bulawayo, N. (2013). We Need New Names. London: Chatto & Windus. Fanon, F. (1963). The Wretched of the Earth. London: Penguin Books. Gappah, P. (2009). An Elegy for Easterly. London: Faber and Faber. Grimaud, M. (1997). Hermeneutics, Onomastics and Poetics in English and French Literature. Comparative Literature, 92(5), pp. 888–921. Lubbe, H.J. (2011). Name Changing in South Africa: A Historical Overview, with Emphasis on the Period after 1994. Nomina Africana, 25(1 & 2), pp. 42–66. Mangena, T. & Mupondi, A. (2011). Moving Out of Confining Spaces: Metaphors of Existence in the Diaspora in Selected Zimbabwean Writing. Africana, 5(3), pp. 47–67. Mangena, T. & Nyambi, O. (2013). Language Use and Abuse: The English Language in Chikwava’s Harare North and Gappah’s An Elegy for Easterly. NAWA Journal of Language and Communication, 7(1), pp. 75–85. Oppermann, S. (2012). Raymond Federman’s To Whom It May Concern: Reading Metafiction Ecocritically. Revista Canaria de Estudios Ingleses, 64, pp. 95–110. Mbembe, A. & Nuttall, S. (2004). Writing the World from an African Metropolis. Public Culture, 16(3), pp. 347–372.

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Muchemwa, K.Z. (2013). Imagining the City in Zimbabwean Literature 1949 to 2009 (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Stellenbosch University, Stellenbosch. Muchemwa, K.Z. (2010). Old and New Fictions: Rearranging the Geographies of Urban Space and Identities in Post 2000 Zimbabwean Fiction. English Academy Review: Southern African Journal of English Studies, 27(2), pp. 134–145. Muchemwa, K.Z. (2011). Polarising Cultures, Politics and Communities, and Fracturing Economies in Zimbabwean Literature. Social Dynamics: A Journal of African Studies, 37(3), pp. 395–408. Muponde, R. (2004). The Worm and the Hoe: Cultural Politics and Reconciliation after the Third Chimurenga. In B. Raftopoulos, & T. T. Savage (Eds.), Zimbabwe: Injustice and Political Reconciliation. Cape Town: Institute for Justice and Reconciliation. Muzondidya, J. (2007). Jambanja: Ideological Ambiguities in the Politics of Land and Resource Ownership in Zimbabwe. Journal of Southern African Studies, 33(2), pp. 325–341. Ndlovu-Gatsheni, S.J. (2009). Africa for Africans or Africa for Natives Only?: New Nationalism and Nativism in Zimbabwe and South Africa. Africa Spectrum, 44(1), pp. 61–78. Ngonyani, D. (2001). Onomastic devices in Shaaban Robert’s narratives. Journal of African Cultural Studies, 14(2), pp. 125–136. Nyambi, O. (2013). Nation in Crisis: Alternative Literary Representation of Zimbabwe Post-2000 (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Stellenbosch University, Stellenbosch. Primorac, R. (2006). The Place of Tears: The Novel and Politics in Modern Zimbabwe. Tauris Academia Studies: London. —. (2010). Southern States: New Literature From and About Southern Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies, 36(1), pp. 247–253. Wamitila, K.W. (1999). What’s in a Name: Towards Literary Onomastics in Kiswahili Literature. Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere, 60, pp. 35–44.

CHAPTER TWELVE SEMANTIC BLENDING AND FOREGROUNDING OF NOUNS: VERA’S NAMING SYSTEM IN UNDER THE TONGUE SINDISO ZHOU

‘Behind every name, there lies a story.’ Algeo (1985, p. 94)

Introduction Names are exploited artistically as key points loaded with significance in literary discourse. To date, theorists in onomastics have explored with significant depth the nature of names in literary works as in studies by Pfukwa (2008), Neethling (1993), Raper (1987), and Nicolaisen (1976). However, research on the use of common noun referents that are assigned the function of proper names for semantic effect in Zimbabwean writings is a new frontier in African onomastic research that this writer considers to have fundamental contributions in the appraisal of names in African spaces. This chapter explores possibilities of broadening the scope of literary onomastics through reading the semantic potential that lies within non-traditional and unconventional, avant-garde approaches to naming as employed by writers such as Yvonne Vera in Under the Tongue (1996). Other Zimbabwean literary works, such as Vera’s Without a Name (2002), Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions (1988) and Mungoshi’s Waiting for the Rain (1975) and Some Kinds of Wounds (1980), are also used for cross-reference purposes. This chapter further interrogates the semantic effects of the blending and foregrounding of common nouns as a naming technique. A brief background of names in the Zimbabwean context is provided from the outset of this chapter. Background social and onomastic information on

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Zimbabwe is fundamental for the conceptualisation of existing practices and, more importantly, emerging patterns of naming such as semantic blending and foregrounding of common noun referents. Characteristically, anthroponyms are universal while toponyms are descriptive (Bright, 2003); therefore, the study of names is carried out as an aspect of other disciplines such as ethnography, linguistics, philology, geography and history, among others. While the trajectory of names is shaped by several conflicting paradigms and political forces, one question that can be asked is whether a thorough examination of names in literary works would yield trends, inherent tendencies or evolving identities.

Zimbabwe’s Socio-Onomastic Background A name in Zimbabwean naming spaces is more than just a referent. It is a descriptive narrative of who a person is in relation to the people around them, the community within which they find themselves and the universe. Names are prescriptive and restrictive in that they come with limitations and delimitations where they spell out what can be done and what cannot be done within the precincts of that name. How people call an individual or the name that one answers to are therefore instruments of responsibility and accountability. The African traditional family system was such that in the absence of a school to teach various requirements of life, an individual was exposed to several pedagogic encounters through different fora in the community, and names were one such instrument that called to active presence and action every member of the community. Given that all persons possess names by which they are known publicly and legally, it is important to point out that families and communities consistently refer to people using common nouns that denote family and social obligation as well as kinship status as done in Zimbabwean society. As a result, a mother, father, grandmother, or other member of the nuclear or extended family answers to the nominal references of ‘mother’ in ChiShona and IsiNdebele respectively as Amai/uMama, while ‘father’ is Baba/uBaba, and ‘grandmother’ is Ambuya/uGogo, depending on the situation. ‘Mother’, in this case, is treated as a name. Interestingly, this author has observed that such references are universally accepted in Zimbabwean urban and rural communities. These references, which one could call ‘responsibility cues’, show respect and honour for the office that one holds in the family setup, at the same time reminding the owner of the said name of their inescapable duties and responsibilities in the family and, by extension, in the community setup.

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The implication is that one is not only a mother to her own biological children but one is the community’s mother, in the same manner as a child does not belong to a family but to a whole community. This sense of collective ownership and Ubuntu is pervasive in both urban and rural Africa, but is especially evident in rural communities in Zimbabwe where there is still some sense of cohesion that has not been totally eroded by the cultural imperialism inherent in the twenty-first-century global culture. It is, therefore, on course to observe that while Vera’s naming style is rooted in African traditional practice, it spreads tentacles into contemporary writing for thematic functionality. Multiple naming is also one of the prevailing and fundamental characteristics of Zimbabwean society. This notion of one person being given more than one name must not be confused with the issue of multiple, conflicting identities, but must be understood as contributing to the construction of a single and solid identity. To start with, one has a first name that can be referred to as a ‘home’ name which is assigned to a person either in recognition of the circumstances surrounding the birth of that individual, as a plea for protection by the ancestors/Universal God, or in honour of the perceived powers that caused such a birth. The latter reason is common among religious and spiritual families. Such names are usually in indigenous languages, for instance, the Shona name Mazvita meaning ‘thank you’, and the Ndebele name Sinqobile meaning ‘we have emerged as victorious’. Secondly, there is a public or legal name which is registered with the National Registrar’s Office for Births, National Identification, Deaths and Marriages, for instance, Justin or Tendai. This can be in the indigenous language or foreign language. Thirdly, one may be assigned a name following baptism in a church, as was done by missionaries and as is still commonly practised in the Catholic faith where during baptism one can be christened as Mary, Anna, Moses, Joseph or any other English Biblical name (or English non-Biblical name in rare circumstances). Furthermore, nicknames and pseudonyms add to the list of names that an individual may be known by. As a result, one may answer to different names at different places, to different people, depending on the dynamic circumstances of the individual’s life. It is this African naming matrix that allows for the interfacing of proper nouns and common nouns as naming resources for purposes of announcing intent and presence or camouflaging feelings, reactions and messages. Rhetoric, emotions, family feuds, complaints, subtle disharmonies, and private hurts are also articulated in names since names are a powerful tool in breaking silences and voicing that which is difficult to communicate conventionally.

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Names in the Zimbabwean Literary Works A close analysis of Zimbabwean literary works indicates that there is consistency in the inconsistent use of names. The current practice gravitates between a Western and African style, and whether deliberately or inadvertently, it achieves a semantic effect. An example would be Mungoshi’s Some Kinds of Wounds, a short story collection in which one story titled, ‘Who will stop the Dark’ has characters such as Zakeo, Sekuru, mother and father. There is a deliberate inconsistent naming style where Sekuru is given proper name status while mother and father are mere common referents. The inclusion of the indigenous version of the Biblical ‘Zaccheus’ in the form of Zakeo also adds to the complex dynamic of deliberately foregrounding aspects that are critical in the development of the writer’s thematic concerns. A similar naming trend is evident in Vera’s works, particularly Under the Tongue. Vera writes stories that reflect painful realities of the Zimbabwean people. Consequently, she bestows plain and transparent names to her characters to match the demands of her deviant insistence for transparency and justice. In Under the Tongue, the use of Mother, Father and Grandmother as proper names throughout the novel plainly articulates the roles that each of these characters ought to play in the life of the innocent yet brutalised child heroine, Zhizha. The name Zhizha itself is a common referent to one of the seasons of bounty and promise, yet it is awarded the high semantic function of denoting the plunder of innocence by one who was supposed to protect and nurture. Vera’s artistic revelations are brutal yet too true to be ignored. Her naming technique may be viewed as a true reflection of African civilisation as she harnesses the age-old tradition of assigning the weight of an individual’s role in a family to exert influence on the semantic effect of each and every name each time it is used. In Nehanda, Vera uses Mother as a proper name. Vatete also assumes proper-name status. While these nouns are usually used as titular references, accompanied by and prefixing the proper name in Zimbabwean indigenous culture, we find them assuming the status of the name through substituting the name with the title, and, thus, foregrounding it to achieve what the name could not have sufficiently done on its own. Mungoshi presents The Old Man in Waiting for the Rain in the form of a name to enhance the value of the elderly in the face of colonial influences on local traditions.

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While seeking a universal conception of proper names, Bright (2003) proposes a semantic and pragmatic definition in which a proper name represents the social convention of paying brief reference to a specific object or person. However, an analysis of names in Vera’s Under the Tongue presents the name as a detailed reference that not only denotes but also constructs the identity of a person. While the concept of naming is in itself a unique and complex phenomenon that varies depending on society and culture, in Zimbabwean society, for example, an individual usually possesses more than one name. This double-reference system of calling the same person by more than one name emphasises the character and role of the individual in question (Zhou, 2012). Vera calls Runyararo Mother; and Muroyiwa is also called Father in Under the Tongue to foreground the responsibility that weighs on him with regards to his daughter Zhizha whose innocence he brutally takes away through incest. Dangarembga employs a similar technique when she names her characters Babamukuru and Maiguru, among other names, in Nervous Conditions. The names are functional entities that highlight the characters’ roles in line with the thematic structure of the text.

Names in Vera’s Under the Tongue Proper names are not to be construed as singular pointers of an individual or place’s identity. They are not simplistic referents to be dismissed from a distance, but they represent entities and texts loaded with meaning, hence calling for closer interrogation. Vera, in Nehanda (1993), Under the Tongue and Without a Name, among other texts, deploys names that contribute immensely to the construction of characters’ identities without departing from Zimbabwean perspectives of naming. In Zimbabwean naming spaces, there is a complex connection between a name and what it refers to, contrary to early western onomastic conceptions as presented by Gardiner (1954). As the study of names, onomastics distinguishes between toponyms and anthroponyms, which are place names and personal names respectively (Batoma, 2009). Names, whether African or Western, anthroponyms or toponyms, reveal an intricate tapestry comprised of a number of interpretive strands when opened to individual examination (Butler, 2012) as illustrated in several of Vera’s texts. Given that the present discussion analyses the unique naming technique in Vera’s Under the Tongue as an exemplar of Zimbabwean literary works, it is important to foreground the wide acclaim that Vera’s works continue to evoke due to the complex, taboo subjects dealt with in the texts. In

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addition to using indigenous names for her characters, Vera uses commonnoun referents as names for several of her characters. This naming style, as well as the particular names used in Under the Tongue, is viewed as a prototype of the African naming practice and system. While it is axiomatic that assigning indigenous names to individuals is part of the project to reaffirm and reconstruct native identities (Pfukwa, 2008), there is the occasion for further interrogation of African writers’ deployment of common signifiers in the indigenous code for use as proper names. Use of the indigenous onym is in direct opposition to the colonial trend of naming individuals using English names that could either have a recognised meaning, for instance, Grace, Peace, Precious, Promise, or whose meaning is not obvious, for instance, John, Peter, Jan, Anne. Any analysis of names in the Zimbabwean context calls for a holistic consideration of the environment within which the name, name-giver, and named exist. Such an approach to onomastics is necessary since ‘to study names we have to connect linguistics and literature to psychology and sociology, and to geography and history’ (Ashley, 2003, p. 15). As a result, the frame of time within which Vera’s characters are living, the spaces they occupy in both the private and public sphere, their frames of mind and social statuses, as well as the politics of power in their families and communities, all contribute as dominant variables in the analysis of individual names. Names in this instance serve as enduring labels that are derived from the socio-cultural and historical context. It is this observation that dissolves the boundaries between proper and common-noun referents. It is, therefore, the individual who bestows a name who has the power to convert a common noun into a proper name. This becomes a declaration that the named then fulfils through the performance of the name’s obligations and demands. In the case of Vera’s Under the Tongue, as is the case in Zimbabwean society, naming is used as an innovative and functional tool employed to meet communicative needs. Contextual factors figure into the meaning construction process to yield the derived meaning of a given name. In this case, a name may be paralleled with an utterance that is lauded with a multiplicity of meanings that only waits to be decoded by both the owner of the name and those around him. The local context impacts on meaning construction. Names may be perceived as having conventional and nonconventional meaning. These separate yet related meanings are called to the fore in different contexts depending on the requirements of particular circumstances. Zimbabwean names in Under the Tongue indicate some

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characteristics of context-dependency; for example, Mother is employed to foreground the complex needs of a girl-child as she matures into a young woman. Mother becomes the much sought after radar and pillar of strength during the tender years where growing pains desire the tender solace of Mother. The use of common nouns as names yields semantic transparency (Neethling, 1993). This is evident in the use of Mother in Vera’s Under the Tongue, and Vatete and Mother in Nehanda, as well as Tambudzai, Nhamo, Babamukuru, and Maiguru in Dangarembga’s Nervous Conditions (1988), and also Onai, Faith and Mawaya in Tagwira’s The Uncertainty of Hope (2006). The kind of transparency achieved is an ingenious technique on the part of the author. For Vera and Dangarembga, who are writing against the subjugation of women, Mother and Maiguru represent women. There is nothing common about them. They are real people with a purpose in life. The common nouns mother, babamukuru (uncle), and vatete (aunt), for example, are kinship terms or relational markers that are simplistic and transparent as they clearly show what the role of an individual is in a relationship. However, with semantic transparency follows the socially constructed meaning of the individual’s role as Mother, Maiguru or Babamukuru.

Names in Vera’s Under the Tongue Analysis of names used by Vera in her texts indicates that the linguistic meaning derived from the lexicon does not detract from the intended meaning of a name. Instead, it provides a relevant background and premise from which meaning can be negotiated and constructed. The structure of a name opens it up to multiple interpretations. I view the aforementioned structure as presenting a surface meaning (literal, denotative meaning) and a deeper meaning (connotative meaning). The presence of layered meanings and multiple interpretations is the result of semantic blending and foregrounding of common nouns as analysed in this chapter. An analysis of names used in Under the Tongue illustrates that the onomasticon (body of names) and lexicon (body of words) are broadened by new ways of naming. Vera uses common nouns to signify persons for purposes of both anonymity and presence. While mother could be any woman who has a child. The common referent presupposes anonymity but, at the same time, Mother denotes a specific woman with a specific child who is calling her as such. Mother is also called Runyararo.

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Other names in Vera’s Under the Tongue include Grandmother, Zhizha, Father (who is also called Muroyiwa), as well as vaGomba, and vaMirika. Runyararo is Zhizha’s mother. Runyararo is Shona for peace, silence, quiet and tranquillity. It is commonly used as a name for females rather than males in Zimbabwe. Its IsiNdebele counterpart, Thulani is common in males. Foregrounding Mother is a technique that forces the reader to look at Runyararo with different eyes and to visualise her role from an alternative perspective. She is Runyararo, a seemingly unassuming person that does not stand out from the crowd, but she is made to be Mother, not just a mother but a particularly important mother figure to a specific girl child. Using a personal name to refer to a mother seems to trivialise her role, reducing it. Just referring to Zhizha’s mother as Runyararo makes her anonymous, almost hiding her behind a simple personal name to evade the true role of being Mother, caretaker of a life, a destiny, a future and a soul’s survival. Runyararo is a name that could refer to anyone without raising the consciousness of either the owner of the name or that of the hearer on the actual meaning of who this person is. Blending the common meaning of mother with the weighty role of one who is mother to an existing individual who needs motherly care and advice to deal with her feminine peculiarities and vulnerabilities completely overturns the usual meaning of the common noun mother. As a simplistic referent that denotes a female that has produced offspring, mother is a simple noun. However, given a character with a life predicament as complex as Zhizha’s, and consequently presented with one who is assigned Mother status and consistently called Mother, the name ceases to be simplistic but sounds like an urgent alarm that carries a daunting task that demands urgent attention. Mother then, as a name, demands integrity, principle, tenderness, undying love, sacrifice, resilience and resolve of the person assigned such a name. Muroyiwa is Zhizha’s father who sexually abuses her, plunders her innocence, leaving her vulnerable and traumatised in the process (Muponde, 2007). The deliberate blending of the common meaning of the noun father and the imperative demands of fatherhood as expected of a man like Muroyiwa to a child such as Zhizha highlight the critical determining characteristics of a real father, consequently underlining the shortcomings of Muroyiwa as a father. Zhizha is the name assigned to Vera’s tormented protagonist and heroine who survives brutal rape at the hands of her father. Zhizha is young and

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innocent, hardly ready for the stormy years of puberty and adolescence. As a Shona term, Zhizha commonly denotes one of the agricultural seasons. It is the name given to that time of the year in Zimbabwe when the crops in the fields are ready for human consumption. Maize cobs will be ready for roasting or cooking and other food crops, such as pumpkins and roundnuts, are ready for consumption. Generally, farmers are at peace as they realise the fruits of their labour. Whole families appreciate the rewards of their toil in the sweltering heat of the fields for long days on end. In Vera’s narrative, Zhizha is presented as a broken young girl, violated and vulnerable, seeking escape from a suffocating experience (Muponde, 2007). This is nothing like the name’s connotations of promise and plenty. But still, her name is Zhizha. The blending of meaning in this case is quite ambitious and bold. It blends the common meaning with what should have been, had reality not snatched it away, and what can be. There is deliberate juxtaposition of zhizha, the season of goodness and abundance of food, with Zhizha, the young girl whose innocence is violated just when she is ripe. She suffers the indecency of rape at the dawn of her adolescence just before embracing the promise and joy of youth. In this case, the name Zhizha stubbornly retains that which has been destroyed. Zhizha then ceases to be a season, a passing phase, and an ephemeral stage that is impermanent and transitory. It becomes a state of being. It evolves from being a seasonal phenomenon into a condition of consciousness. As the heroine fumbles to find herself and to re-congregate her inner self and recreate her identity, she manages to regroup the people most fundamental to her healing (the tripartite force that is grandmother, mother, and herself), and she rises to a state of zhizha. Zhizha then evolves from being a transient season to being an enduring outcome, a force and a state of mind and spirit. It would seem then, that it is only after the demeaning experience that the girl truly becomes the epitome of the bountiful season zhizha. When transformed into a name, Zhizha is short and symbolic. As a discursive practice, brief and figurative addresses are the mainstay of African oral culture. Grandmother is named as someone with a grand mission to accomplish. She is at once a girl, a woman and a mother. She is the embodiment of the phenomenal concept of womanhood. In a critique of the triangular connections of the relationship between Zhizha, her Mother and Grandmother, Zhou (2012) argues that the three are in a Trinitarian union

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in which they represent the continuity of the woman’s struggle for emancipation, visibility and voice. In Vera’s text, Grandmother is assigned the heavyweight role of empathising with her daughter and granddaughter’s woes as well as her own mother-troubles. In her, Zhizha finds quantum solace. Grandmother echoes the matriarchal obligations that weigh on old women’s hunched shoulders. The continuous call to grandmother depicts the referent as a wise and enduring individual who is the epitome of motherhood. Referring to individuals using common nouns as opposed to appropriate ‘Western’ proper names may seem to trivialise them. It may also seem to display an apparent lack of depth of character. However, Vera’s naming technique overturns expectations and enhances the meaning of names. Her names cease to be mere names, they become metaphors and symbols. They also become the collective conscience of the community. Therefore, one is not just Runyararo but Mother. Mother as voiced by an individual becomes and remains that individual’s mother only. However, as the reader encounters the term mother and understands it as, ‘Amai’, ‘uMama’, then the meaning of mother is enhanced as there is a sense of connection, belonging and ownership. This sense is lacking in names that are not in common usage as they are individualistic and far removed from people’s real-life experiences and encounters with each other in the community. But if one is assigned a name that foregrounds performance of obligation, then that individual is carrying the responsibility and accountability associated with the respective concept of ‘Mother’, ‘Grandmother’ or ‘Father’, something that fundamentally alters and recalls consciousness and presence to the demands of that name. While fictional worlds remain creations of the author’s imagination that cannot exist physically, it can be argued that a reader can access any fictional world through the names encountered in the text (Miller, 1995). In a similar manner, anthroponyms can provide access to the character by way of the name itself. In the African naming style then, I sense that the complexity of any name lies within the seeming simplicity of it, where the surface meaning and the deeper nuances blend to produce the correct picture sought by the namer/name-giver. The blending of common noun meanings and the profound nature of mother/father/grandmother have several aesthetic, linguistic and literary implications. It is observed that the semantic blend created in Under the Tongue is unique to the given context and that it yields a unique semantic matrix that can only be achieved within the precincts of the sum-total of the particular contextual variables

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presented in the novel. Amid war, abuse, poverty and hope, identities are assigned to characters through the names. The semantic blending of a fictitious story with some characters who are assigned non-fictional names is clearly an unconventional modernist technique that has functional application. For Vera, the name Mother encapsulates the core values of nurturing and protecting; therefore, before she can be Runyararo, she is Mother. The vibrancy of Mother’s exploits in the face of tragedy constitutes the semantic energies surrounding the creation of a name. Vera’s naming mechanism is context-dependent as the names’ functional roles arise from their analysis alongside that of the text, setting and other stylistic idiosyncrasies. To foreground and magnify what is considered as lexically and semantically mundane not only brings lyrical beauty to the hearer but creates a sense of realism and authenticity – qualities that lack in superficial western labels whose meanings are far removed from the African experience. African names are indexical of ethnic norms and values. Vera, as one who bestows a name, attempts to recover, reconstitute and restitute the original motivations of the name. This act is in itself a key aspect of the establishment of a lasting relationship between language and culture (Batoma, 2009). For instance, according to traditional Shona and Ndebele cosmology Mother is a symbol of fertility, growth, and a nurturing spirit. In keeping with this view, a woman worthy of her name is thus called Mother, an important choice of name because she could have been referred to by any name which may not sufficiently convey connotations of fertility and a nurturing spirit – the qualities that epitomise motherhood.

Appropriating propriety to common nouns in Vera’s works Proper and common nouns serve as linguistic signs, thereby revealing the semiotic aspect of names. Using a common noun to refer to an individual may seem to be demeaning but actually, in Vera, common nouns are afforded decency and respectability when they become proper names. Elevation from commonality to propriety enhances characters’ roles and society’s expectation, thus broadening the semantic possibilities implied within the name. Names generally have inherent linguistic and onomastic statuses. The onomastic analysis uses methods that are deductive in character, as is done in linguistics. Thus, the methodological procedures of onomastics are similar in practice as those of linguistic description,

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analysis and classification in which textual and etymological analyses are carried out. The social function of names is similar to the expected onymic function. Bestowing a name falls in the realm of social communication and opens the name and named up to epistemological and ontological questions. As Butler (2012, p. 4) rightly observes, naming techniques are not to be dismissed as ‘a stylistic embellishment’ but considered ‘as important functional literary devices that can shape the texts in a significant manner.’ Common nouns provide a pool for naming resources. As stated earlier in this chapter, names have two levels of meaning: the surface meaning that is obvious, and a deeper inferential meaning, for instance, father as the common referent and Father as referring to a specific Muroyiwa, a father who rapes his own daughter. It is the deeper level that presents associations that have the capacity to evoke profound meaning. Another example is Maiguru in Nervous Conditions, where the deeper meaning is that of one who is representative of her lot, suffering specific oppression as witnessed by the young Tambudzai. In this case, names are made to be versatile in meaning, as they hold several potential meanings showing that they are valuable linguistic markers of identity. The etymological root of the common noun mother is not discarded; rather, it enhances the impressionistic reference that is derived from the character in question and the influential power of community definition that enhances the profundity of the concept of mother. Communities have a shared ideology and a mutual purpose; thus, the meaning they read into one named Mother is essentially the same.

Conclusion This chapter demonstrates that upon close analysis, names reveal intricate patterns comprised of a number of interpretive elements that yield critical results. Names in Vera’s world possess high semantic and socio-cognitive power such that the scope of literary onomastics is broadened through forcing further engagement with linguistic practice. From the blending and foregrounding paradigm, literary onomastics is broadened as it subsumes linguistic analysis in the interpretation of names. As Coates (2009) insists, names do have a sense of definition and they do call for linguistic and literary analysis.

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For a narrative to take off and maintain the requisite artistic velocity that sustains thematic realisation there must be in force some innovative naming finesse. Vera’s naming style, therefore, embraces the African insistence on family, connection and community while leaping forward towards the future where what seems like an absence of naming becomes a fertile semantic environment for artistic performance. Using common names by converting and elevating them to proper-name status demonstrates onomastic creativity, where common names are exploited functionally and their referential capacity heightened. A critical reading of Vera’s style indicates, among other things, that African consciousness is defended and preserved by African paradigms of approaching processes and handling problems. Such a philosophy is inherent in the avant-garde approach of appropriating decency to what is common, thus transforming the definitions of proper and common nouns. Boundaries of meaning are pushed substantially and both the name and the text become open to a multiplicity of meanings. The blending of common and proper meaning is a demonstration of the power of a name when it is evoked by the apparently simple process of elevating the grammatical status, thus enhancing the semantic effect. The arguments in this chapter contribute significantly to the establishment of a methodology that can be used in the critique of African names. Future research could interrogate the semantic shaping of onyms in relation to the limitations of the African languages and contexts in the construction of identities.

References Ashley, L.R.N (2003). Names in Literature. Bloomington: AuthorHouse. Batoma, A. (2009). Onomastics and Indirect Communication Among the Kabre of Northern Togo Nordic Journal of African Studies, 18(3), pp. 215–234. Bright, W. (2003). ‘What is a name? Reflections on Onomastics’. Language and Linguistics, 4(4), pp. 669–681. Butler, J.O. (2012). Name, place, and emotional space: themed semantics in literary onomastic research (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of Glasgow, Glasgow. Coates, R. (2009). A Strictly Millian Approach to the Definition of the Proper Name. Mind and Language, 24, pp. 433–444 Dangarembga, T. (1988). Nervous Conditions. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House.

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Gardiner, A. (1954). The theory of proper names. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miller, J.H. (1995). Topographies. Stanford University Press. Muponde, R. (2007). Reading Girlhood in Under the Tongue. Research in African Literatures, 38(2), pp. 36–48. Neethling, S.J. (1993). Black Elk Speaks: Native American (Indian) Onomastics. Nomina Aficana, 7(1&2), pp. 17-36. Nicolaisen, W.F.H. (1976). Words as Names. Onoma, 20, pp. 142–163. Pfukwa, C. (2008). Shona Description of Diurnal Time: An Onomastic Perspective. NAWA Journal of Language and Communication, 2(1), pp. 58–65. Raper, P. (1987). Aspects of Onomastic Theory. Nomina Africana, 1(2), pp. 78–91. Tagwira, V. (2006). The Uncertainty of Hope. Harare: Weaver Press. Vera, Y. (1996). Under the Tongue. Harare: Baobab. —. (1993). Nehanda. Harare: Baobab. Zhou, S. (2012). Straddling the Prose-Poetry Divide for Semantic Functionality: Vera’s Under the Tongue. Unpublished Manuscript.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN MAPPING THE POETICS OF NAMES IN THE NOVELS OF JOHN EPPEL, PETINA GAPPAH AND NOVIOLET BULAWAYO GIBSON NCUBE

Drawing on Nicolaisen’s (2005) critical reflections in his article ‘On Names in Literature’, this chapter attempts to stimulate debate in the under-researched field of literary onomastics through a problematisation of naming practices in selected literary works of John Eppel, Petina Gappah and NoViolet Bulawayo. It is initially argued that there exists an intricate relationship between the names of literary characters and the ideological implications addressed by the texts. It is further contended that the act of naming is not only involved in identifying and categorising literary characters but that it is also a socio-political praxis for re-imagining social relations in Zimbabwe during the post-2000 period that is characterised by socio-political and economic turmoil and crisis. Venturing beyond a semantic analysis of names, it is shown that naming practices by these writers should not be treated in isolation but as one of the several strategies that create a palpable socio-political and cultural literary universe. Such an analysis will ultimately reveal that onomastic practices in post-2000 Zimbabwean literary narratives in English possess, according to Lara’s (1998, p. 4) postulations, an ‘illocutionary force’ and ‘disclosive’ potentialities that ‘contest and restructure conceptions of subjectivity [and] notions of morality.’ Many studies1 in diverse fields have broached the postcolonial situation in Zimbabwe, particularly the period after the year 2000. Characterised by rapid and cataclysmic economic meltdown and untold socio-political unrest, this bewildered and tumultuous post-2000 period has produced a 1

Cf. Veit-Wild (1993), Muchemwa (2010), Primorac (2010) & Nyambi (2011).

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rich and exuberantly complex body of literature. A new crop of writers that includes Petina Gappah, Christopher Mlalazi, Brian Chikwava and Daniel Mandishona, to name but a few, has penned inspiringly elegant and beautiful works that depicted various versions and subversions of life in Zimbabwe during this ominous period of its recent history. Through candid and unassuming representations, these literary texts interrogate the socio-political and economic milieu which they depict. They ruffle up the surface of realist representation and explore issues that represent a trespassing of the status quo and invent a counter-hegemonic discourse that calls for a reconceptualised and novel perception of the prevailing reality. It is worth highlighting that current scholarship on Zimbabwean literature in English, including literature from the post-2000 period, has tended to concentrate on its connections to socio-political engagement. For example, Murray (2011, p. 155) employs feminist and postcolonial perspectives to read the works of Yvonne Vera and Petina Gappah, and she reveals the manner in which ‘imperial and patriarchal discourses have established the frameworks within which [women] were able to construct their identities.’ Primorac (2010, p. 247) uses a postcolonial, historical and Marxist lens to ‘probe the shifting terrain of Zimbabwe’s national “state of mind” since the beginning of the new millennium’ in the texts of writers such as Chikwava, Gappah, Dangarembga and Chinodya. As for Muchemwa, he also uses postcolonial theory to ‘suggest new ways of seeing the continent’. He explains that ‘drawing on the search for this new grammar of reimagining the continent and the nations that constitute it’, his reading of ‘selected texts in the Zimbabwean literary canon, historicises literature’s changing relationship with a traditional postcolonial imagining of the nation that produces discourses of autochthony, otherness and violence’ (2011, p. 394). In his analysis of post-2000 Zimbabwean literature, Nyambi (2011, p. 1) argues that previous studies of works from this period have tended to reduce ‘literary works (which are modes of artistic creation) to simple political or propagandist instruments’. These aforementioned and other analytical perspectives have assuredly failed to recognise that literary texts ‘have functioned in the Zimbabwean imaginary as a cultural product and therefore an archive of the present where some of the major forces shaping history can be encountered’ (Nyambi, 2011, p. 1). Without downplaying and devaluing these previous studies on post-2000 Zimbabwean literature, it is interesting (if not disheartening) to point out that there is a startling paucity of scholarship offering a systematic

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analysis of the importance of names and naming practices in these literary works. Could such dearth be indicative of the pointlessness of this field of study or rather that the field might not be as academically rewarding or engrossing as others? Ashley fortuitously dispels the notion that literary onomastics is a trivial field of investigation and lucidly states that: Names in literature can, the way the trend for what we call product placement in films do, economically characterise at least for the initiated. Names can drive the plot, and not only in detective novels [...]. Names can set the tone. They can create the atmosphere. They can build suspense. Terms of address can reveal relationships. Names can familiarise or distance the reader. […] Names do much more than merely designate. Even the absence of a name can be significant […]. Names can be comic or satirical. Names can be deliberately ludicrous or, as the British say, spot on. (2011, p. 16)

According to Ashley, names are important in the construction of literary texts and their analysis is not only imperative but also indispensable in the pursuit of acquiring a comprehensive appreciation of any literary text. Before delving at length on literary onomastics as an integrated cultural phenomenon, it is important to consider the naming systems in Africa and in Zimbabwe, particularly in the postcolonial period. In traditional African societies, names play a significant role and are often loaded with meaning. Colonisation brought traditional naming systems into contact with those of the West. This cultural encounter indeed left an ineffaceable mark on African culture. Examining the manner in which colonialism, principally Christianity, affected naming practices among the Shona of Zimbabwe, Mashiri (1999) notes that between the 1930s and 1970s, it was mandatory for Africans to adopt biblical names once they were baptised. Assuming a biblical name was often accompanied by dropping names in local languages. Mashiri (1999, p. 96)) explains this dynamic of adopting biblical names whilst sidelining those in African languages: ‘the white missionaries and employers had difficulty in pronouncing Shona names and it was believed that an English or Christian name symbolised salvation.’ Chitando (2001, p. 146) seems to agree with Mashiri as he attests that ‘dropping the “heathen”, culture-bound name also signified a redirection of the will and was patterned on Jesus who gave his disciples new names to match new tasks. To this end, therefore, missionaries have felt justified in asking the converts to take up new names.’ Pfukwa (1998, p. 30) examines how those who fought during the liberation war changed their names for reasons of safety and ideology. In terms of ideology, he explains that ‘their names were a statement against

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Christian tradition and beliefs’. He further expounds that this act of renaming themselves and sloughing off biblical names was intended to ‘question the ethics and values of a faith that had been in existence for over two thousand years. Some names were outrageously blasphemous or turned the whole religion of Christianity upside down.’ This shift during the liberation war marked a substantial element in the recuperation of an African and Zimbabwean identity which had been erased and lost when biblical names had been imposed on locals. The postcolonial period has continued with this sincere desire to reappropriate the hitherto misrepresented and denigrated African ‘other’. This postcolonial reappropriation of names and naming practices was important to the quest of being independent, self-governing and selfsufficient because in the words of Denny (1987, p. 300), ‘to be human is to name, to be named, and thereby to possess full being and the ability to relate to the world in meaningful ways.’ In the postcolonial period, naming practices in Africa have had to frame themselves in a progressively globalised world. Be that as it may, Chitando (2001, p. 145) contends that ‘although the world is collapsing into a global village, the symbolism connected with names remains a way to assert local identities.’ The present chapter sets out to problematise and theorise the importance of names in the novels of Eppel, Gappah and Bulawayo. Numerous other writers could have been included in this study but were deliberately omitted for numerous reasons. Mlalazi’s literary oeuvre is replete with enthralling names and naming practices but he is not included here because he is similar to Bulawayo since his onomastic style exploits the Ndebele language. Chikwava’s Harare North could have been included but his infamous and nameless antihero presents an onomastic practice that deserves an entire study dedicated to it. The act of not naming presents a totally different dynamic compared to that which is explored in this chapter. Furthermore, Chikwava’s book offers a diametrically opposed perspective in that the naming practices frame themselves against migration and the diaspora effect. That said, Eppel, alongside writers such as Cathy Buckle and Peter Goodwin who write in the autobiographical genre, stands out as one of the foremost white writers of fictional prose and poetry in post-independence Zimbabwe. His literary corpus, which focuses on the Matebeleland region of Zimbabwe, has gone a long way in depicting the precarious contemporary condition of white Zimbabweans. He notes in an interview with Shaw that ‘the last decade has been tough for the relatively few

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remaining white Zimbabweans […]. The racial hatred issued forth by government mouthpieces […] has amounted to verbal genocide (2012, p. 105). Absent: The English Teacher frames itself in this vision of the perturbed condition of ‘the fast diminishing (by exodus) white community of the new Zimbabwe’ (p. 32). As for Gappah, An Elegy for Easterly (a collection of short stories) has set her as a force to consider in contemporary Zimbabwean, and indeed African letters. Gappah, like other female Zimbabwean writers before her, such as Dangarembga, analyses the ‘nervous condition’ of postcolonial existence in Zimbabwe. Of particular note as well is Vera, whose literary corpus reveals an unrivalled excellence of succinct and trenchant onomastic stylistics as is the case in the novels Stone Virgins and Nehanda. Media frenzy surrounded the publication of Bulawayo’s debut novel, We Need New Names in 2013. Winner of the Caine Prize for African writing in 2011 for her short story ‘Hitting Budapest’ and shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, names and naming practices are one of the main questions with which Bulawayo grapples. The title of her novel resonates well with the gist of this chapter because it confronts the question of names and the pressing urgency to revisit, reimagine and possibly revise them. Moreover, Bulawayo’s nom de plume incarnates the onomastic investigation that is offered by her novel. Born Elizabeth Zandile Tshele, her pen name is derived from her mother Violet, who died when the writer was barely two years old. The ‘No’ that prefixes the name Violet can mean different things, depending on the language that one decides to pronounce it in. When pronounced in English, ‘No’ means ‘without’ and indicates the profound reminiscence that the writer has towards her mother Violet whom she never really had a chance to know. In the vernacular isiNdebele, ‘No’ can have two meanings. Firstly, the ‘No’ can simply mean ‘with’. Secondly, the prefix ‘No’ is used commonly with female names and can be directly translated as ‘mother of…’. For example, the name Nothando would be translated into English as ‘mother of love’. The name NoViolet could thus be translated as ‘without Violet’ or ‘mother of Violet’. As with the English translation of ‘No’, the isiNdebele translations also point to the deep connection with the departed mother. The ‘surname’ Bulawayo which she adopts is certainly an incarnation of her attachment to the second largest city of Zimbabwe. Writing from and based in the United States of America, the surname ‘Bulawayo’ reflects the abstruse affection with which she remembers and dearly holds onto her hometown, and metaphorically to her roots and traditional family values. In an interview

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with David Smith, Bulawayo explains, ‘I come from a place of colourful names and identity’s a big part of my creative process’. She goes on to develop that she ‘needed a meaningful identity that could carry the weight of whatever [she is] doing. Just being without [her] biological mother shaped the person [she is], the way [she] see[s] the world’ (2013). She further explains in a different interview with Magwood that ‘For me it was about forging a sense of completeness, of finding some peace where my mother was concerned. With Bulawayo I was again forging some peace with the place I left behind. I feel that Bulawayo now is a portable part of me wherever I am’ (2013). The novels of the three writers reflect the striking diversity of human experiences in Zimbabwe as from the year 2000. Not only do they depict the myriad problems and shortcomings that bedevilled this southern African country, they also portray the resilience, unfaltering hope and steadfastness of the ordinary people. What is distinctly fascinating is that the narratives of the three writers describe the human condition in post2000 Zimbabwe by using often minority and marginalised perspectives. For instance, Eppel in his novel Absent: The English Teacher expresses the disillusionment of white Zimbabweans whose citizenship has been put to question merely because of the colour of their skin. Although suffering from the same socio-economic and political hardships as their black counterparts, white Zimbabweans have had to deal with an existential crisis because the country they had embraced and called home suddenly rejected them and considered them personae non gratae. Petina Gappah’s collection of short stories, An Elegy for Easterly, according to Muchemwa, adopts ‘a consciously feminist perspective’ (2010, p. 136) in representing the uncertainty of existence in contemporary Zimbabwe. As for NoViolet Bulawayo, her debut novel, We Need New Names expresses the often marginalised voices of children. It expresses the anguish and despair from the brutally sincere and unbiased viewpoint of Darling, a young child whose family home is destroyed by the government forcing her and her family to move to a shanty town ironically named Paradise. In spite of the differences in the backgrounds of these authors, their literary output draws material from the instability of life in Zimbabwe during the recent postcolonial period. Their texts maintain a delicate balance of a world on the threshold of a violent implosion and explosion. The intricate lives of the various characters that inhabit their literary works, as well as the critical themes that they treat, echo the state of postcolonial life in Zimbabwe. The stories depict the distressed and hopeless lives and actions brought about by economic privation and a

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highly polarised political environment. However, behind this misery, human willpower and resilience are also to be found. Before delving into the analysis of the novels of the three authors, it is worth noting – in the guise of theoretically underpinning this study – that literary onomastics is a field of scholarship that has been shrouded in controversy. Questions have been asked as to whether names in literary texts can be analysed in the same way as non-literary names. Nicolaisen contends that the crucial problem that ‘underlies most perceptions of literary onomastics in the past and current name scholarships [involves] the severe division into the literary and non-literary’ (2005, p. 36). Nicolaisen’s reasoning is that there should be no distinct separation of literary and non-literary naming practices, even though they might require different analytical techniques and methods, because the two are intricately related and often overlap. Drawing on Nicolaisen’s (2005) reflections, it is herein argued that there has to be a shift from viewing literary texts as autonomous entities that are in no way affected by or related to extra-textual phenomena. There is, thus, a need for a more encompassing approach to examining names and naming practices from a literary point of view because they cannot be regarded in isolation given that they are connected to other literary and non-literary phenomena, devices and techniques. Furthermore, literary onomastics cannot divorce itself from other closely related fields and Ashley aptly identifies that ‘to study names, we have to connect linguistics and literature to psychology and sociology, to geography and history’ (2003, p. 15). This diversity of interrelated domains of critical analysis reflects, as argued by James Butler, ‘the extent to which literary onomastics is a tricky amalgamation between the two distinctive lines of study – the form itself, and the semantic detailing implied in the form’ (2013, p. 3). Two overarching premises are made in this endeavour to put into perspective names and naming practices in the novels of Eppel, Gappah and Bulawayo. In the first instance, it is affirmed that names are vital symbolic referents which are endowed with embedded associations and multi-layered meanings and significations. Secondly, it is claimed that names and naming practices cannot necessarily be detached from other intra-textual and literary devices such as thematics, characterisation and plot development. The present study will thus attempt to surpass the perfunctory ‘linguistic view of a name as a meaningless lexical referent’ (Butler, 2013, p. 8). By bringing into conversation the two above-

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mentioned hypotheses, a critical and holistic consideration of the poetics of names in the novels of Eppel, Gappah and Bulawayo will be offered. One element that Eppel, Gappah and Bulawayo have in common is the manner in which they give their characters a ‘speaking name’ (Wamitila, 1999, p. 35). According to Wamitila, ‘speaking names’ are names that ‘artistically achieve a number of goals like encoding a central trait in a particular character’s signification, embracing crucial thematic motifs, ideological toning as well as even showing the particular writer’s point of view’ (p. 35). In his novel Absent: The English Teacher, Eppel effectively uses this technique of giving his characters ‘speaking names’. The novel recounts the struggles of George J. George, a teacher of English who is expelled from his job. He is expelled because he allows a student to erect a copper plaque of the pre-independence Prime Minister, Ian Smith, on the wall of his classroom during an official visit to the school by the ‘Deputy Secretary of Education and Urban (sic) Beauty Pageants’ (p. 1). He is subsequently arrested for colliding into the ‘brand new, custom-built Mercedes Benz’ (p. 27) of the mistress of the ‘Minister of Child Welfare, Sweets and Biscuits, Comrade Pontius Gonzo’ (p. 27). He is provisionally released from prison after assisting the police chief inspector with a university assignment on Shakespeare’s Hamlet. George’s worries are exacerbated when, after an out-of-court settlement, his house is taken by the aforementioned Minister’s mistress, and he is forced into the servant’s quarters. George becomes the servant of the mistress, Beauticious Nyamayakanuna, and in return, she ‘would pay him the minimum wage and supply him with 5 kilograms of mealie meal per month, and five leaves of spinach or rape per day, depending on availability. She would also hire him out to friends and acquaintances as a driver, at private functions like weddings, funerals and birthdays’ (p. 29). It is a fate that George accepts without much of a fight because in the reasoning of the narrator: ‘time heals as it destroys, and habit, time’s cicatrice, had inured George to the shame of his new role’ (p. 46). In the introduction to Absent: The English Teacher, Muchemwa (2009, p. x) points out that: Eppel’s ‘ingenious use of names provides condensed exposés of characteristics that we at once recognise and find ridiculous: Mrs d’Artagnan-Mararike; Minister of Child Welfare, Sweets and Biscuits, comrade Pontius Gonzo; Mrs Beaticious Nyamayakanuna; the twins Helter and Skelter; and a schoolgirl named City Lights. He plays with names to convey psychological and moral attributes.

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Possessions are assumed as accessories of personality, markers of ethical and aesthetic positions.. It can be remarked that Eppel’s onomastic practices work in tandem with his exceptional handling of irony and comedy in caricaturing socio-political ills. The names that Eppel gives his characters, particularly the high-ranking civil servants, fit into the intra-textual ‘games’ that he plays with language, technique and structure in the novel. Muchemwa (2009, p. xv) reiterates that the ‘text veers between Dambudzo Marechera in its concern with technique and Ngugi waThiongo in its fierce engagement with the political.’. It is evident that Eppel engages brazenly with politics through the names and titles that he gives. Names and titles such as ‘Deputy Secretary of Education and Urban Beauty Pageants’ or Comrade Pontius Gonzo, who is ‘Minister of Child Welfare, Sweets and Biscuits’, satirise the characters bearing the names. These members of Zimbabwe’s nouveau riche are mocked by the narrator, not just for their excesses but also for their failure to efficaciously execute their mandates as public servants. The titles of these characters are often comprised of two diametrically opposed parts. The first of these parts (Deputy Secretary of Education/Minister of Child Welfare) expresses what is expected of the characters. The second part, ‘Sweets and Biscuits’, recurrently farcical and ludicrous, serves to satirise the minister’s ineptitudes. By juxtaposing these two paradoxical parts, Eppel deconstructs the ineptness of the characters of the highranking civil servants who seem to relish life whilst the majority suffer in deplorable and forlorn situations. This consideration of Eppel’s onomastic practice exposes that there is an undoubted close relationship with his overarching satirical flair. The names in his novel are effectively employed as tools of satire for socio-political purposes. In an interview with Shaw, he alludes to his use of satire and explains that it allows him to interrogate the status quo: I sit in the relative security of my home and tap out words. But I do have conviction – that I should treat people the way I would like to be treated, that I should not turn a blind eye to the wickedness of those who have too much power, that I should value the future on a timescale longer than my own (2012, p. 108).

In Absent: The English Teacher, the naming practices present themselves as pivotal features in Eppel’s satirical technique, which allows him to ridicule the post-independent Zimbabwean state in which an authoritarian regime thrives ‘on monopolising and policing the public (and especially

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the expressive) sphere in which self-serving state grand narratives are mythologised as the absolute, brute truth’ (Nyambi & Mazuru, 2012, p. 635). The naming of literary characters is also as delectably intriguing in Bulawayo’s We Need New Names, in which she presents (in addition to ‘speaking names’) diactinic names that carry with them certain attributes and characteristics of the named person or place. An example from the novel is the character named ‘Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro’ whose name is rife with contradictions when one considers his actions. Whilst the character purports to be the holder and purveyor of revelations, the name ‘Bitchington Mborro’ penetratingly contradicts the premise that this man could be as hallowed as his sacred vocation requires him to be. ‘Bichington’ tactfully camouflages the word ‘bitch’ whilst ‘Mborro’, although orthographically different, undoubtedly sounds like the colloquial word that is used to refer to the male sexual organ in Zimbabwe’s Shona language. In one instance, the narrator describes a scene where the prophet prays for a woman who is said to be possessed by demons: Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro prays for the woman like that, pinning her down and calling to Jesus and screaming Bible verses. He places his hands on her stomach, on her thighs, then he puts his hands on her thing and starts rubbing it and praying hard for it, like there’s something wrong with it. His face is alight, glowing. The pretty woman just looks like a rag now, the prettiness gone, her strength gone (p. 30)

This scene interrogates the godliness and uprightness of this prophet and his conduct. One is left to wonder as to why he inserts his hands into the private parts of the ‘demon-possessed’ woman whilst praying for her. The name ‘Prophet Revelations Bitchington Mborro’ points to the main enigma that is presented in Bulawayo’s novel in that, while names are used as essential elements in the creation of meaning, her manipulation of names ‘as pointers, indicators or shadows, is premised on the basis that – like personalities or psychologies – they can never be representative of the whole, but can only be units of a greater whole’ (Mhlambi, 2007, p. 129). The names thus have to be viewed in the greater picture of the internal structure and functioning of the novel in its attempt to deconstruct the tumultuous post-independence condition, not just in Zimbabwe but in other African countries as well. What is also interesting in the manner in which the three writers handle naming practices is how names come with various strata of meanings and possible interpretations. For example, ‘At the sound of the last post’, the

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first story in Petina Gappah’s An Elegy to Easterly, shows how names are important in the literary universe she creates. This story recounts the burial of a former government minister. Told by the wife of the deceased, the story satirises state burials which are nothing more than an ad nauseum litany and recycling of speeches, protocols and decorum. The narrator is intrigued by the names that her late husband had given to their children. She quotes her departed husband who had once said, ‘I named the first child Rwauya, meaning “death has come”, and the second Muchagura to mean “you shall repent”, and the last Muchakundwa, “you shall be defeated”. They are messages for the white oppressors, warnings signs to the white man’ (p. 11). For the late minister, giving such ominously ‘meaningful’ names was a political statement directed at the former white colonisers. The narrator notes in this respect that: Thus had he stamped his patriotism on his children before leaving them with names that could mean nothing to the intended recipient of the messages, to the white man who chose to live in ignorance of native tongues. The white man has been conquered now, twice over, first in the matter of government, and now in the matter of land that had been repossessed, but the children remain with their ominous names (p. 11).

If it is argued in line with the narrator’s rationale, then the names of the children are transformed into maladroit archives of the father’s defiance of the former white colonisers. If this is so, then it is rather ironic, as remarked by the narrator, that even though the names might have been pertinent at one particular time, their significance is locked away in that past chronotope. In the chronotope of the present, the children of the minister simply carry names that hold no real meaning to them. It is, however, possible to confer a new importance to these names. Rwauya, Muchagura and Muchakundwa can be used effortlessly in reference to the post-independence government of Zimbabwe, which in the short story is personified by the character of the first lady, ‘Her Amazing Gracefulness, Our First Lady of the Hats’ (p. 15). Like Beauticious in Eppel’s Absent: The English Teacher, the first lady who ‘wore hats of flying-saucer dimensions while cows sacrificed their lives so that she could wear pair upon pair of Ferragamo shoes’ (p. 17) is a symbol of the lavish flamboyancy of the postcolonial government. The exuberant tastes and styles of the first lady contrast the impecunious existence led by the ordinary citizens. It is also interesting that names that the late minister gives to his children contrast his behaviour during his lifetime. Although the names were directed at the white men, they could also be fixed on the minister who, after independence, suffers the excesses of power clouding

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his judgements and, like the Minister of Child Welfare, Sweets and Biscuits in John Eppel’s novel, is more concerned with sex than the welfare of those whom he had been elected to lead. Gappah’s narrator notes, albeit ironically, that: Like the worthless dogs that are his countrymen, my husband believed that his penis was wasted if it was faithful to just one woman. He plunged himself into every bitch on heat, even that slut of a news-reader, […] who lends the services of her vacuous beauty to their nightly distortions (p. 11).

The names of the minister’s children thus cease to be mere forms of appellation in that they become the locus of more profound introspection and consideration of numerous other pertinent questions. Eppel achieves a similar effect through his use of descriptive names, particularly of the character’s personality. An imperishable example from the novel would be Beauticious Nyamayakanuna whose name and surname embody her character and intimate attributes. The omniscient narrator in one scene describes her in such a manner: Beauticious was just one of the Minister’s numerous mistresses. He kept a lady in all the major towns of Zimbabwe, set up in what is quaintly known as small houses. His big house, a mansion on several sprawling acres of prime land in Harare’s Borrowdale suburb, was occupied by his wife and his seven legitimate children. The Minister, like all men of great power in Africa (and the world for that matter) had broadcast his seed far and wide (p. 46).

The somewhat positively resonating name Beauticious does not curiously exude in the character any real beauty as might be suggested by the name. The name does, however, evince a duplicitous yet observable critique of the character’s taste and love of pageantry and flamboyancy. There is, in fact, nothing ostensibly beautiful about the Minister’s mistress except her almost morbid fascination with outward appearances and the desire for upward mobility at whatever cost. 2 This idea ties in well with Susan Bean’s assertion that proper names have a direct connection with 2

Nonetheless, one should not lose sight of Beauticious’ ‘edibility’ given that her characterisation is mainly as a consuming and eating being. Her life seems to centre on eating and reckless spending of money. The name Beauticious is thus important as it reflects the inexpressible fascination with the artificial and superficial. This trope of greedy gluttonous eating, nauseating consumption and lavish spending is pivotal in weaving the novel’s satirical impact which has been previously discussed.

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characterising the bearer of a particular name because according to her ‘while both proper names and definite descriptions identify individuals, the indexical character of proper names, that is their connection to their bearers, makes proper names not simply descriptive of the individuality of their bearers, but constitutive of it as well’ (1980, p. 308). Bean goes on to contend that a ‘proper name is part of the individual identity of its bearer […]. (It may be because of this pragmatic linguistic fact that in so many societies personal names are considered to be part of the self or soul and naming constitutive of social persona)’ (Ibid). In the case of Beauticious, her names certainly cannot be separated from her personality, which is summated through her extreme love for artifice and pageantry. We Need New Names also makes use of this technique in which names convey the personality of the literary character(s), although in a slightly different manner. One interesting example of this technique is in the way that Bulawayo names places. The main characters in the first half of the novel all live in Paradise, a shanty town that develops after the authorities bulldoze houses in urban areas. The narrator, like other characters, is traumatised by this violent destruction of houses which leaves many homeless. She explains: Even if I want to sleep I cannot because if I sleep, the dream will come, and I don’t want it to come. I am afraid of the bulldozers and those men and the police, afraid that if I let the dream come, they will get out of it and become real. I dream about what happened back at our house before we came to Paradise. I try to push it away and push it away but the dream keeps coming and coming like bees, like bees, like rain, like the graves at Heavenway (p. 45).

The misery that abounds in this shanty town contrasts its name. The inhabitants are reduced to scoundrels who have to scavenge in order to survive. The children, who surprisingly all no longer go to school, spend their days stealing fruit from neighbouring suburbs. Life in Paradise is directly contrasted with the posh suburb called Budapest. Like the capital of Hungary, Budapest is a place which the children can only dream of. Darling explains that ‘this place is not like Paradise, it’s like being in a different country altogether. A nice country where people who are not like us live. But then you don’t see anything to show there are real people living here, even the air itself is empty: no delicious food cooking, no odours, no sounds. Just nothing’ (p. 8). The writer’s choice of names of the different places portrayed in the novel reflects an impeccable insightfulness in evoking, through the names, self-reflexive descriptions that question the prevailing realities. Ironically, naming a slum ‘Paradise’

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queries the underlying causes of the mass displacement of people by the government, which leaves many homeless. The candid narrator describes how their home is destroyed, forcing her family and herself to move to Paradise: When the bulldozers finally leave, everything is broken, everything is smashed, everything is wrecked. It is sad faces everywhere, choking dust everywhere, broken walls and bricks everywhere, tears on people’s faces everywhere. Gayigusu kicks broken bricks with his bare feet and rips his shirt off and jabs at the terrible scar running across his back and bellows, I got this from the liberation war, salilweli lizwe leli […] we put them in power, and today they turn on us like a snake, mpthu, and he spits (p. 47).

The name ‘Paradise’ is thus embedded with a harsh criticism of what has led the people who live in it to be in such a precariously miserable situation. A character named Gayigusu laments how after fighting for the independence of the country, they are literally turned into homeless paupers. However, what is further fascinating about the manner in which Bulawayo names places is that she does not refer to any real places that exist in contemporary Zimbabwe. She aptly uses vivid descriptions of places to produce, in this novel, an alienated and nuanced narrative of the inhabited places as well as the subjectivities of the inhabitants of these spaces. This onomastic strategy should not be considered as a form of escapism or an attempt to create a fictive world that is not in any way related to the ‘real world’ but rather as a distinctive pathos representing a creative form of resistance and subversion of the portrayed world. By avoiding the use of names that would obviously identify the places that she describes in the novel, Bulawayo delineates, through a process of exclusion and negation, an arduous yet inventively dexterous strategy that circumlocutes the rigid demands of naming places in relation to practices of everyday life. Moreover, instead of being concerned with giving names of real places, Bulawayo seems to be more interested in creating a sense of place and local colour which captures the unpredictable and whimsical processes that prevail in the real world. Through such an adept avoidance of using names of places that exist in the real world, the writer gives her narrative an ahistorical atmosphere and setting which, in a way, transcends the restrictions of both space and time. One other fascinating point in relation to Bualwayo’s naming strategies is certainly her delicate blending of the comic and the ironic in names. From the very first line of We Need New Names, the writer offers a dramatis personae that is not simply an archive of vibrant descriptions but also one of fascinating proper names. Names such as ‘Bastard’, ‘Stina’ and ‘Godknows’

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that are introduced at the very outset of the novel are not only comically expressive but also ironic given that the children that are described in the opening scene find themselves in abject and deplorable poverty. Their funny names directly contrast their gloomy condition which has reduced them to mongrels that spend their days looking for guavas ‘because it’s the only way to kill [their] hunger’ (p. 16). Bulawayo multiplies this technique of giving descriptive names to her literary characters. In one typical scene, she describes the different people that she and her mother meet as they make their way to a church meeting: I keep my mouth shut like I’m supposed to while Mother of Bones shouts greetings to the people we see on the way; Bornfree’s mother, MaDube, who is pounding nails on the roof of her shack with a rock; naBetina holding her squatting grandson Nomoreproblems; Mai Tonde sitting on a stool and peering inside her screaming baby’s ear; NaMgcobha dictating a letter to a tall boy I’ve never seen before (p. 21).

In this instance again, the names of the different characters are used to ridicule the prevailing situation in which the personae find themselves. Inhabiting a slum where ‘God does not live’ (p. 16), it is exceedingly ironic that some of the literary characters can have names such as Bornfree and Nomoreproblems. Bulawayo’s use of palpably ironic and comical names, either of places or of human characters, allows her to debunk and unpack the multilayered contradictions and intricacies of the human condition. In a perceptibly post-independent African context, Bulawayo’s naming practices are innovative because names are inadvertently transformed into the locus of self-introspection and self-reflection for contemporary African societies. The title of the novel, ‘We Need New Names’ is important in this respect because it suggests that there is an imperative urgency to adopt novel names and naming practices. As if questioning current names and naming practices, the title of Bulawayo’s novel implies that a change and adoption of new names ‘is reflective of a contemporaneity where new values and lifestyles have shaped modern values […], and how these values are continually evolving and therefore requiring continuous reinscription’ (Mhlambi, 2007, p. 129). As she says in an interview with Magwood, ‘we need new ways of looking at ourselves, new ways of imagining our realities, our destinies. We need new leaders. We have to revamp the system and in a way revamp the self’ (2013). Petina Gappah also makes use of names to question the status quo. In the short story, ‘An Elegy for Easterly’, Gappah describes the violation of a

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woman named Martha Mupengo. The name of this eponymous heroine, particularly the name ‘Mupengo’ that is added to her first name, is quite significant. In chiShona, ‘Mupengo’ can be loosely translated as ‘madman’ or ‘madwoman’ and this additional name given to Martha operates at different levels. To begin with, Martha’s madness is a signifier of the insanity and state of pandemonium of the postcolonial condition in Zimbabwe. The name ‘Mupengo’ together with its bearer are transformed into a performative archive that reflects the manner in which the ‘past and dreams, were lost in the foggy corners of’ (p. 30) the nation’s memory. Moreover, the so-called madness of Martha and her silence in the face of a meaningless and absurd existence is emblematic of the simple citizens in post-2000 Zimbabwe who found themselves in difficult situations that virtually paralysed them and reduced them to taciturnity and inactivity. In this short story, Martha Mupengo is brutally sexually abused by a man with a biblical name, Josephat. What further complicates Martha’s situation is that when she gives birth, her child is forcibly taken from her by Josephat’s sterile wife: ‘through a film of tears she chewed on Martha’s flesh, closing her mind to the taste of blood, she chewed and tugged on the cord until the baby was free’ (p. 46). If Martha Mupengo is taken to represent the simple citizens and the hope that they once had for their motherland, then her violent rape and cannibalistic dispossession of her newly born baby can be considered to be the portrayal of the manner in which those in power, in postcolonial Zimbabwe, literally snatch the dreams and hopes not just of the feeble but of the country itself. Through an analysis of the name ‘Mupengo’ and its associated meanings and connotations, Gappah paints a woebegone and miserable picture of the postcolonial state of being. In addition to this ingenious use of names to question various facets of the prevailing reality, perhaps one other distinctive feature of Petina Gappah’s collection of short stories is her ability to skilfully use euphemistic names to discuss serious issues. For instance, in the short story ‘The Cracked, Pink Lips of Rosie’s Bridegroom’, Gappah recounts the wedding day of the character Rosie to an obviously ill groom. The groom is not named at all and the only thing that is said about him is that he has cracked pink lips. Although not openly stated, this story is definitely about AIDS and the manner in which the groom is not named goes in tandem with the euphemistic tone that is adopted concerning the disease. In one scene, the omniscient narrator states:

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Can Rosie see what they see, they wonder, that her newly made husband’s sickness screams out its presence from every pore? Disease flourishes in the slipperiness of his tufted hair; it is alive in the darkening skin, in the whites of the eyes than nature intended, in the violently pink-red lips, the blood beneath fighting to erupt through the broken skin (p. 199).

Everyone except Rosie seems to be aware of the palpable sickness of the bridegroom. The impression given by the narrator is that Rosie has been completely blinded by the unnamed bridegroom’s wealth and ‘silver Toyota Camry’. Far from being a chronic illness, AIDS, the unutterable disease, is closely related to the naming (or lack of) of the principal characters. This failure to name both the disease and the character amplifies the dramatic irony and the theme of decomposition, not just of the human body but of the moral fabric of the postcolonial nation. The euphemistic tone of the short story in talking about AIDS and the failure to name one of the principal characters gives this naming practice an agency that deconstructs the prevailing reality through unequivocal articulation and incessant accumulation of detail. Through this technique, Gappah shows that at times it is possible to conceptualise and understand reality and diverse phenomena without having to expressly use names. The handling of names and naming practices in the novels of John Eppel, Petina Gappah and NoViolet Bulawayo is significant for the manner in which the names become the locus through which it is possible to glimpse the reality that prevails in postcolonial Zimbabwe, particularly after the year 2000. In such a manner, the names in these novels possess, in spite of themselves, ‘an illocutionary force’, which according to Maria Pia Lara (1998, p. 4) has ‘disclosive’ potentialities that can help to ‘contest and restructure conceptions of subjectivity [and] notions of morality’. Names frame themselves within novels in way that they ‘create new forms of power, configuring new ways to fight back against past and present injustices, thus making institutional transformations possible’ (Lara, 1998, p. 5). As encapsulated in Bulawayo’s novel title, there is an imperative need to think of renewing names so as to make it possible to reformulate ‘values, beliefs, self-images, boundaries and frontiers’ (Ibid, p. 5). As expounded by Lara, ‘it is in this scenario of contested meanings that the cultural contents appear as a frame for struggles of recognition and transformation (p. 7). Names in literary texts thus play a central part in bringing to the fore divergent issues that are of contemporary concern. By bringing the novels of Eppel, Gappah and Bulawayo into the conversation, it has been possible to examine the centrality and importance

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of names in achieving several objectives. It is unquestionable that the onomastic landscape plays a pivotal role in characterising the dramatis personae that is presented by the three writers. Moreover, names cannot be studied as independent phenomena but have to be understood in relation to other textual systems and devices. As such, any analysis of names and naming practices should strive to capture not just the semantic significance of names but also examine how they are related (or not) to other elements of the text. Once the reader is perceptive of names and naming practices, then the literary narratives take on a more integrated and comprehensive meaning. The force of names and naming practices in literary works is located in their embedded symbolic potential as well as the discourse that is created by this symbolic potential. Above showing an extraordinary handling of language and storytelling, the novels of the three writers discussed above also reveal how names within literary texts can be related to and involved in discussing issues that are of contemporary relevance. What is important to note in conclusion is that the novel critical and theoretical approaches that are proffered in this chapter attempt to locate themselves within existing scholarship on Zimbabwean literature. The onomastic approach that has been herein elaborated should thus be viewed as complementing previous reading strategies in getting the best out of the texts.

References Ashley, L.R.N. (2003). Names in Literature. Bloomington: Authorhouse. —. (2011). Names in Literature for Writers in India. Points of View, 18(1), pp. 10–23. Bean, S.S. (1980). Ethnology and the Study of Proper Names. Anthropological Linguistics, 22(7), pp. 305–316. Bulawayo, N. (2013). We Need New Names. London: Chatto & Windus. Chitando, E. (2001). Signs and Portents? Theophoric Names in Zimbabwe. Word & World, 21(2), pp. 144–151. Denny, F.M. (1987).Names and Naming. In M. Eliade (Ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. New York: Macmillan. Eppel, J. (2009). Absent: The English Teacher. Harare: Weaver Press. Funk, R. & Kolln, M. (1998). Introduction. In E. W. Ludlow (Ed.),Understanding English grammar (pp. 1-2). Needham, MA: Allyn and Bacon. Gappah, P. (2009). An Elegy for Easterly. London: Faber and Faber. Lara, M.P. (1998). Moral Textures: Feminist Narratives in the Public Sphere. Oxford: Polity Press.

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Magwood, M. (2013, September 17). An émigré’s sense of longing and dislocation. The Sunday Times. [Online] Available from http://bookslive.co.za/blog/2013/09/17/an-%C3%A9migr%C3%A9ssense-of-longing-and-dislocation-noviolet-bulawayo-on-beingshortlisted-for-the-man-booker. [Accessed: 23 September 2013]. Mashiri, P. (1999). Terms of address in Shona: A sociolinguistic approach. Zambezia, 16, pp. 93–110. Mhlambi, I.J. (2007). Acts of naming: the detective plot in Masondo’s fiction. South African Journal of African Languages, 27(3), pp. 128– 141. Muchemwa, K.Z. (2009). Introduction. In J. Eppel, Absent: The English Teacher. Harare: Weaver Press. Muchemwa, K.Z. (2010). Old and New Fictions: Rearranging the Geographies of Urban Space and Identities in Post-2006 Zimbabwean Fiction. English Academy Review: Southern African Journal of English Studies, 27(2), pp. 134–145. Muchemwa, K.Z. (2011). Polarising cultures, politics and communities and fracturing economies in Zimbabwean literature. Social Dynamics: A Journal of African Studies, 37(3), pp. 394–408 Murray, J. (2011). ‘Africa has erred in its memory’: Exploring continuities and discontinuities in texts by Petina Gappah and Yvonne Vera. English Studies in Africa, 54(2), pp. 154–170. Nicolaisen, W.F.H. (2005). On Names in Literature. Nomina Africana, 31, pp. 89–98. Nyambi, O. (2011). Some notes on ways to read Zimbabwean literature of the ‘crisis’. Postamble: Multidisciplinary Journal of African Studies, 7(1), pp. 1–12. Nyambi, O. & Mazuru, M. (2012). Deconstructing Political Dictatorship: Reimagining Forms of Governance in Selected Zimbabwean Short Stories. European Journal of Humanities and Social Sciences, 13(1), pp. 635–648. Pfukwa, C. (1998). Their own godparents. The Zimbabwean Review, 4(3), pp. 28–30. Primorac, R. (2010): Southern States: New Literature From and About Southern Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies, 36(1), pp. 247– 253. Shaw, D. (2012). Narrating the Zimbabwean nation: a conversation with John Eppel. Scrutiny2: Issues in English Studies in Southern Africa, 17(1), pp. 100–111.

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Smith, D. (2013, September 4). NoViolet Bulawayo tells of heartbreak of homecoming in Mugabe’s Zimbabwe. The Guardian. [Online] Available from http://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/sep/04/noviolet-bulawayohomecoming-mugabe-zimbabwe [Accessed: 5 September 2013]. Veit-Wild, F. (1993). Teachers, preachers, non-believers: A social history of Zimbabwean literature. Harare: Baobab Books. Wamitila, K.W. (1999). What’s in a name: Towards literary onomastics in Kiswahili literature. Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere, 60. pp. 35–44.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE ONOMA OF THE ANGOLAN REVOLUTION: A LITERARY ONOMASTIC READING OF MAYOMBE AMOS MUSHATI

Introduction Pepetela’s novel, Mayombe (1983) deploys character, place and other names to explore the Angolan revolution and demonstrates that naming galvanises the revolution. The novel, written during the Angolan liberation war, focuses on an isolated guerrilla unit that is waging an armed struggle to overthrow Portuguese colonialism. Nationalist forces have dared the colonialist regime by setting-up base inside Angola, deep in the impenetrable Mayombe forest that simultaneously protects them from the enemy whilst isolating them from the local population that should normally provide logistical support. In addition to the military confrontation, the guerrillas must contend with Portuguese propaganda, intra-tribal conflicts, inadequate war supplies and discord between the movement’s military and political arms. Angolans are waging an antiimperialist socialist revolution inspired by Marxist-Leninist ideas that entail harnessing the human capital represented by workers, students and peasants for a violent destruction of the prevailing capitalist oriented colonial racial inequalities, exploitation and injustices and, thereafter, creating a future fundamentally different from the present. The novel is representative of the emergent southern African liberation war genre that is inspired by, and interrogates, the course and causes of the African revolutions, especially in Angola and Zimbabwe. Mayombe, like Chinodya’a Harvest of Thorns (1989) and Kanengoni’s Echoing Silences (1997), is about the violent liberation struggle, depicting vivid images of fighters and plucking cinematic scenes from the war episodes, characteristically giving pre-eminence to the agency of the oppressed in

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the revolutionary effort to completely overhaul the exploitative capitalist relations and replace them with socialism. The adoption of new identities (nom de guerre) and related naming practices during the war favours a literary onomastic interrogation (a holistic study of selected character, place and other names) of Mayombe because, according to Pfukwa (2007), each war name is ‘a text with a long story about the war which was a movement that sought to overhaul a political system that disadvantaged the majority of the population’ (p. 9). This approach further sheds light on related war novels where wartime names are deployed to bolster the representation of the revolutions, showing different methods to inculcate a revolutionary consciousness in the participants. Names are literary devices used to forge meaning, explain and promote the spread of the struggle, inculcate a revolutionary spirit, denounce the colonialists, mobilise support from all sections of the African population and articulate a programme of action for an independent Angola. As observed by Dalen-Oskam (2005, p. 184), ‘Names should not be studied in isolation. A name is only striking if it is considered within the landscape of names used in the text or a group of texts that is being studied, that is, in the ‘onymic landscape’. Individually and collectively, the names in Mayombe exhibit the revolution’s ideological persuasions, mirror the novel’s thematic thrusts and show that Pepetela appropriates specific names that were in common usage during the struggle to capture the revolutionary mood and enhance the narrative’s impact. The utilitarian value of names arises, as observed by Fliedl (2007, p. 160), from ‘their relations to the status quo (which) may be affirmative, descriptive, or satirical and critical’ as the guerrillas tended to adopt names that were packed with meaning, whether in indigenous or European languages. Selected names, translated from Portuguese to English, will be analysed under the following clusters: nom de guerre, proper names, ethnonyms, pseudonyms, toponyms and other names showing their contextual meanings acquired in the revolution. Important as they are, indigenous names will not be subjected to a linguistic inquiry as this writer is not literate in any Angolan indigenous language; however, it is imperative to note and explain the apparent minority status of indigenous names against Portuguese ones. Within the multi-ethnic guerrilla ranks, adoption of an indigenous nom de guerre is actively resisted due to tribal suspicions. In the naming ceremonies for newly arrived recruits, linguistic and ethnic differences are played out, as when Ekuikui is rebuked for suggesting the name Mukonka, Kimbundu for cobra, as it is deemed to be seeking to foster a Kimbundu identity on VW, who is Kikongo. He is directed to give him a neutral Portuguese name. The decision to settle for the nickname

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VW, which has Western roots, is informed by the belief that Western languages are neutral and prevent the ascendency of one particular tribe over others. Ironically, promoting the adoption of names from across the tribal divide, given its potential to break tribalism, is denounced as Kimbundu imperialism. Language, as a carrier of culture, makes naming in a multi-ethnic setup a contested terrain as it mirrors the simmering tribal hostilities. The limited use of indigenous names arises from the perceived dangers of fanning ethnocentric affiliations that would identify individual guerrillas with particular tribal groups, which would be in conflict with the inclusive and national character of the revolution. Whilst language may invoke group solidarity in instances where speakers are in the minority, it may fracture the cohesion of a multi-ethnic movement. Ethnic rivalries reveal the underlying contradictions of the nation that is characterised by Anderson (2006) as ‘an imagined community’ constituted of selfdestructive conflicting interests. The above scenario reveals that the legacy of the negation of African languages by the colonialists through assimilation policies is being transferred, unwittingly, to the struggle. Most names are in Portuguese, presumably because of its economic and political pull that gives it ascendency over African languages. Sidelining indigenous languages is justified as an ideological imperative to ensure that all human resources are mobilised and focused on prosecuting the struggle. This widespread use of Portuguese is self-contradictory in that it elevates the coloniser’s language to the status of a practical revolutionary language that articulates the revolution and unites Africans. Hamilton (1991, p. 316) contends that ‘Because Portuguese cut across indigenous ethnolinguistic boundaries; it inevitably became the language of broad-based political indoctrination and popular mobilization’. The coloniser’s language is being exploited to further the revolution. Assimilation alienates Africans and forces them to converse even amongst themselves in Portuguese. This scenario reflects the African writer’s obligation to simultaneously communicate with a dual audience comprising the coloniser and colonised. Struggle is compelled to use Portuguese to converse with his Fiote compatriots as his Comrades suspect that he may betray them through the linguistic divide. Viewing indigenous languages as a threat to the revolution is a contradiction that must be resolved to disabuse Africans of self-denial. Ethnocentrism competes with the national revolution and influences the naming process.

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The Naming Process Understanding the dynamics of the naming process is critical to fully comprehending the revolutionary functions and implications of Mayombe’s nom de guerre and toponyms. It marks a revolutionalisation of society and reflects an emergent culture of participatory democracy whereby all guerrillas present participate in the naming ceremony. The naming of new recruits is a rite of passage that depersonalises the individual, marking his induction and acceptance into the guerrilla community. After VW’s Christening, Fearless welcomes him to the group thus, ‘Good, VW, you are one of us’ (p. 45). However, the process also devoices the recruits since VW and company are treated as objects to be named with no individual power to name themselves as this authority has been ceded to the revolution. The renaming of Fearless, notwithstanding the fact that he prefers the name Sphinx, highlights this subordination of individual power in the naming process and reflects the ever-present need to continuously reimagine the struggle and foster new identities commensurate with demands at various phases of the struggle. According to Fliedl (2007:1 p. 61), ‘Naming is an act of collective’, which suggests that in the context of the struggle it serves as a communal record. It is steeped in a communal culture that promotes participatory democracy and offers the fighters an opportunity to negotiate their group relations. This culture is replicated in many other instances when the assembled guerrillas participate in decision-making that shapes the course of the struggle.

MPLA The revolution is being waged under the auspices of the People’s Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA), a name that doubles as a statement of the broad-based politico-military nature of the organisation whilst foregrounding people’s agency in history. Ngugi (1993:61) emphasises the pre-eminence of people’s agency by characterising this revolutionary period as: ‘The decade of tremendous anti-imperialist and anti-colonial revolutionary upheavals occasioned by the forcible intervention of the masses in history. It was a decade of hope, the people looking forward to a bright morrow in a new Africa finally freed from colonialism’. Whilst echoing the need to harness all available national human resources for the prosecution of the liberation struggle, the name articulates the anti-imperialist goal of the movement and assures the certainty of victory. Its popular national character is evident in the participants’ diverse linguistic, ethnic, intellectual and socio-economic

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backgrounds. Amongst the guerrillas are Kikongos, Kimbundus, Umbundus or Mulattos. Others, such as Muatianvua, are drawn from the working class; Struggle, Miracle and the Stores Chief are peasants, whereas Fearless, New World, Theory and the Commissar are intellectuals. The struggle unites people around the MPLA and dismantles class and ethnic barriers to facilitate the cooperation of the masses in the national liberation project. Their diverse backgrounds demonstrate a unity of purpose but also ferment the ground for inter-ethnic or class conflicts that may retard the Angolan anti-imperialist struggle. The national character of the revolution is reflected in the organisation’s name.

Renaming Landmarks Colonialism alienated Africans from the land by making them work on it for the coloniser’s benefit. The revolution entails reclamation of this natural heritage through the revolutionalisation of the environment that encompasses forests, mountains, rivers and streams to ensure that the revolution’s influence is extended to, and felt in, every sphere of human life. This transformative character of the revolution is captured through the naming of military bases like Mayombe and Fallen Branch and natural phenomena such as mountains (Shut-Your-Mouth), rivers (Ngandu’s stream) and other landforms (Helena’s Slope and Nuno’s tree) that were associated with the war. Naming natural landforms does not arise from guerrillas’ having made new geographical discoveries but is a renaming exercise that linked certain places with the militants’ experiences, in order to keep alive memories of the struggle and create distinct metaphors of the struggle. In explaining how particular places were named, Pepetela shows the critical role naming played in creating a collective memory. Fliedl (2007, p. 168) corroborates this view when he says, ‘Fictional names can hold empirical, geographical and historical facts in poetic suspension’. Mountain names such as Shut-Your-Mouth become reservoirs of the liberation war history as it was derived from an incident that mirrors the course of the revolution and salutes the contributions of civilians: The mountain’s name had been chosen by one of the first resupply groups, when the Base was being established in the interior. It was a group of civilians. One of them, at the mountain summit, began to cry, saying that he could not go on. Another told him: ‘Shut your mouth, stop crying, who ordered you to join the revolution?’ (p. 109).

This incident captures the ruthless, physical and psychological demands of the revolution, suggesting that individuals were never coerced into joining

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and only the self-motivated joined. This is echoed by Fearless during the mission to ‘rescue the Base’, when he tells the volunteers that ‘No-one who does not want to go is not obliged to do so’ (p. 150). Pepetela counters the Portuguese presentation of the struggle as banditry by showing that participation in the war is an individual sacrifice made by conscientised individuals, like the mechanic who later volunteers to train as a guerrilla. The mountain is an intimidating, arduous and slippery twohour climb that symbolises the physical hurdles that had to be confronted in the quest to liberate Angola. Related to the physical demands of the revolution, during patrols, combat and resupply missions, the guerrillas traverse rough terrain under extremely difficult conditions. Shut-YourMouth becomes a metaphor for the difficulties that lay ahead and dissuades combatants from giving up the struggle prematurely. ‘Conquering’ the mountain reassures the combatants that even the heavily armed colonial regime would eventually be vanquished. Toponyms extend the notion of naming as communal activism that served as exclusive communication codes between guerrillas and civilian collaborators. In naming certain landmarks after ordinary civilian collaborators, Pepetela reverses the tendency to exclusively privilege the combatant role in war narratives and demands recognition of the remarkable division of labour between guerrillas and civilians during the war. Names in this cluster are war memorials that symbolically tell the story of the revolution and associate it with ‘real people’. This is evident in ‘Nuno’s tree’, a tree named after a civilian collaborator who collapsed under it and subsequently refused to proceed with the journey. It shows that the revolution was prosecuted by ordinary human beings who could also reach a breaking point, as Nuno represents committed ordinary Angolans who became overwhelmed by the revolution and abandoned it. Such characters differ from deserters like Ungrateful Tuga who are escaping legitimate punishment by the movement. ‘Helena’s slope’ represents women’s subjectivity in the struggle and dismantles the myth that women were not involved in the actual fighting. Whilst it is disappointing that there are no female combatants in Mayombe, it is, however, encouraging that Helena marks the point where women are depicted in a military context and this certainly raises their profile and visibility in the war novel, albeit as ancillary staff.

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Nom de Guerre Most guerrillas in Mayombe have assumed new names (nom de guerre) that resonate with the revolution. Nom de guerre refers to liberation war names assumed by combatants to articulate the revolution’s ideological underpinnings, reconnect with history, reclaim the nation’s cultural heritage, and protect individuals and their families from possible reprisals by the regime whilst fostering new identities that superseded the potentially divisive tribal or ethnic-based ones. This strategy was meant to promote a unity of purpose in the struggle and forge a collectivity to ensure cohesion of diverse liberation forces. With reference to the Zimbabwean liberation war, where similar naming practices were prevalent, Pongweni (1983, p. 53) notes that guerrillas ‘chose names that reflected their new political awareness and their role in the revolutionary armed struggle designed to bring about a new dispensation’. Purposeful naming has, therefore, been applied in Mayombe to promote a revolutionary perception of reality through the creation of complex identity markers in the form of character names that reinforce the novel’s thematic thrusts. Names falling under this cluster include Struggle, New World, Fearless, Theory, Kill-All, Ungrateful Tuga and Katanga.

Struggle The nom de guerre Struggle is critical to an understanding of other names in the novel since it is reflective of Mayombe’s preoccupation with the anti-imperialist struggle. It is a call to action that foregrounds the revolution and celebrates the virtues of fighting colonialism by any means necessary since independence is a product of a concerted, collective human effort against the entrenched colonial regime. The revolution marks a hegemonic contest whereby the colonialists will do everything possible to destroy the revolution and maintain the status quo as seen in the establishment of a military base, Fallen Branch, near the frontier calculated to thwart guerrilla incursions from the Congo. Pepetela justifies the violent war by linking it to African grievances against the imposition of capitalist colonial rule. The expropriation and conversion of African lands into huge coffee plantations representing capitalist interests is both a political and economic assault that destroys livelihoods and reduces Africans to a pool of cheap labour. This idea is echoed in the guerrilla Katanga whose name is a reminder of the dual extraction of African natural and human resources as experienced in the brutal Belgian exploitation of the mineral-rich Congolese province of Katanga. Africans

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did not benefit from the wealth of their lands and they could only reclaim their lands and dignity by overthrowing the colonialist system militarily. This analysis, according to Nzongola-Ntalaja, (1987, p. 3) ‘provides the exploited classes an adequate interpretation of the concrete problems facing them in order to enable them to carry out a successful revolution’. This explains the prominence of the land question in war novels like Mayombe and Hove’s Bones (1988). The writer’s depiction of the historical inevitability of the struggle draws from Marx’s contention that ‘the history of all hitherto existing societies has always been a history of class struggles’. Whilst this is a contested view, it is fairly applicable to the Angolan colonial experience which has ricocheted into a series of struggles dating from Luanda on 4 February, 1961, through the fully fledged guerrilla war. The name Struggle mirrors the difficulties and individual hurdles that the guerrillas confront simultaneously within the national liberation struggle. Similarly, the coloured guerrilla, Theory must, in addition to fighting to liberate the country, contend daily with his double-consciousness, being a product of two irreconcilable differences of Angolan society, black and white, which are presently at war. Colonialism hinged on a racist philosophy that publicly outlawed sexual relations between whites and blacks; hence, Theory feels alienated from his comrades as he believes that they resent him for being partly a product of what they are fighting against. Theory feels compelled to go the extra mile, including volunteering for dangerous missions to earn acceptance from fellow guerrillas. He expresses his entrapment in the self-accusatory statement, ‘The others can equivocate; can argue when they are picked. How could I do that, when I bear in me the original sin of a white father?’ (p. 8), which explains why he feels obliged to volunteer for dangerous military expeditions to prove his loyalty. Racism affects the liberation movement and makes an urgent call for the negotiation and resolution of identity questions during the war as Theory’s participation dispels notions of a racial war showing that it is a war against a racist system. Whilst enduring physical pain was part and parcel of the struggle to liberate the country, Theory’s falling on the slippery ground is symbolic of the treacherous terrain of the liberation struggle, which is always unpredictable and should be overcome before the colonialists can be defeated. His insistence on taking part in a dangerous military operation after suffering a knee injury, which makes his participation an undesirable impediment, also mirrors the great personal sacrifices made by the militants. Intrapersonal struggles suffered by Theory and Struggle reveal

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that individuals have their own ‘ghosts’ that need private exorcism, although these are born from the larger socio-political context of colonialism. They hinder the military effort as they almost result in nervous breakdowns, in both instances, which are only averted after the two confide in Fearless. Given this background, the name Struggle suggests hurdles to be dismantled in the violent course of liberating the country and is crucial to analysing the novel’s thematic concerns. The struggle against tribalism proves that the revolution is multi-faceted and goes beyond ridding Angola of colonialism. The anti-racist struggle is compromised by ethnocentrism and Pepetela interrogates the Ethnonymic landscape to expose and denounce the shallow-mindedness of ethnic struggles-within-a-struggle that results from the artificial chasm between the Kikongos and Kimbundus, Angola’s main ethnic groups. Most fighters still possess a village-based consciousness of tribal belonging, seeing themselves primarily as Kikongo, Kimbundu, Umbundu or Fiote. Manning (1988) dismisses the ‘tribe’ as a colonialist creation that does not denote natural difference but simply promotes division. Ethnic-based rivalries weakened Africans at the advent of colonialism and made them vulnerable to colonialist conquests, as they could not respond collectively. They were maintained as an enabling philosophy of colonialism and were promoted to divide and rule Africans. Fostering national consciousness enables fighters to transcend the drawbacks of tribal allegiance. Tribalism affects the revolution as positions in the party are acquired and maintained through an elaborate ethnic-based patronage system. Andre weakens the revolution, splashing money to buy the Kikongos’ loyalty and support in his personal power struggle, disguised as safeguarding ethnic interests. He expects the Kikongos to stand by his side in the crisis following his sex scandal with Ondine. The Kimbundus, Joao’s tribe, view the scandal as an insult to their tribe and their hostility is extended to all Kikongos, Andre’s tribe. This has the potential of reducing the revolution to a narrowly defined tribal-ethnic contest. To debunk the ethnic matrix, Pepetela uses the Commander, whose fearlessness extends beyond the battlefield, as he boldly confronts irresponsible officials like Andre, notwithstanding their kinship. It is evident that whilst prosecuting the national liberation struggle, fighters must also struggle against the disruptive influences of ethnicity. For instance, the resultant psychological torture suffered by Comrade Struggle manifests itself during the raid on the timber worksite when he absentmindedly walks onto it, whereas others instinctively stop at the sound of the buzzing machine. He is lost in thought, interrogating the possibilities of mobilising his people’s participation in the revolution though his actions are open to (mis)interpretations with some guerrillas

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suspecting that it is a deliberate ploy to warn his ‘kinsmen’, the workers. Struggle has to justify himself daily in the eyes of suspicious colleagues, such as the Operations Chief, who view him as a traitor. When VW raises a false alarm about the invasion of the Base, the Operations Chief readily concludes that Struggle, who ‘went out after game’ (p. 152), betrayed them. He bears the brunt of tribal stereotyping because people from Cabinda are not supportive of the struggle and are deemed traitors. This exposes the short-sightedness of the guerrillas who do not appreciate that prosecuting the revolution in Cabinda should have been preceded by the political education of the peasants, to win the battle of the minds. Pepetela captures the disharmony in the coordination of the war effort between the civilian leadership and the fighters. The guerrillas are confronted with bureaucratic inefficiency that sabotages the war. The Base is starved of essential supplies whilst still cut off from the local population forcing the militants to survive on low rations, wild fruits aka ‘commons’, fish and game meat. Besides the demoralising effects of these conditions, they represent a time bomb that could cripple the war machinery as the guerrillas’ nerves slowly inch towards breaking point with tensions always running high. Relaxing military discipline to accommodate these unfavourable conditions compromises the war effort because the focus shifts from enforcing discipline to motivating fighters to carry on with the struggle. Moreover, poorly trained and ill-equipped recruits like VW are deployed without a corresponding increase in supplies, thus making them liabilities. The practice of sending fighters to the front as punishment or a settlement of old scores negates the whole idea of participation in the revolution as being an expression of patriotism. Whilst it is essential to give equal weight to the complementary combat and non-combat responsibilities, it is obvious that for the politician Andre, the war has provided an opportunity for the monopolisation of power that would give him control over scarce resources that he uses to prop up his position. This is evident when he gives individuals money, like 500 francs given to Joao for personal use when no money could be spared to buy food for the Base. It smacks of betrayal of the starving guerrillas in the forest of Mayombe. Andre epitomises the comfort zone occupied by the leadership, which deviates their concern away from the successful execution of the war as they concentrate on enjoying their privileged positions. Revolutionaries like Fearless turn down prospects of living comfortably in Dolisie and choose to die fighting for Angola’s freedom. The struggle is multilayered and there is a need to understand the various forces at play in

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the quest for the transformation of Angola. The imperfections of the present order give birth to the guerrilla named New World.

New World and the Globalisation of the Struggle The name New World foregrounds the theme of change that drives the liberation struggle. It is an ideologically loaded, futuristic name that mirrors the ultimate aims of the revolution; that is, to destroy the exploitative capitalist system and create a new order through the transformation of the human mindset and material conditions, overthrowing the racist colonial regime and replacing it with a nationalist government which should then eradicate capitalism and instal socialism for a just and fulfilling system. Viewed in this context, the military destruction of the bulldozer is a desirable, crippling economic blow aimed at an instrument that facilitates the exploitation of both human and natural resources. What makes the name particularly relevant to the revolution is its ability to communicate the cyclic nature of the struggle. Enacting a new world calls for reconstruction after the destruction that is associated with the struggle and this explains the existence of an elaborate education system at the front and in Dolisie, aimed at capacitating Africans to manage a prosperous independent Angola and transform the various institutions that had been created to serve the narrowly defined interests of the colonisers. The name New World refers to the ultimate goal of the revolution and appears to be the convergence point for all other names in the novel as they collectively point out ways of realising this dream. Whilst condemning the present order, the name New World succeeds in globalising the anti-imperialist struggle as urged by Karl Marx (2008) who saw the success of the socialist revolution and dismantling of capitalism as lying in the ability to mobilise all oppressed forces worldwide. Closely linked to this view is a special category of names of historical figures like Marx, Lenin, Che Guevara, Mao and Henda who are mentioned (p. 50) by New World and deemed to be great thinkers-cum-activists whose theories influenced world revolutions and have also shaped Angola’s revolution. These names are not ascribed to any guerrilla in Mayombe although in some novels they are assumed by fighters. Marx (2008) is echoed in the Marxist ideology that informs the Angolan revolutionaries in their quest to supplant capitalism with a socialist mode of production. The Commissar politicises workers through a Marxist analysis of the exploitative capitalist relations, showing that changing the status quo is inevitably preceded by a violent confrontation between labour and capital. Lenin (1950, p. 143)

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considers Marxism as ‘the concrete analysis of concrete conditions’ guided by a revolutionary theory which seeks to understand the world in order to change it. It is its visible anti-capitalist streak that makes Marxism, a western ideology, appeal to Africans – especially the Westerneducated intellectuals within the guerrilla ranks. Nzongola-Ntalaja, (1987, p. 1) captures its global impact thus: If the Marxist presence in African studies today is part of the worldwide Marxist revival which followed de-Stalinization, it is basically a function of the historical development of the struggle of the African peoples against imperialist domination and exploitation.

Lenin comes into play as he is credited with modifying and marrying Marxist theories to practise in the revolution that transformed Russia to world superpower status. He is to be emulated by Angolan revolutionaries fighting colonialism. New World refers to Lenin as a model ‘unselfish’ character, but Fearless dismisses this affirmation as a debate-stifling manoeuvre – the fallacy of an appeal to authority by dragging ‘great men into the discussion, just to scare the rest and strengthen your case’ (p. 50). Inasmuch as Western political theories inform the African revolution, they should be adapted to Angola’s peculiarities. Fearless dismisses the uncritical application of General Mao’s ideas to the Angolan war. Mao’s treatise on guerrilla warfare manifests its influence on the Angolan revolution when Ungrateful Tuga steals the mechanic’s money and the Commissar demands capital punishment as directed by Mao on the ‘fishwater’ guerrilla–civilian relations. Mao is an authority on the theory and practice of guerrilla warfare, and his principles guide the Angolan guerrillas’ conduct. Pepetela is only opposing enslavement to imported ideas without appreciating the special characteristics of African contexts. The revolution marks a marriage between theory and practice which should culminate in independence. Given this situation, the name Theory becomes critical as it symbolises those ideas and beliefs that guided the revolution. As a result, the difficulties that the character, Theory experiences in fitting into the struggle machinery point to the necessity of theories in a revolution and the difficulties associated with applying them to practical situations. In a clear case that points to the struggle as a marriage of theory and practice, Che Guevara, a South American revolutionary, internationalised the struggle against imperialism by fighting it in America and Africa. His activism, which transcended race, tribe and creed, was not mercenary, as he lent his free services to revolutionary causes for the liberation of

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humanity; hence, New World mentions him as an example of selfless historical figures that have shaped the world’s destiny. Pepetela includes these historical figures primarily to internationalise the Angolan revolution by locating it within the framework of worldwide movements against oppression and exploitation. At another level, they represent complementary roles to be played by individuals in that the thinker (Marx), the leader (Lenin), the military strategist (Mao) and the fighter (Che Guevara) are all required if the revolution is to come to fruition. Ultimately, the inclusion of the above-stated names helps root the Angolan struggle firmly in the world’s revolutionary traditions and shows the importance of revolutionary ideas in the struggle for human minds. This politico-economic liberation of the motherland is expanded to include a transformation of African cultural constructions of gender identities as captured in Fearless and Ondine’s interrogation of the status of women in Angola. Ondine is an emergent breed of womanhood that is confident, articulate and self-assertive. After the eruption of her sex scandal, she makes it clear that she does not want to be pitied as a victim of preying men and insists on her subjectivity. She has an upper hand in her relationship with the Commissar because of her sexual and educational experiences and accomplishments. She wants to be fulfilled as an individual and sees the patriarchal cultural imperatives that govern men– women relations as inhibiting women’s initiatives and freedoms. In her view, the glaring gender inequalities must be addressed to make independence meaningful to both sexes. Fearless advocates a scenario where the perception of women’s roles in society is changed to give them agency and control over their subjectivity. The struggle for a new Angola should encompass the transformation of the configuration of women, an issue that has gained currency in world politics. Ondine is waging a womanist struggle that is in danger of being swamped under the weight of the national liberation struggle.

Kill-All and the Legitimacy of a Violent Revolution The prosecution of the revolution marks a transformation of Africans from objects to subjects of history, reversing the usual projections of Africans as mourning victims of colonial violence because confronting the heavily armed enemy endows them with agency. Reinforcing this subjectivity is the nom de guerre Kill-All, which highlights the ruthlessness of the war and also provokes further interrogation of the nature of the revolution. A violent shedding of blood characterises the struggle and guerrillas must be

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psyched accordingly. On the surface, the commandeering name appears to encourage and legitimise the indiscriminate killing of any perceived enemies of the revolution and also serves as a threatening warning to the colonisers and their African allies. Anthony (1996, p. 6) contends that, ‘Cut off from normal pleasures and concerns, guerrillas must be prepared to take human life and destroy dwellings; hunted men and women, they live always with the prospect of capture and in the presence of death’. It suggests that independence can only be achieved militarily through the total annihilation of the enemy, leaving no room for a negotiated political solution. The name may promote the downgrading of the revolution to the status of a terrorist campaign as it exhibits a total disregard for the sanctity of human life, as it seemingly promotes what could easily translate into murder and war crimes. It may be read as an unwitting confirmation of the Portuguese propaganda machinery’s characterisation of the guerrillas as heartless bandits or terrorists, who rape, steal and murder innocent villagers. During the chat with the workmen, the Commissar debunks the banditry myth in his explanation that ‘The tuga say that we are bandits, that we kill the people, that we steal […] so that the people will be afraid of us and denounce us to the army’ (p. 20). The war is not only occurring at a military level; the colonialist system is also waging a relentless propaganda crusade to discredit the militants before Africans. Isolating the guerrillas from the African population would deal a fatal blow to the movement as, without civilian contact and support, it is impossible to successfully prosecute a guerrilla war. This symbiotic relationship is illustrated by General Mao’s view, as cited in Anthony (1996, p. 6), that ‘the guerrilla moves among the people as the fish through the water’. The gesture of returning the money stolen by Ungrateful Tuga underlines the importance of maintaining amiable guerrilla–civilian relationships and is part of the fight to win civilian confidence and reverse the regime’s terror tagging of the combatants. When the Cabinda civilian population is given adequate political orientation, it becomes easier to recruit them into the movement’s structures. They are won over by the dignified treatment they are given by the guerrillas compared to the brutalisation of the villagers who are falsely accused by the colonial regime of aiding the guerrillas. In pursuing the agenda to distinguish between a terrorist campaign and a just war, Fearless’ group adheres to international laws of military engagement by not killing unarmed civilians as illustrated in the act of allowing the white truck driver to escape because ‘he was a civilian’ (p. 15) and, therefore, not a legitimate military target.

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Regime forces constituted Africans and Europeans, hence the guerrillas’ classification of all those who allied themselves to the colonialists as enemies that had to be eliminated. The enemy’s identity and the nature of the revolution need to be exposed to ensure that the revolutionary forces remain vigilant. The Kill-All philosophy is witnessed during combat when the guerrillas indiscriminately kill both blacks and whites, ranging from the high-ranking white Captain to the sixteen-year-old black soldier. However, the MPLA seeks to rehabilitate African soldiers by encouraging them to desert from the colonial army and be absorbed into its ranks as shown by Comrade Stores’ report that one of the combatants manning the gate on the night Ungrateful Tuga escaped from prison was ‘Angelo, the one who recently deserted from the tuga’ (p. 127). African soldiers are viewed in the same light as the traitor who poses an immediate danger to the guerrillas as he actively and conscientiously aids the enemy. Traitors are ruthlessly killed as their treacherous activities are an impediment to a successful prosecution of the struggle. In one incident, Fearless recounts how he dutifully knifed a traitor when even the most hardened of guerrillas shuddered from executing the task. He captures the moral dilemma of executing traitors thus: For men who respect human life, who struggle because they respect human life, comrade, it is very difficult to volunteer to execute a man with a knife, even if he is a wretched traitor. (p. 41).

Whilst it is clear that in the context of a liberation struggle, killing is part of the equation for gaining independence, Fearless’ testimony shows that the guerrillas respected human life and distinguished legitimate killings from gratuitous murders and still found this uneven assault on unarmed enemies morally repulsive. Truth’s threat to ‘capture the timber workers and shoot them, because they work for the colonialists’ (p. 8) is dismissed with contempt because it would constitute a war crime as it involves unarmed civilians.

Qualities of a Fighter: Fearless In view of the intimidating military might of the colonialist regime, the fighters must be psyched up for a ruthless and protracted revolution as the colonialists are prepared to fight to the last man in defence of their privileged status. Confronting the oppressor is a daunting task with a compelling need to convince the oppressed that they can fight and defeat him. Discipline, courage and bravery are essential qualities that must be inculcated in the fighters if they are to confront the imposing enemy. To

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this end, Pepetela creates an inspiring and confidence boosting Commander, Fearless, with a name that alludes to these qualities. Fellow guerrillas name him Fearless as a tribute to his outstanding courage on the battlefield and effective leadership qualities. Fearlessness is an essential personal attribute that enables him to lead his men from the front, often at great danger to himself. Considering that the guerrillas operate under very demoralising conditions characterised by inferior arsenal and shortages of food supplies, whilst some recruits like VW are ill-trained for the rigours of guerrilla warfare, the Commander’s exemplary leadership under such torturous conditions convinces his men that the seemingly invincible enemy can be defeated. A small guerrilla unit ambushes over seventy heavily armed colonial soldiers and scores a morale-boosting victory in the battle, which gives a promising outlook to the war. Pepetela has not created, in Fearless, a superhuman character with deity status but one who, despite personal losses and haunting memories of his late girlfriend, Leli, is committed to the revolution. Fearless has ascended to the Commander’s post on the solid basis of his heroic conduct in the struggle. When he hears of the Portuguese invasion of the Base, he immediately puts into motion a counter-invasion operation to save his comrades and demonstrates his organisational acumen by mobilising great strength at short notice. The fact that he marches at the head of the advancing military column, until he is replaced by New World, demonstrates fearlessness and selflessness as he does not take advantage of his position to avoid facing dangerous situations, as later claimed by the bitter Commissar. Again, he is not reckless like Joao who foolishly gives a public display of courage by somersaulting and singlehandedly advancing on the enemy just to prove that he can match Fearless’ achievements. Whilst exposing him to enemy fire, this childish stunt weakens the MPLA’s attack options and results in the death of Struggle and Fearless. Their deaths represent the supreme sacrifices individuals made for the attainment of independence as they die saving the life of the reckless Joao and, more importantly, to liberate Angola.

Describing the Enemy: Ungrateful Tuga The ironically named guerrilla Ungrateful Tuga, a derogatory reference to the Portuguese, serves as a commentary and counter-discourse on the civilizing myth of colonialism. The civilising myth seeks to sanitise the colonialist presence as bringing salvation to a dark continent, a favour for which Africans should be eternally grateful. Africans are supposed to have

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benefitted immensely from the enlightening experience of colonialism. The character-describing name of Ungrateful Tuga refutes these notions by declaring that the colonialists have abused the hospitality extended to them by Africans and reciprocated this gesture by exploiting and oppressing them. This idea is also echoed in Mongo Beti’s The Poor Christ of Bomba (p. 54) when the Chief riles against Father Drummont, who attacks Africans for daring to perform their ‘Pagan’ dances on the first Friday of the month, thus: What the devil is he doing here in our country, I ask you? He was starving in his own land; he ran to us and we fed him; we gave him land and with our money he built fine houses upon it; we even gave him our girls for three months at a stretch. But that isn’t enough for him; now he wants to stop us dancing!

The above statement suggests that the settlers can never be satisfied, highlighting a parasitic relationship between the white man and the black man against a background where Africans considered and welcomed the colonialists as temporary visitors. They were justifiably disgusted to see them setting up a state apparatus meant to nurture the master–servant relations. In the eyes of African nationalists, the colonialists have become a curse that Africans should rid themselves of ‘by any means necessary’. Throughout the novel, Pepetela’s guerrillas tell the settlers to ‘go home’ because they don’t belong and have overstayed their welcome. The Portuguese settlers have no justification for waging war against their African hosts who, as the rightful owners of the land, are duty-bound to fight and reclaim their heritage. The name falls under the category of speaking names that, according to Fliedl (2007, p. 160), ‘have an explicitly appellative message’ as it foregrounds the capitalist relations of exploitation. Tuga is slang for Portuguese and, in addition to being a social dialect, the name is critical of settler greed and warns Africans against cooperating with the colonisers as they would never be appreciated. The selfish Portuguese timber merchant drives off upon hearing gunshots without caring to check on the workers. In addition to protesting the Portuguese uncharitable presence, the name also exposes the truth about the nature of Portuguese colonialism. Far from being a philanthropic mission, colonialism is involved in the double extraction of African human and natural resources under semi-slavery conditions, hence the need to eliminate it. This is amply illustrated in the relations between the white timber merchant and his black workers. The workers use their personal tools and energy to extract timber from the

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forest whilst the merchant is seated comfortably in the truck waiting to ferry the produce to the market. In comparison to the returns on the timber and the merchant’s minimal investment in the project, the workers are paid peanuts, wherein lies the idea of ingratitude. Capitalism does not give fair value for labour, which results in the alienation of the unappreciated worker from the production process. The Portuguese capitalist kleptocracy is symbolised in the theft of the mechanic’s money by Ungrateful Tuga, the very person he claims to be fighting to liberate. This is reminiscent of the colonial civilising mission whose aim is not to bring African salvation. Even when amnesty is extended to the offender, Ungrateful Tuga is unrepentant and tries to conceal this nefarious deed that flies against the code of conduct regulating guerrilla–civilian relations during the war. Stealing from civilians discredits the liberation movement and destroys the goodwill that is developing between the guerrillas and the hitherto unpoliticised Cabinda workers, cementing the colonialist propaganda machinery’s depiction of the militants as a danger to the civilian African population. Whilst the term Tuga has racist connotations, it counters other racist labels like Kaffir or nigga, which were used on Africans by the colonialists. Fanon (1963) presents this as anti-racist racism.

Names that Reflect Organisational Acumen Another important cluster of names is that where offices like Commissar, Commander, Operations Chief and Stores Chief are used interchangeably in the text as a nom de guerre. In the Zimbabwean context, similarities can be drawn from a name like Comrade Utano (Health), which was given to those who ran the medical departments at the front. These names indicate the elaborate constituents of the war machinery, highlighting its complex organisational structures. The Commissar is responsible for the political education and mobilisation of both guerrillas and civilians and it is through him that the search for ideological clarity is articulated in the novel. The military wing needed to be highly politicised so as to understand the ideological inclinations and goals of the struggle. Theory is also referred to as the Teacher, which is a common practice of substituting one’s given name with one’s profession. The Mechanic is another good example because, throughout the novel, he is only referred to as the mechanic. The additional responsibilities of the guerrillas highlight the multi-tasking capacity expected of individuals in the struggle. Each guerrilla unit had to be self-sufficient and was structured in such a way that it served the immediate needs of the combatants whilst preparing them for the reconstruction programme in independent Angola. The education

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programmes run in Dolisie by Ondine and at the front by Theory are an investment in the development of a competent Angolan human resource base. This is a revolutionary act meant to address the Africans’ historical denial of educational opportunities by the colonial regime. Comrade Struggle is an example of guerrillas who joined the struggle with zero literacy and have since acquired a reasonable level of literacy which, with more effort, would enable him to be effective in the management of affairs after independence. On the other hand, the Medic’s life-supporting role addresses the immediate medical needs of the fighters, like attending to Theory’s injury, or trying to save the dying Fearless by stemming the flow of the blood gushing out of his wounded belly.

Conclusion This chapter has shown that selected names in Mayombe are used as stylistic devices that enunciate the state of the revolution. A critique of the names enlightens one’s reading of the novel in the sense that Pepetela has established a clear relationship between character names and their actual beliefs and deeds to convey the novel’s thematic concerns. The naming practices evident in the naming of guerrillas and some geographical landforms demonstrate that participation in the revolution empowers Africans and gives them agency and authority to determine its prosecution and how it is perceived. Both the names and the naming processes embody the revolutionary spirit propagated in the novel. Considering that the forging of new identities is an integral part of guerrilla warfare, this chapter has pointed out possibilities of assessing the impact of names in more works that fall under the liberation war novel as a way of encouraging further development of theories that will help in the criticism of the massive body of literary works that has grown from the historical experiences of liberation struggles.

References Anderson, B.R. (2006). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Anthony, J.J. (1996). Guerrilla Warfare: A Historical and Biographical Sourcebook. Greenwood Press. Beti, M. (1971). The Poor Christ of Bomba: Oxford: Heinemann. Chinodaya, S. (1987). Harvest of Thorns. Oxford: Heinemann.

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Dalen-Oskam, K. (2005). Comparative Literary Onomastics. [Online] Available from https://www.huygens.knaw.nl/wp-content/bestanden/ pdf_vandalenoskam_2005_Comparative_Literary_Onomastics.pdf. [Accessed: 24 August 2015]. Fanon, F. (1963). The Wretched of the Earth. Middlesex: Penguin. Fliedl, K. (2007). A Field Guide to Names in Literature: Notes on Austrian Onomastics. Austrian Satire and Other Essays, 15, pp. 155-168. Hove, C. (1988). Bones. Harare: Baobab Books. Kanengoni, A. (1997). Echoing Silences. Harare: Baobab Books. Lenin, V.I. (1950). Collected Works. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Manning, P. (1988). Francophone Sub-Saharan Africa 1880–1985. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marx, K. (2008). The Poverty of Philosophy. New York: Cosimo Classics. Ngugi, wa T. (1993). Moving the Centre: The Struggle for cultural Freedoms. Oxford: James Currey. Nzongola-Ntalaja. (1987). Revolution and Counter-Revolution in Africa: Essays in Contemporary Politics. London: Zed Books. Pepetela. (1983). Mayombe. Lisbon: Edocoes. Pfukwa, C. (2007). The Function and Significance of War Names in the Zimbabwean Armed Conflict (1966–1979) (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of South Africa, Pretoria. Pongweni, A.J. (1983). What’s in a Name? A Study of Shona Nomenclature. Gweru: Mambo Press. Russell, G. Hamilton. (1991). Lusophone Literature in Africa: Language and Literature in Portuguese-Writing Africa. Callaloo, 14(2), pp. 313– 323.

SECTION 3: TOPONYMS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN NAMES IN SPACE: SOME THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES ON THE PLACE NAMES OF THE SOUTHERN AFRICAN URBAN LANDSCAPE CHARLES PFUKWA AND ZVINASHE MAMVURA

Introduction Onomastics in general divides names into two broad categories: the personal name and the place name. Within these are finer subcategories such as nicknames, oronyms, religious names and many other subgroups. It appears it is sometimes easier to conceptualise and theorise the personal name, while articulation of the same in the place name is often more subtle. This paper focuses on the place name, which is often divided into two major categories: names that cover the natural features and names that cover man-made features of the landscape. Natural features will include mountains, rivers and other topographical features in the natural landscape. The man-made features will include built-up areas such as towns, roads, dams, and buildings. This chapter focuses on place names in these built-up areas. However, it is useful to briefly sketch out the links between the name and linguistics.

Onomastics and Theoretical Linguistics Theoretical linguistics has contributed much to the growth of onomastics as a discipline. The name is a part of speech, a lexical item, but as it acquires associations and connotations, it goes beyond the linguistic domain (Pfukwa, 2007). This transformation of a lexical item into a name has been the starting point for European scholars such as Van Langendonck (1987), as well as South African scholars such as Louwrens (1994), Raper (1987) andMeiring (1980, 1996). The general view is that

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when a word becomes a name it picks up other properties that take it beyond linguistics. Raper (1987, p. 87), in his seminal paper on the problem of analysing the name linguistically, says, ‘When a lexical item becomes an onomastic item, it can no longer be analysed effectively’. Van Langendonck (1987) comes up with three levels of meaning, namely lexical, grammatical and associative meaning. Raper (1987) and Meiring (1994) also reflect on these three levels of meaning and go on to consider diachronics, synchronics, semantics, pragmatics, denotation and connotation. Louwrens (1994) is another South African linguist who contributes significantly to onomastics as he develops Nicolaisen’s (1987) dichotomy of name and noun. He looks for rules of grammar that govern the morphology of names. Pfukwa (2007) picks up some of the common threads in this body of research. The first is that once a word moves from the lexical domain and picks up onomastic attributes, it often loses its lexical meaning(s) or it acquires new meanings. Secondly, connotation and association are very close in terms of meaning. Finally, as names go beyond strict linguistic analysis, they pick up non-linguistic associations or connotations.

Place Names from the Perspective of Literature, Culture and Postcolonial Studies The study of names in literature is an important area in onomastics with European and American scholarship making outstanding contributions. Out of a number of South Africans who have worked in this area, this discussion briefly explores the work of two, Jacobs (1995) and Squire (1996). Jacobs (1995) observes that names are a part of the wider social, historical, cultural and political discourses on the physical and cultural landscape. Citing Gregory (1994), Jacobs (1995, p. 12) points out how onomastics has drawn from many disciplines under the broad frame of cultural studies, postcolonial and postmodern perspectives: As an area of study within cultural studies, onomastics, the study of anthroponyms and toponyms, similarly takes place in a zone where multiple discourses – the various social sciences, myth, religion, literature, geography, and history – intersect and overlap [...] Onomastics provides a

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Jacobs develops this theoretical frame in order to discuss names in a literary text, Bruce Chatwin’s The Songlines. For Jacobs, Onomastics becomes a lens through which a reader can appreciate a narrative as well as its cultural significance (Jacobs, 1995). Squire (1996) adopts a postcolonial perspective in her onomastic critique of Breyten Breytenbach’s Return to Paradise. She builds up her argument around postcolonial theories integrating names and identity into her argument. She uses Carter’s (1987) notion of spatial history as an analytical tool for analysing the names in Breytenbach’s story. Squire (1996, p. 84) points out that spatial history is not about a particular year or a particular place but is the ‘act of naming’. In her analysis of Breytenbach’s narrative, she argues that renaming becomes a process of repossession and rewriting identities. She goes on to say that Breytenbach’s place names are not merely names of places that he passes through but are also historical nodes, ‘a celebration of (South African) [...] history’ (Squire, 1996, p. 95). In the onomastic analysis of Breytenbach’s narrative, Squire leads the reader through many places on the South African landscape. Each place name evokes many memories, not only for Breytenbach but for the reader as well. Thus, a person who reads (or travels) through a book on place names derives an aggregate of meanings from the names. Similarly, the traveller or the viewer who ‘reads’ a visual text called a street name, a name of a building or some other visual feature on the urban landscape ascribes meanings or connotations to it. To borrow from Meiring (1996), this collection of meanings, associations and perceptions linked to that street name and other urban names can be called descriptive backing, which has been discussed above. Three points can be made from Jacobs and Squire’s observations. The significance of the name in a place, in space and on the landscape is important in any study of names. A name becomes a narrative around a place, ‘it’s a story which is encoded in the toponym.’ (Jacobs, 2000, p.14). Secondly, narratives, by nature, are culture-bound; they subscribe to a cultural entity such as a social group, a nation or a bigger entity. Everyone who interacts with the name will trigger certain emotions, associations or connotations. Thirdly, naming a place is an act of inscription, stamping a cultural or political footprint on the landscape.

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While Jacobs (2000) and Squire’s (1996) point of departure is literature before then they go into postcolonial and postmodern discourses, Carter (1987) approaches the onomastic domain from a historical perspective as he talks of spatial history and the concept of erasure. In his book, The Road to Botany Bay, Carter (1987) traces how Captain Cook gave the Australian coastline English names. The process of giving names to the Australian landscape became a forerunner of the act of colonisation and erased the indigenous people’s maps of meaning (Jacobs, 2000). Whatever names they had before Europeans came were effectively wiped out from their discourses and from the physical map. The concept of erasure is discussed further below.

The ‘Imperial’ Theme Wittenberg (2000) looks at selected African place names from a historical and postcolonial perspective. He discusses in considerable depth how European names were stamped on the Ruwenzori Mountain and the great lakes of East Africa. He argues that by giving European names to the various physical features, a whole African landscape was given a European face. Wittenberg goes on to say this naming process became a prelude to the process of colonisation and by giving unfamiliar space a familiar name you psychologically control or dominate the space. Wittenberg (2000, p. 8) observes: Every East African lake connected to the Nile was consequently named after British royalty: Victoria, Edward-Albert and Albert. Britain’s discursive control over the headwaters of the Nile not only established a cultural presence but also created a controlling imperial framework for subsequent military conquest and colonisation.

All this suggests the place name is not some dormant linguistic feature on a landscape but is a live expression, an active text that expresses, among other things, the power and culture of the namer. Mamvura (2014) discusses naming and power in considerable depth.

Onomastic Erasure Pfukwa (2007) suggests that Carter (1987) borrowed the term erasure from Derrida. In giving English names to the Australian coastline and some islands, James Cook and other European explorers ‘erased’ a whole history of the South Pacific. Similarly, giving European names to the African landscape was an act of erasure, an attempt to delete an existing

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identity. These colonial names came along with their histories and cultures, wiping away the existing ones (Carter 1987, Mamvura, 2014). In an act of onomastic erasure, the new name deleted a whole history and, in some cases, a whole culture. Pfukwa (2007) observes that onomastic erasure is a process that occurs wherever different peoples, languages and cultures interact. How erasure takes place is varied, in some cases, it can be subtle as explorers or missionaries pass through the space (Wittenberg, 2000). On the other hand, it can be through conquest or some changes in political power. However, Pfukwa (2007) suggests that the concept of onomastic erasure has its limitations. Every act of renaming is not necessarily an act of erasure that deletes existing identities. Named people or named places sometimes still retain their physical and historical attributes even when they acquire new names.

Place Names and the Linguistic Landscape The meaning of place names has a reciprocal nature in that the author of the text with the particular name has certain intended meanings s/he seeks to convey, while the reader of the same text can have interpretations that are very different from the intended meaning. Du Plessis (2009, p. 105) touches on this problem with regards to bilingual signs in a South African tourist site when he points out that ‘Parallel language visibility is not always effective’ because different readers will have different interpretations of the same sign. In other words, while the namer seeks to ascribe certain meanings, the readers can create their own meanings. Ultimately, the resulting or interpreted meaning might be far removed from the original intended meaning. Names in an urban landscape and beyond can also be seen in this respect. Du Plessis (2009) asserts that any discourse on names in any form in physical space has a direct impact on the linguistic landscape. Put differently, the onomastic landscape is part of the linguistic landscape. It is this onomastic dimension within the linguistic landscape and language visibility that this discussion now turns to.

Defining the Linguistic Landscape The concept of linguistic landscape is a relatively new area of study and overlaps into the visual discourse. Landry and Bourhis (1997) were the

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first to use the phrase linguistic landscape and it appears most authorities in this area keep going back to this seminal paper (see, for instance: Singahasiri, 2013; Gorter, 2006; Backhaus 2008). Landry and Bourhis (1997, p. 25) define the linguistic landscape as: The language of public road signs, advertising billboards, street names, shop names, commercial signs, and public signs on government buildings combine to form the linguistic landscape of a given territory, region or urban agglomeration.

The above definition has been widely accepted by scholars as standard. It suggests that names are part of the linguistic landscape. Names are inscribed on road signs, institutions or buildings; they are a physical part of the urban landscape. A study of the linguistic landscape examines, among other things, written language or signs in the public sphere. Singahasiri (2013), working on Landry and Bourhis’ (1997) definition, brings out three key points, which are the visibility, the salience and the fact that the text is located in public space, saying: ‘the most unique feature of the linguistic landscape is that it refers to the text presented and displayed in the public space’ (Singhasiri, 2013, p. 1). The linguistic landscape is a public script available to all and sundry, a text that everyone can read. What meaning each reader gives to it is quite another matter. The linguistic landscape can be seen as a visual text, a visual script that narrates the histories, cultures, traditions and all other descriptive content and even speculation around a place, and the place can be as small as a cafe or as big as a city or a country. The linguistic landscape is a lens through which you can identify social, cultural and historical traditions or narratives of a community (Singahasiri, 2013).

Studies in the Linguistic Landscape Gorter (2006) studied the linguistic landscape in a multilingual setting in Rome, while Huebner (2006) worked in Bangkok, Thailand, Coupland (2010) did similar research in Wales, Backhaus (2006) in Tokyo, and BenRafael, et al. (2008) did their work in Israel. Others include Hicks (2002) in Scotland and Kostanski (2011) in Australia. Du Plessis (2009, 2011) and Kotze (2012) have researched extensively in Bloemfontein and the Orange Free State in South Africa. Du Plessis and Kotze are a point of reference in any study on the linguistic landscape in the southern African region. Mamvura (2014) also looks at this area in some detail.

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Du Plessis (2009) observes that whilst research on the linguistic landscape is growing elsewhere, there is little evidence of scholarly interest in this field in southern Africa. This should not come as a surprise because it is a fairly new area of research elsewhere, as reflected by most of the literature in this area (for example, Gorter, 2006; Shohamy & Gorter, 2008; Cernoz & Gorter, 2006; Singahasiri, 2013). Since most of these studies are no more than ten years old, it can be seen as an area shaping itself into a discipline.

Functions of the Linguistic Landscape Landry and Bourhis (1997) suggest that the linguistic landscape serves two key functions: the informational function and the symbolic function. Hicks (2002) (cited in Kotze & Du Plessis 2010) adds a third one: the mythological or folkloric function. Place names on the landscape have several functions such as being points of reference, presenting histories, connecting communities and cultural heritage. The dominant language often has the greatest space in the linguistic landscape (Mamvura, 2014).

The Informational Function The informational function demarcates territory and the physical boundaries of an entity such as a street or road, a building, a farm, a neighbourhood, a village, a language community, a political entity or some cultural community. These can be signposts, street signs and any other public signage which have a name on it. These will be signs that give information about the place, its direction and other details that may be useful to the public.

The Symbolic Function The linguistic landscape performs a symbolic function since the presence or absence of a language in the public sphere expresses the feelings and attitudes that one language group has towards the other language groups in the same community. The notions of power and status on the one hand and identity on the other are key indicators of the symbolic function of the linguistic landscape. Place naming is often an exercise of power, and naming of places is often determined by the most powerful group in a setting where groups exist in a dominant–dominated relationship (Mamvura, 2014). Kotze (2010, p. 29) points out that ‘those in power can more easily dominate the official signage domain and therefore send

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ideological messages about their position’. Beyond giving information, naming is an expression of power in space (Mamvura, 2014).

The Folkloric Function Place names, besides performing the informational function of marking linguistic territory, have the potential of revealing the cultural and linguistic past of a community. Puzey (2007) suggests that this is especially significant for minority languages. Kotze and Du Plessis (2010, p. 77) express the same sentiments: ‘The mythological (or folkloric) function of the linguistic landscape is fulfilled mainly through placenames, which are often all that remain of traditional cultures’. In this respect, the myths, legends and folklore around a name become a historical metaphor that mark the origins or history of a people or a community. A name on a signpost can have endless narratives that celebrate the past of a language group and it becomes a cultural peg around which people weave their identities.

Two Dimensions of the Linguistic Landscape Citing Gorter and Nicolaisen, Mamvura (2014) argues that perception of a landscape can be at two levels: firstly, it is a piece of land – a physical place – and secondly, it is a symbol, a concept in the mind. The linguistic landscape takes both these attributes because it comes as a linguistic representation of some physical reality (i.e. a place). Coupland (2010) gives a related view of the landscape by emphasising the notion of a linguistic landscape as a metaphorical concept, derived from the concept of the natural landscape. The linguistic landscape becomes a way of ‘languageing’ of towns and cities, which embodies modern ways of seeing urban spaces. The visual impact of urban structures is partly determined by the textual displays or signs on them and place names are part of these visual narratives. This means studies in the linguistic landscape can also borrow from semiotics, the study of signs and symbols, including what they mean and how they are used. Issues in semiotics lead us to Scollon and Scollon (2003) (cited in Mamvura, 2014) and their research in geosemiotics.

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Geosemiotics Mamvura (2014) points out that the term Geosemiotics and its development as a theory is attributed to Scollon and Scollon (2003). They define geosemiotics as ‘the study of the social meaning of the material placement of signs and discourses, and of our actions in the material world’ (Scollon and Scollon, 2003, p. 2). Their understanding of a sign includes any semiotic system. A point of departure for geosemiotics is that there are sign systems that operate outside language systems but they always come back to some form of language since they are expressed in some linguistic form (Scollon and Scollon, 2003). Geosemiotics argues that while meaning is often immersed in language, it also lies in objects and space in the environment. The meaning of public texts can be extrapolated by relating the sign to its physical and social context. Geosemiotics seeks to extract meaning from signs in public places on the landscape, whereas semiotics has often looked at the written or spoken word and excludes the visual context as well as the landscape around the word. Meaning can be extracted from the relationship between different signs and symbols in the landscape, be it natural or man-made, and street names and other place names are part of this landscape. Names on signposts and other physical features are public texts, hence their meaning as signs is also public. Viewing the landscape through geosemiotics helps us to interpret the urban setting of society as an aggregate of semiotic signs. While much remains to be done to fully align geosemiotics to onomastics, these observations open up new possibilities in this direction.

Conclusion This chapter has surveyed some of the leading scholarships on place-name studies in southern Africa. Naturally, some of the work covers personal names as well. The major concern of this chapter was to establish some research that can underpin theories on the place name. It is in part inspired by Nicolaisen’s concern for a theory in onomastics that stands on its own: ‘whose primary concern, focus, stimulus, start and finish with the name’ (Nicolaisen 1987, p. 10). The chapter traced the contribution of different disciplines to the development of place name theory: theoretical linguistics, literature, cultural studies, postcolonial theories, the linguistic

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landscape and geosemiotics. However, there are gaps that this paper does not cover. For example, critical discourse analysis can feed into onomastic theory. Mamvura (2014) and Jongore and Pfukwa (forthcoming) have looked at this dimension. This paper reflects the vast possibilities in onomastic enquiry as it crosses cultural, historical, geographical and political boundaries. The few observations raised here should be seen as a point of departure for the study of the place name in this region.

References Backhaus, P. (2007). Linguistic Landscapes: A Comparative Study of Urban Multilingualism in Tokyo. In D. Gorter (Ed.), Multilingual Matters. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. —. (2006). Multilingualism in Tokyo: A Look into the Linguistic Landscape. International Journal of Multilingualism, 3(1), pp. 52–66. Ben-Rafael, E., Shohamy, E. & Barni, M. (2010). Linguistic Landscape in the City. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Carter, P. (1987). The Road to Botany Bay. London: Faber and Faber. Cenoz, J. & Gorter, D. (2006). Linguistic Landscape and Minority Languages. International Journal of Multilingualism, 3(1), pp. 67–80. Du Plessis, L.T. (2011). Language Policy, Language Visibility and the Standardization of Geographical Names in South Africa- the Quest for Coherence. Language Matters, 42(2), pp. 264–281. —. (2009). Language Visibility and Transformation of Geographical Names in South Africa. Language Matters, 40(2), pp. 215–238. Gorter, D. (2006). Introduction: The study of the Linguistic Landscapes as a New Approach to Multilingualism. In D. Gorter, (Ed.), Linguistic Landscape: A New Approach to Multilingualism. Clevedon: Multilingual Matters. Hicks, D. (2002). Scotland’s Landscape: The Lack of Policy and Planning with Scotland’s Place-names and Signage. Paper Presented at the World Congress on Language Policies, Barcelona April 2002. [Online] Available from www.linguapax.org/congres/taller/taller2/Hicks.html [Accessed: 16 October 2013]. Koopman, A. (2007). The Names and the Naming of Durban. Onoma, 42, pp. 73–88. Kostanski, L. (2011). Toponymic Dependence Research and Its Possible Contribution to the Field of Place Branding. Place Branding and Public Diplomacy, 7, pp. 9–22.

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Kotze, C.R. (2010). The Linguistic Landscape of Rural South Africa after 1992: A Case Study of Philippolis (Unpublished master’s thesis). University of the Free State, Bloemfontein. Kotze, C.R. & Du Plessis, T. (1997). Language Visibility in Xhariep. Language Matters, 41(1), pp. 72–96. Landry, R. & Bourhis, R.Y. (1997). Linguistic Landscape and Ethnolinguistic Vitality: An Empirical Study. Journal of language and Social Psychology, 16, pp. 23–49. Mamvura, Z. (2014). A sociolinguistics analysis of school names in selected urban centres during the colonial period in Zimbabwe, 18901979 (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of South Africa, Pretoria. Meiring, B.A. (1996). New Names for a New South Africa. Proceedings of the XIX ICOS.University of Aberdeen: Aberdeen. Nicolaisen, W.F.H. (1987). Onomastic onomastics. Paper presented at the XVI International Congress of Onomastic Sciences, Les Presses de L’ Universite Laval. Puzey, G. (2011). New Research Directions in Toponomastics and LLs. Onoma, 46, pp. 211–226. Raper, P.E. (1987). Aspects of Onomastic Theory. Nomina Africana, 1(2), pp. 78–91. —. (1983). Treatment of Placenames in a Multilingual Society. Onomastica Canadiana, 67, pp. 27–33. Scollon, R. & Scollon, S. (2003). Discourses in Place: Language in the Material World. Routledge: New York. Singahasri, W. (2013). ‘Linguistic Landscape in the State Railway Station of Thailand: An analysis of the use of language’. Paper presented at the European Conference on Language Learning (2013), Brighton. Squire, C. (1996). Returning to Paradise Through Naming: The Incantation of Names in Breyten Breytenbach’s Return to Paradise. Nomina Africana, 10(1 & 2), pp. 79–88. Shohamy, E. & Gorter, D. (Eds.) (2008). Linguistic landscape: Expanding the scenery. London: Taylor and Francis. Turner, N.S. (2009). Odonymic Warfare: The Process of Renaming Streets in Durban, South Africa. Nomina Africana, 23(1), pp. 113–133. Van Langendonck, W.F. (2007). Theory and Typology of Proper Names. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. —. (1990). Proper Nouns and Pronouns. Paper presented at the XVI International Congress of Onomastic Sciences (16–22 August 1987), Université Laval.

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Wittenberg, H. (2000). Imperial Naming and the Sources of the Nile. Nomina Africana, 14(1), pp. 1–18.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE TOPONYMICS OF POSTCOLONIAL ZAMBIA: STREET NAMING PATTERNS IN LUSAKA MILDRED WAKUMELO, DAVID MWANZA AND BENSON MKANDAWIRE

Introduction This chapter is a survey of the street names and the street-naming process in Lusaka, the capital city of Zambia. The chapter forms part of an ongoing research project on names and naming patterns in Zambia. Street names or odonyms are not just mere signposts. Street names may be given to reflect the social, political and cultural ideologies maintained by the name-givers. For instance, some names have been given to exorcise the colonial legacy from street names so as to reflect the spirit of an independent Zambia. There are some names that commemorate various social and political events that have taken place in the country and names that have been given to honour and archive certain individuals or group achievements that the community would like to remember. While street naming is considered one of the most important activities of municipalities, the allocation of street names and numbers are also important for the effective provision of municipal services such as engineering, billing for rates, provision of emergency services (fire and ambulance rescue), effective delivery of mail, for the unique identification of the street being named, for easy location of places by outsiders, for ensuring that property owners can be contacted for public participation purposes, and so on. Hence, an absence of street names and numbering can cause an inconvenience with regard to these aspects. Street names also usually form part of the address of businesses, institutions or organisations located on the streets.

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Study Location As previously stated, the research was located in the capital city of Zambia, which is made up of low density, medium density and highdensity residential areas. The main focus was on the low and mediumdensity areas. High-density residential areas were not included in the study because the roads in these areas usually do not have street names. People mainly depend on house numbers and various landmarks, such as schools, clinics, shops and churches, to locate specific houses in these locations. In fact, the road network in some of these areas is very poor or non-existent. However, it should be noted that the problem of a lack of street names is sometimes not just peculiar to high-density locations. As will be shown below, there are also other low and medium-density residential areas that have been in existence for some time but have no street names.

Data Collection, Methodology and Analysis The chapter is based on a triangulated data collection strategy comprising face-to-face interviews, review of related literature and analysis of maps of the city of Lusaka. The target population was mainly people who are involved in the process of street naming, particularly staff from the Ministry of Lands, Lusaka City Council and the National Archives. The population was purposively sampled in the search for information-rich cases (Mungenda & Mungenda, 2003). Hence, it comprised people that are in one way or another involved in the process of street naming. The sampling technique of snowballing was also employed. In this regard, our respondents led us to other information-rich cases (Mungenda & Mungenda, 2003). The other data collection procedure involved observation. In this respect, the researchers drove around the city of Lusaka taking note of the street names and, in some instances, also interviewed some residents they met in the various areas. This chapter uses a thematic approach to categorise the street names and the street-naming patterns of Lusaka city. In this approach, the relative social value attached to each category of street names is assumed to be proportionate to the number of times certain types of street names appear. Hence, a multiplicity of street names in a given theme is assumed to signal a subject matter of great importance to the Zambian community. In the discussion, the chapter brings into focus five main themes: Who gives names to streets in Lusaka? What major criterion is used to name

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streets? What are the categories, patterns and themes in street names in Lusaka?

Thematic Analysis Braun and Clarke (2006, p. 79) define thematic analysis as ‘a method for identifying, analysing, and reporting patterns (themes) within data’. On the other hand, Pavlenko (2007, p. 66) states that ‘the main analytical step in a thematic analysis is the coding of narratives according to emerging themes, trends, patterns, or conceptual categories’. Using the thematic approach, this analysis of street names has involved the collection of the street names which were then coded according to their thematic areas and conceptual categories. In thematic analysis, data can be analysed using the inductive (‘bottom up’) way (Frith & Gleeson, 2004) or the theoretical and deductive (‘top down’) way (Boyaatzis, 1998; Hayes, 1997). In the inductive approach there is a strong link between the themes and the data (Patton, 1990). This is thus data-driven thematic analysis. To arrive at the themes in such an approach, the researcher has to read the data without referring to what previous research studies have established (Braun & Clarke, 2006). Theoretical thematic analysis is also anchored in the researcher’s theoretical or analytic interest in the topic. It focuses on a particular aspect of the data and analyses it in detail. Despite the fact that we have benefited from insights deriving from previous research on this topic, the researchers elected to use inductive thematic analysis. The themes discussed are directly linked to the street names collected. Our inductive thematic analysis of the street names used the six-phase analytic procedure outlined by Braun and Clarke (2006, p. 93). This is as follows: Phase Familiarising oneself with the data Generating initial codes

Searching for themes

Description of process Transcription of data. Reading and rereading the data, noting down initial ideas Coding interesting features of the data in a systematic fashion across the entire data set, collating data relevant to each code Collating codes into potential themes, gathering all data relevant to each potential theme

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Reviewing themes

Defining and naming the themes

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Checking the themes in relation to the coded extracts (at level 1) and the entire data set (at level 2), generating a thematic ‘map’ of the analysis Refining the specifics of each theme and the overall story the analysis tells, generating clear definitions and names for each theme Selection of vivid, compelling extract examples, final analysis of selected extracts, relating back the analysis to the research question and literature, producing a scholarly report of the analysis.

Figure 7: Phases of thematic analysis (Source: Braun and Clarke 2006, p. 93)

The compilation of this chapter manifested a number of challenges. The major challenge encountered was a lack of documentation and literature on the research subject. For instance, there were no up-to-date maps of the city of Lusaka that also reflected the city’s street names. In some instances, the council officials indicated that there were no documents that showed how and when some street names were changed, how street names have been changing and sources of the street names. This was compounded by the fact that, to our knowledge and according to the city council officials, this is the first study on street names in Lusaka and the country and, hence, we could not have any reference point for our study in respect of the city of Lusaka and the country, Zambia. Moreover, interviews with the relevant offices were sometimes not very informative as some local authority officials were not knowledgeable on the issues of street naming and street names. For instance, in most cases where street names have changed, they could not give us proper information on the reasons or factors informing the changes. As a result, some of the arguments presented below may need further verification and study. During site visits, we also discovered that street signage was very poor. For example, in some instances, even if the streets had official names, there were no sign posts showing these names on the actual streets. Hence, we encountered situations where even the people that lived in these streets did not know the names of their streets. There were also instances of street names that were shared by different roads in the same location. In addition, there were a lot of roads that did not have street names.

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Policy Guidelines on Naming Streets A review of available literature on policy guidelines on street naming has revealed that some countries have laid down clear policy guidelines for the naming of streets. While some have policy guidelines on naming streets at a national level, others have separate policy guidelines on street naming for individual municipalities. These policy guidelines provide guidance on, for instance, the following: procedures and rules for the name selection system, new street naming procedure and criteria, street name changing procedure, street address system, acceptable length of names, approval of street names, information on who is responsible for the processing of street names, rules for street numbering, financial implications and considerations with respect to street naming, street designations, procedures for appointing a panel for the renaming of places and streets in public and private divisions, community participation in street naming and street naming standardisation (Los Angeles County Street Name Policy, 1999, Memphis and Shelby County Street Naming Guide n.d., City of Cape Town Policy on Street Naming and Numbering 2002 and Luton Borough Council Street Name and Numbering Policy n.d.). Our investigations with respect to Zambia and the city of Lusaka revealed that the country and Lusaka City Council do not have any documentation on policy guidelines for street naming. This could be one of the reasons why street naming in Lusaka seems to be chaotic.

The Process of Street Naming As indicated above, our inquiries on the process of street naming in Lusaka revealed that the Lusaka City Council does not have any properly stipulated policy document on street naming. We only obtained word-ofmouth explanations on guidelines for street naming. According to our findings, street names can be proposed by members of the public. These could be or may not be residents in the area where the street name is given. Our investigations also revealed that these members of the public usually tend to be politicians and influential members of the public such as the rich or celebrities. These categories of people can propose street names to their councillors. The councillors take these proposed names to the City Council for discussion and approval by the street-naming committee, which includes the following: councillors, Members of Parliament (MPs), and Lusaka City Council management (which includes engineers, city planning personnel and some section managers). When someone proposes a street name, they are required to provide some justification for it.

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As indicated in the paragraph above, in Zambia, the councils have a provision for people to suggest names for streets. They can even suggest the naming of a street after themselves so long as they can provide enough justification for this. Some of the acceptable justification could be that the person whose name is being proposed for a particular street has been involved in a lot of community work in that location or that the person has many business interests in that location. However, instances where people suggest the naming of a street after themselves are rare. One reason for this as cited by council officials was that people were not aware of this provision. Lack of finances was also indicated as one of the hindrances, as a request for the naming of a street has financial implications for the applicant. However, in the case of politicians, such as the president, they can make pronouncements concerning a name they want to give to a certain street and the financial burden for the name change is borne by the councils. For instance, with respect to place naming in 2011, Zambians witnessed the exercise of such powers by President Michael Sata when he renamed Lusaka International Airport as Kenneth Kaunda International Airport, Ndola International Airport as Simon Mwansa Kapwepwe Airport and Livingstone International Airport as Harry Mwaanga Nkumbula International Airport. Kenneth Kaunda was Zambia’s first president while Simon Mwansa Kapwepwe and Harry Mwaanga Nkumbula are renowned freedom fighters in Zambia. Hence, the naming took place before the approval. When the proposed names were approved by the council, they were then gazetted as the official names of the airports. The process of council approval and gazetting would also be followed in instances where a president has proposed a street name by mere pronouncement before council approval.

Specific and Generic Designators in Street Naming Street names are often given in a two-part form, namely an individual name known as the specific designator, and an indicator of the type of street or area, known as the generic designator. This can be exemplified by street names such as Alick Nkhata Road, Lumumba Road, Los Angeles Boulevard and Independence Avenue, where Alick Nkhata, Lumumba, Los Angeles and Independence are the specific designators and Road, Boulevard and Avenue are the generic designators. The generic designators take into consideration the general style of construction and purpose of the street. Street-naming policies provide guidelines on the approved generic designators. For instance, the Los Angeles County Street

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Naming Policy document (1999), the Policy Framework on Naming and Renaming of Streets and Public Places in Lukhanji Municipality (n.d.), Mangaung Local Municipality Policy of Public Places and Street Naming (2012), and the Hanover County Property Numbering and Street Naming Manual (2009) explain the various generic designations of streets as follows: (a) An alley: a service street for the rear of lots, less than 30 feet in width. (b) Avenue: a broad/wide attractive city street lined with trees on both sides and on a smaller scale than a boulevard. (c) Boulevard: a broad/wide primary road usually a traffic artery or primary road lined with trees on both sides. (d) Byway: a narrow obscure street probably private or a subsidiary way. (e) Bypass: a wide road which bypasses a densely populated suburban area to allow traffic to flow past with fewer delays. (f) Circle: a circular junction of streets or highways or a circular street or a street that intersects the same street twice and does not extend beyond the street it intersects. (g) Close: a blind alley. (h) Court: a rectangular pocket off a public way or a ‘dead end’ street. (i) Crescent: a semi-ring road or street with an arc, which subtends an angle of less than 180 degrees. (j) Drive: a recreational or scenic way or a road through a park or a picturesque route, or private carriageway to a dwelling. (k) Freeway: a dual carriageway with grade separated intersections and interchanges at 5-kilometre intervals. (l) Highway: a publicly owned and maintained way with interurban directness and arterial importance through several cities or communities. (m) Lane: a narrow informal street/passageway/road/trail usually for service vehicles only or a reduced right-of-way branching from courts, places or ways. (n) Loop: a circumferential way. A street or way which returns into itself. (o) Motorway: a truck trail or trail through mountainous terrain, usually for fire equipment usage or service access, e.g. power lines, but not for public use. (p) Place: a short street or court. Also used to refer to the junction on several highways.

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(q) Road: a public way or highway connecting two or more settlements or towns generally bearing the name or names of the settlements connected. It is used to describe thoroughfares outside built-up areas. (r) Street: a road in the city or town serving houses, businesses, shops, etc. It is also said to be a public way 40 or more feet wide, used to give pedestrian and vehicular traffic access to the various parcels of land making up a community. (s) Terrace: a short hillside street or a street on a terraced hill. (t) Trail: a pedestrian way through mountainous territory. A rough path in wild country. A public way following a historical route. (u) Walk: a pedestrian way. (v) Way: a narrow road or highway. Our inquiry into the usage of generic designators in street naming in Lusaka has revealed that, in some instances, these generic designators are used inappropriately. Hence, the use of generic terms in street naming in Lusaka can be confusing and blurred and may not be a good indicator of the size, design or purpose of the street. For example, in Chelstone township, we came across the street names Baobab Avenue and Acacia Avenue. The generic names for these streets seem to have been misapplied because these streets do not have the horticultural features that are supposed to characterise avenues. We also came across roads such as Addis Ababa Drive and Palm Drive which do not qualify to be referred to as drives as they do not have some of the stipulated requisite characteristics of a drive such as that they should be recreational or scenic roads that run through parks. There was also the misapplication of generic names for streets, such as Freedom Way, which do not have the features characteristic of this generic name, that is, a narrow road or highway. There are also instances where the local authorities use some generic designators interchangeably for the same street. A case in point is Addis Ababa Road which was labelled Addis Ababa Street in another signage along the same road. This could be indicative of a lack of proper guidelines with respect to street naming in the country.

Themes in the Street Names Postcolonial Zambia manifests different street-naming patterns. Our probe reveals that a better way of understanding the street-naming patterns is to consider their etymology. In this regard, there are some street names

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whose etymology is obvious, while in some instances it is obscure or even unknown. However, our data has indicated that street names in some parts of Lusaka display different patterns which could be grouped into different thematic categories as will be discussed in the sections below. We also noticed some instances where there were attempts to use names with a particular theme for some specific locations. However, in most such cases, consistency could not be sustained, as some names that did not fit neatly into the intended themes were also used. The street names can generally be put into the thematic categories discussed below.

Botanic Theme In this category, we came across names of streets derived from tree species. This was the case in a location referred to as Chelstone, a medium-density area which exhibited street names such as Acacia Road, Mopani Road, Lemonwood Road, Palm Drive, Baobab Drive, etc. Our observation of the local environment in this location revealed that the only justification for giving these names was the desire to have a botanic theme that reflected the various types of trees we have in our county. Hence, we did not see any evidence of the existence of any of these types of trees in the location.

Wildlife Theme The wildlife theme was manifested in street names based on names of wild animals. Zambia is endowed with a variety of wildlife found in its many national parks. One specific low-density area called Kabulonga had a good number of its street names based on animals. These included street names such as Roan Road, Kudu Road, Cheetah Road, Leopards Hill Road, Sable Road, etc. The choice of names of Zambian wildlife for street names for this location was motivated by the desire to celebrate and appreciate the variety of wildlife we have in the country.

Commemorative Street Naming Theme Commemorative street naming is a situation where street names are given in remembrance or honour of certain individuals or events in the history of societies. Commemorative street naming is a very common phenomenon in most countries. This practice has been characteristic of street-naming practices and patterns in most African countries with their attainment of independence. Reference can be made to South Africa, Namibia and

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Zimbabwe whereupon attainment of independence there were or have been endeavours to rename streets with names of political heroes in the new dispensation, that is, the ruling parties in the postcolonial governments (Turner, 2009, with reference to South Africa; Pfukwa, 2012, with reference to Zimbabwe). In this respect, for instance, Pfukwa (2012) reports on street names given to some streets in Harare in commemoration of Zimbabwean nationalists or African leaders (p. 119). In Zambia, commemorative street-naming has resulted in the naming of streets after certain categories of individuals considered heroes or heroines as they have made some significant contribution to Zambian society. These include politicians, sports people, traditional leaders, etc. In one medium-density area called Nyumba Yanga, most streets are named after the Zambian footballers and officials that died in the Gabon air disaster of 1993. 1 Some of the street names reflected in this location include these fallen sports heroes such as Numba Mwila, Efford Chabala, John Soko and Derby Makinka, who were footballers, coaching staff such as Godfrey Chitalu and Alex Chola, and Football Association officials such as Michael Mwape. We, however, came across a situation where even though there was one theme running through most street names in the suburb, there were some instances where the theme was interspersed with street names that did not fit into the theme of fallen football heroes. For instance, in Nyumba Yanga, such names included Liteta Close (named after Chief Liteta) and Mbala Close (named after a town in the Northern Province of Zambia). This was the case for most other suburbs where there was some attempt to give names based on certain themes. We were unable to obtain any explanation from the council officials as to why there was this variation. Most local authorities name streets after individuals posthumously, as was the case with the names of the sports heroes discussed above. However, this is not always the case in Lusaka, as we came across the names of individuals that were still alive given to streets. In cases where the named individuals were still alive, these tended to be politicians. In this respect, we came across the following names: Gore Brown (named after Gordon 1

This was the disaster where the plane that was carrying the Zambian national football team players, coaches and Football Association of Zambia officials, who were on their way to Dakar, Senegal, for a FIFA World Cup qualifying match, crashed in the Atlantic Ocean offshore from Libreville, Gabon, killing everybody on board.

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Brown, the former British Prime Minister) and Thabo Mbeki (the former South African President). Other politicians and famous people whose names were given to streets posthumously include the following: Lumumba Road (a freedom fighter from the Democratic Republic of Congo), Alick Nkhata Road (a famous broadcaster), Yotam Muleya Road (a famous marathon runner) and Indira Gandhi Road (a renowned Indian politician). Some of the commemorative street naming is meant to archive some important events in the country. We saw a reflection of this in street names such as Chachacha Road (chachacha was a civil disobedience campaign staged by Africans in the run-up to independence in Zambia), Freedom way, Independence Avenue and Kwacha Road (kwacha refers to the new dawn associated with Zambia’s political freedom), etc. These particular names are associated with the independence struggle and the attainment of independence for Zambia. All these names have been given to streets to commemorate Zambia’s independence or independence struggle. They also serve as an archival record of what went on during this struggle. At the time of the attainment of independence, commemorative street naming served the purpose of getting rid of the names that carried the stigma of colonialism. Some examples of street names that changed in this category, as obtained from Hilton (1966) and the City Engineers Department (1969), include the following: (a) William Street to Ben Bella Road. (b) Jameson Street to Katunjila Road. (c) Rhodes Street to Katondo Road. (d) Codrington Street to Nkwazi Road. (e) Roberts Street to Kalundwe Road. (f) Coventry Street to Kalambo Road. (g) Livingstone Road to Chachacha Road. (h) David Livingstone Road to United Nations Avenue. (i) Wembley Road to called Kwacha Road. (j) Rodrick Street to Washama Road. (k) Manchester Street to Malambo Road. (l) Bristol Street to Sheki-sheki Road. (m) Shakespeare Road to Mosi-o-tunya Road. As can be seen from the examples above, the changed names had some connection with the British colonisation of the country. The name

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Livingstone is associated with the British explorer who is historically recorded as the first white man to see the Victoria Falls. Shakespeare is a famous British playwright. The names Manchester, Wembley, Bristol and Coventry were given in commemoration of the names of other cities with such names in the United Kingdom. However, we were not able to obtain any informative documentation or information on the origins of most of the names of the individuals used to name streets during the colonial dispensation. We hope to probe further into this in the next phase of our research. With regard to the format of the streets named after individuals, there is a general tendency to use both the first and the surname of such individuals. However, there are some instances where only the surname is used. We did not come across any case of the use of the first name only. Consider the following as examples: Alick Nkhata Road, Omelo Mumba Road and Dunduza Chisidza Road as opposed to Lumumba Road or Churchill Road. We were not able to obtain any explanation as to why this was the case from the city council officials or the documentation that was available. Hence, there is a need for the city to maintain some form of uniformity in the composition and length of such names. Since most famous people are usually known by their surnames, it would be better to use their surnames. In addition, we would recommend the use of only one name so that the street names are not unnecessarily long. What is also interesting to note is that street renaming has been an ongoing process, and some renamed streets have had to be renamed again. Some political changes on the international scene have attracted changes in some street names. This seems to be the case with Saddam Hussein Road, which has been renamed as Los Angeles Boulevard. The road was initially named in honour of the former Libyan leader, Saddam Hussein, by Zambia’s former president, Kenneth Kaunda who was on very good terms with him. But, after Dr Kaunda was no longer in power and Saddam Hussein fell out of favour with the Western world, the country also found it prudent to change this name. The name Los Angeles Boulevard was given to this street to reflect the bilateral relations between the City of Lusaka and the City of Los Angeles. The two cities are twinned.

Directional Street Naming Some street names in Lusaka City are directional street names in that such names are indicative of the destination to which the road leads to. These include Mumbwa road (a road leading to Mumbwa district), Mongu Road

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(a road leading to Mongu district), Kafue Road (a road leading to Kafue District), Kabwe Road (a road leading to Kabwe district), Great North Road (a road leading to the northern part of the country) and Great East Road (a road leading to the eastern part of the country), etc. The concept ‘great’ is used with reference to these roads because they are the longest roads in the country. The Great North Road runs from Lusaka City to the northernmost part of the country. It is the road that will eventually lead to Zambia’s northern neighbour, Tanzania. Equally, the Great East Road runs from Lusaka city to the easternmost part of the country up to Malawi, Zambia’s eastern neighbour. Our research revealed that, for the directional street names, a road can switch names multiple times as local opinion changes regarding its destination or source. For instance, for someone in Lusaka, the road leading to Kafue is referred to as Kafue Road; yet for someone situated in Kafue and headed for Lusaka, the same road assumes the name Lusaka Road. Equally, the same road becomes Mazabuka Road when one is in Kafue headed for Mazabuka. In Mazabuka, the same road becomes Monze Road as the next town along the road is Monze. Another interesting aspect we discovered about directional street names is that these names may in some cases be informal or unofficial names of the roads. For instance, Kabwe road is officially Great North Road but the former name is what most people use to refer to this road. These roads can also be said to be named after the areas or districts that they connect. Kafue Road or Lusaka Road, depending on where one is, is so called because it links the city of Lusaka and Kafue town. It was interesting to note that some directional street names changed in particular locations. For instance, Kabwe Road/Kafue Road/Great North Road becomes Cairo Road around the Lusaka town centre.

Nicknaming Some streets are known equally or better by names other than their official names. For instance, in Avondale, one of the medium-density suburbs, we came across the name Kamtengo (‘small tree’) having been given by the residents to one of the roads branching off from Gardenia Road because it branches off from Gardenia Road at a place where there is a tree and a bus stop, also named Pakamtengo (‘at the small tree’). There is also the case of Kalikiliki Road being used in place of the official name, Mosi Road. In this case, the road is called Kalikiliki Road because it is the road that

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branches off the main Ibex Hill Road, leading to a compound called Kalikiliki. It is also common in some places to shorten the names of streets which have long names. For example, Churchill Road is now commonly known as Church Road. This seems to have resulted in the obscurity of the commemorative function of this street name. In this case, this has been exacerbated by the fact that on this street there are two churches, the United Church of Zambia and the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. Hence, most people associate this name with the location of these churches on this street and not the former British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, after whom it is named.

Multiple Street Naming We have used the term multiple street-naming to refer to a situation where residents use more than one name to refer to the same road. Some of these multiple names could be attributed to the existence of un-gazetted directional street names, as discussed above. For instance, the road starting from Kafue roundabout going to Chilanga and Kafue is officially called Great North Road, but people commonly call it Kafue Road or Chilanga Road. Sometimes this leads to multiple street names where one is the formal and official street name, while the others are informal and unofficial street names. Most local authorities, including Lusaka City Council, do not allow multiple street names. However, sometimes these do occur for various reasons. For instance, a street may have multiple names because the official name may be un-gazetted and the local people may not be aware of it. Sometimes it could be due to the fact that a name has been changed and the old name still holds in the eyes of the public, due to public resistance or difficulty adjusting to the new name. This seems to be the case for the following roads: (a) Kalingalinga Road which is officially Kamloops Road. (b) Mass Media Road which is officially Alick Nkhata Road. (c) Chestone Road which is officially Great East Road. (d) Chilanga or Kafue Road which is officially Great North Road. In the case of Kalingalinga Road, Chelstone Road and Kafue Road, these are referred to as such because of the residential areas they head into. There is also Mass Media Road whose name derives from the fact that it is

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the road on which the mass media complex, which houses the national radio and television stations, is situated. The existence of multiple names can result from attitudinal issues or rejection of a given name by residents. Street renaming can be controversial because of antipathy toward the new name, the overturning of a respected traditional name, or confusion from the altering of a familiar name. Sometimes the rejection of a new street name could be due to the fact that the former name is more user-friendly and makes navigation easy. In such cases, the locals may prefer to use the old names. This seems to be the case with Kamloops Road, which people still prefer to call Kalingalinga Road. The name Kalingalinga Road is also more indicative of the location. In fact, some of our respondents did not even know that Kalingalinga Road was Kamloops Road. The name Kamloops Road derives from a city in Canada with which Lusaka City has links. In some cases, multiple names arise due to a lack of designated street names by the council, meaning residents have come up with their own unofficial street names. For instance, we came across a number of unofficial names that residents have given to some roads in Avondale and Chainama Presidential Housing Initiative (PHI) suburbs. As indicated above, in Avondale there is a road unofficially called Kamtengo, emanating from a bus stop where there is a tree as this particular road branches off from this bus stop. In Chainama, we came across a road that has been given two names by the residents. These are Breakthrough Road and Esther Phiri Road. These names have been given to the same road because on one side of the road there is a church called Breakthrough Church and on the other side, there is a house for Esther Phiri, the famous Zambian female boxer. This use of unofficial street names is as a result of some of the inefficiencies of the councils and city planners where roads in some well-established suburbs are without street names even when the suburbs have been in existence for a long time. In PHI, the streets are not yet named despite the fact that this suburb has been in existence since the nineties. Hence, when the council eventually gives official names to these roads, these unofficial names are likely to persist. There is yet another interesting scenario where the same name is officially given to two different streets. For instance, in Jesmondine suburb, we came across a case where two branching roads were both called Central Street. There is the main Central Street, which branches off from Great East Road, and as the road progresses into the residential area it forks into two separate roads, both of which are also referred to as Central Street.

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This creates confusion for road users, especially if there are some properties bearing the same plot or house numbers on the two roads which bear the same name.

Symbolism Some street names can become metonyms and stand for whole types of businesses or ways of life. While streets can be named after the neighbourhoods they run through, the reverse process also takes place, with a neighbourhood taking its name from a street. Consider, for example, the case of the University of Zambia, which is sometimes just called Great East Road Campus because of the fact that it is located on the Great East Road, hence deriving its name from the road where it is situated. We also came across the cases of Cairo Chemist and Chachacha Pharmacy, which are located on Cairo Road and Chachacha Road, respectively.

Miscellaneous Street Naming We use the category miscellaneous street naming to refer to street naming which does not follow any particular theme. Such names are derived from various sources. In this category, we came across the names of chiefs such as Sianjalika and Lewanika Roads in Woodlands, rivers such as Zambezi Road in Kalundu, traditional ceremonies such as Kuomboka Avenue in Woodlands, names of other cities such as Senanga and Lubumbashi Roads in Handsworth, and Cairo Road in the town centre, etc.

Concluding Observations From the discussion above, it can be noticed that street naming is a very elaborate process that requires the cooperation of all stakeholders. Street naming also reflects the society’s values and social beliefs. However, our study has established that most Zambian people are ignorant about the process, procedure and value of street names and naming. This has been exacerbated by the fact that there seems to be no proper policy document that outlines the process, procedures and other issues related to street names and naming in Lusaka. This seems to be the case for all city councils in the country. There is, therefore, a need for the city council to come up with such very important documentation.

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Our research has also proved that there are a lot of problems with respect to street naming in Lusaka. For instance, we came across many situations where some residential areas have been in existence for a long time and yet do not have street names. These include suburbs such as PHI and Chalala. In some cases, the official street names are there but these only exist on paper and the residents do not know of them because there is no signage in these residential areas to display the official road names. This has resulted in residents coming up with their own names for some streets. There is, therefore, a need for local authorities to plan for street names as they plan for the creation of new residential areas. Another problem noted was with regard to street signage, which does not exist for most streets. This resulted in a situation where some residents did not know the official names of their streets and hence resorted to the use of unofficial street names. This also makes it difficult for the provision of municipal services such as engineering services, billing for rates, provision of municipal services, provision of emergency services (fire and ambulance rescue), effective delivery of mail and easy location of places by visitors. We have also observed that the city planners haphazardly use the street generic designators such as street, road, avenue and boulevard. These are misapplied or wrongly used interchangeably in some instances. There is a need to rectify this for easy of identification of streets. Poor record keeping was a major challenge in our research. There seems to be no office at the council that is designated to handle issues relating to street naming. As a result, we kept on being sent from one office to another as we tried to look for information for our study. In some countries, street naming is a national matter where all stakeholders such as academicians, engineers, local authorities, politicians and residents are involved. One such example is South Africa. In such cases, street naming involves a consultative process where academicians and researchers are sent out to get the views of the public in the process of street naming. Sometimes meetings, workshops and even conferences are held to obtain feedback from stakeholders on matters of street naming. This is not the case in Zambia where, even though the council regulations provide for the need to consult residents in the process of street naming, this is usually never the case, as the names of streets are in most instances devised without consulting the residents. Moreover, even if our investigations established that the council provides for residents to suggest street names, the residents did not seem to have ever used this provision, as in most

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townships we investigated we did not come across any names of streets that had been suggested by residents. Hence, decisions on street naming are usually effected following a top-down approach.

References Boyatzis, R. (1998). Transforming qualitative information: Thematic analysis and code development. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Braun, V. & Clarke, V. (2006). Using thematic analysis in psychology. Qualitative Research in Psychology, 3(2), pp. 77–101 City Engineers Department. (1969). City Council of Lusaka New Street Names Map. Lusaka: City Council of Lusaka. City of Cape Town Policy on Street Naming and Numbering. (2002). [Online] Available from http://www.capetown.gov.za/en/planningandbuilding/Publications/Doc uments/Street_NamingNumbering_Policy.pdf. [Accessed: 29 November 2013]. Frith, H. & Gleeson, K. (2004). Clothing and embodiment: Men managing body image and appearance. Psychology of Men and Masculinity, 5(1), pp. 40–8. Hanover County Property Numbering and Street Naming Manual, United States of America. (2009). [Online] Available from http://www.co.hanover.va.us/planning/pforms/manual.pdf [Accessed: 20 November 2013]. Hayes, N. (1997). Theory-led thematic analysis: Social identification in small companies. In N. Hayes (Ed.), Doing Qualitative Analysis in Psychology. Hove: Psychology Press: Hilton, J.A. (1966). Acquisition of Land for Possible Motor Ways – City of Lusaka. Lusaka: City of Lusaka. Los Angeles County Street Name Policy. (1999). [Online] Available from http://dpw.lacounty.gov/services/roads/streetname/policy [Accessed: 15 November 2013]. Luton Borough Council Street Name and Numbering Policy. (n.d.). [Online] Available from http://www.luton.gov.uk/Environment/Lists/LutonDocuments/PDF/Pla nning/GIS%20Team/Street%20Name%20and%20Numbering%20Poli cy.pdf [Accessed: 20 October 2013]. Mangaung Local Municipality Policy of Public Places and Street Naming, South Africa. (2012). [Online] Available from http://www.mangaung.co.za/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/Public-Placesand-Street-Naming-Policy-2012.pdf [Accessed: 15 October 2013].

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Memphis and Shelby County Street Naming Guider. (n.d.). [Online] Available from http://www.mlgw.com/images/content/files/pdf/StreetNamingGuidelin es.pdf [Accessed: 5 October 2013]. Mungenda O.M. & Mungenda, A.G. (2003). Research Methods: Quantitative and Qualitative Approaches. Nairobi: African Centre for Technology Studies Press. Patton, M.Q. (1990). Qualitative Evaluation and Research Methods. London: Sage. Pavlenko, A. (2007). Autobiographic Narratives as data. Multilingual Matters, 28(2), pp. 163–188. Pfukwa, C. (2012). Taking to the streets: an onomastic analysis of selected suburbs of the city of Harare, Zimbabwe. Nomina Africana, 26(1), pp. 113–121. The Policy Framework on Naming and Renaming of Streets and Public Places in Lukhanji Municipality, South Africa. (n.d.). [Online] Available from http://www.lukhanji.co.za/Documents/POLICY%20FRAMEWORK% 20ON%20NAMING%20AND%20RENAMING%20OF%20STREET S%20AND%20PUBLI.pdf. [Accessed: 1 October 2013]. Turner, N. (2009). Odonymic warfare; the process of renaming streets in Durban, South Africa. Nomina Africana, 23(1), pp. 91–112.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SUBURBAN BLIGHT: PERPETUATING COLONIAL MEMORY THROUGH NAMING IN MUTARE, ZIMBABWE JACOB MAPARA AND SHUMIRAI NYOTA

Introduction This chapter focuses on the names in cities (urbonyms) of four suburbs, roads and streets in the City of Mutare, Manicaland, in eastern Zimbabwe. There are many place names in Zimbabwe, especially in cities, that will remind one of the foreign geography and history that formed part of the curriculum of Zimbabwean schools during the colonial era. Markedly, this naming practice is devoid of anything relating to the physical, human or economic geography of the land or with the cultural traditions of Zimbabwe, as the practice is connected to the colonial past. Place names in present-day Mutare still bear the names of foreigners, especially prominent Europeans and Americans and also Western-named physical and manmade landmarks. This naming practice is common in all cities of Zimbabwe and those of former colonial Africa. The researchers chose Mutare as the place for the case study for various reasons: the city’s geographical landscape shows a heavy colonial footprint, and the city has strong ties with some of the colonial pioneers such as Cecil John Rhodes. Rhodes, for whom Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) was named, had his holiday home in Nyanga, a settlement north of Mutare, where the Nyanga Rhodes Hotel still stands today. The hotel is also situated in the Nyanga National Park, which was formerly known as Rhodes-Nyanga National Park. Other reminders of Cecil Rhodes’ influence in the city of Mutare include Cecil Kop National Park and Nature Reserve, which are on the outskirts of the city. Mutare is also home to Fairbridge Memorial Park and Fairbridge Suburb, both of which are

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named after Kingsley Ogilvie Fairbridge who promoted the migration of British youths throughout the British Empire. Another reason why the researchers chose Mutare is that it is the home city of one of the researchers who grew up admiring the modernity and exotic names of the suburbs but who now perceives it as a form of identicide. This chapter explores the naming practice which was ushered in by colonialism and has continued more than three decades after the attainment of political independence that now sees most city and town councils being led by the formerly oppressed. The intention of the research is to understand the relationship between place names and identity in Mutare with particular reference to the cultural and political significance of retaining place names steeped in a bygone colonial era.

Conceptual Frameworks This chapter has benefited from the insights of using conceptual frameworks, which include Meharg’s notion of identicide and Nora’s concept of memory loss. According to Meharg: ‘identicide’ encompasses the destruction of any or all of the particular qualities that make up, not necessarily the actual elimination of people, but rather, the places which they have constructed over time and in which they habitually live, and their customary and routinised social practices. (2006, p. 1)

This concept by Meharg is akin to Nora’s (1996) concept of loss of memory and also to what Ngugi (1987) describes as ‘cultural bomb’ in his famous book Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. Ngugi goes on further to lament the loss of African indigenous memory when he lambasts the Kenyan Parliament for voting to ban African languages in public, a thing that the colonial government never did. He puts the bulk of the blame on the African middle class when he states, ‘The African middle class is running from their languages’ (Ngugi, 2012, p. 24). Ngugi’s observation is pertinent to what is being explored in this chapter in that it highlights the fact that any effort to mime the former colonisers is a pointer to the loss of identity and national memory. One effective way of doing this is to continue hanging on to the place names of the former colonisers. This is, of course, besides dumping indigenous languages. Nora (1996, p. 26) also argues on the importance of memory to people and states: ‘We speak so much of memory because there is so little of it left’. What is coming out clearly from Nora is that memory is elusive.

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Even though that may be the case, one may, therefore, be led to ask the question: What is memory? It is simply the faculty or ability to remember. The researchers go on to observe that this faculty of remembering is aided by different devices that include games, songs, anthroponyms, names or nicknames and nom de guerres, in the case of those involved with liberation war armies and place names. However, it is urban toponyms (urbonyms) that are the focus of this chapter. The researchers use the notions of identicide and memory loss to establish the said naming practice’s impact on the norms and values which the indigenous Zimbabweans constructed over time and passed on from generation to generation. They use the notions to find out how much of the particular qualities making up the places – that is, the things made over time or inherited – the Zimbabweans, in general, and the people of Mutare, in particular, are able to remember using foreign names. In most African societies, naming is a serious act. It is not something that occurs spontaneously. If anything, the most important thing to note about names is that the very act of naming is not neutral since it is attached to history, social context, families and individuals, as well as communities which include, among others, races and ethnic groups. Because names are not arbitrary labels, this explains why there is always a contest of naming and renaming especially when there is a new political dispensation. It is the realisation that naming is a political statement and that people often notice naming and renaming exercises. A good example of such a case is that of South Africa, where the act of renaming cities and other places has created an outcry, especially from the white quarter of the population who are of the opinion that the exercise is not necessary. Lubbe (2011, p. 43), for example, observes that in South Africa, ‘name changes have elicited vehement reactions’. Even though that is the case, according to Sylvester (cited in Lubbe, 2011, p. 60), name changes occur and are necessary: To recognise that we are a new society based on a new set of values, to reflect the changed political environment in which we live and to remove from our maps those names [that are] offensive or hurtful.

For the likes of Sylvester, renaming is an act of justice because it is a process of reinstalling some people back into the national memory.

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Naming As a Mnemonic Device Mnemonic devices assist people in memory retention and memory recall. If reference is made to mnemonic devices at a national level, then the understanding is that one will be talking of devices meant to entrench people’s memories on issues that are significant to them socio-politically, historically and culturally as a nation. These may include but are not confined to: monuments, physical and man-made features, and places in general. The way these are named by a people often helps them to remember their historical, social, economic and cultural significance. A few examples from the Shona people will suffice. For instance, the town whose name is now mispronounced as Károi was formerly pronounced as Kàròì with tone patterns that brought out the meaning behind the name. This city derived its name from a nearby river into which those caught bewitching others (varoyi meaning ‘witches’) were thrown as a punishment for their evil deeds. The name of the river was then supposed to be a deterrent to would-be witches as it was a mnemonic device reminding people living in that particular area of the fate that could be meted out on those found guilty of such nefarious and heinous acts. Another name that echoes a similar meaning and fate that witches would face is Gandavaroyi, meaning ‘throw the witches’. It is believed that, owing to tsetse flies, this place in Gokwe was not suitable for human habitation; however, anyone who was found guilty of witchcraft was sent there as punishment. Another example is the forest in Gokwe named Nyaradza (meaning ‘make quiet’) where people were forcibly settled in the thick forests of Gokwe during the colonial era to make way for settler farmers. However, these forests were teeming with dangerous wild animals such that, passing through the forests on foot, which was the commonest means of transport for the resettled locals, was supposed to be done quietly for fear of attracting the marauding animals. Thus, the name reminded one of the dangers and potential death that one could encounter in these forests. Many other examples of Shona names serve as memory aids for what the place was known for. For instance, the mining town of Zvishavane, meaning ‘reddish in colour’, was so named because of the alluvial gold deposits found there. The town was then renamed Mashava because of the same red soils. Such names are significant as they help memorise important places or things for the local people

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Colonial Memory Although some scholars like Lubbe (2011) argue that renaming cities and other cultural landscapes is unnecessary since blacks did not have cities and towns, it has to be observed that these very cities were built on places that had indigenous names (Lubbe 2011, pp. 43–66). It is, therefore, arguable that these names should have been used, as is the case with Zambia where Lusaka is named after a chief who at one time held his chiefdom in the area that is occupied by Zambia’s capital today. It can be said that names are sentences in miniature. In fact, Pfukwa (2012, p. vii) sums up names as short texts that are used as strategies of remembering the beautiful and the ugly. They carry the baggage of each people’s history or the history of those who do the naming. It is, therefore, important to note that when the British colonisers came, they also used names, among other things, as a mnemonic device, and it was not by accident that the names that they used were not indigenous. They were names that evoked memories of empire and home. Colonial memory can thus be seen through the different names that they gave to objects such as buildings, roads, bridges, residential and industrial areas and the surrounding natural environs. Some names were of other places where the British had established colonies. Two good examples are found in Manicaland outside the City of Mutare. There is Burma Valley, named after Burma (now Myanmar), in Asia, and Himalayas, named yet again after the Himalayas of Asia. These places were named by veterans of the Second World War who got farms in these respective areas. It is, therefore, clear that the British colonist who occupied the Zimbabwean landscape and built cities like Mutare, which they called Umtali, did not engage with the landscape, as Koopman (2011, pp. 90–119) would put it. He states, ‘[i]n onomastic terms, the English-speakers appear reluctant to leave the “old country” behind, and reluctant to engage with Africa’ (2011, p. 112).

Colonial Naming Patterns Lubbe sums up the importance of political power in naming when he states: Moreover, a relationship exists between language and its socio-political context. Thus, language communicates and reinforces ideologies and relative powers – and specifically, political power relationships. (2011, p. 43)

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Although Lubbe is making reference to the current name changes that are taking place in South Africa and have caused some friction among some communities, his words are also relevant to the Zimbabwean scenario in as far as they relate to political power relations. It is, therefore, interesting to note that when the ‘Pioneer Column’ sent by Rhodes’ chartered company established itself in the land that the white settlers were soon to call southern Rhodesia in honour of their sponsor and leader, they started naming and renaming the landscape mostly in English names or some of the names of those who were the leaders of the colonial enterprise. The practice included the naming of buildings, which were given names of the colonists’ heroes (such as Lord Salisbury who was British Premier when the Pioneer Column entered Zimbabwe), as well as the naming of suburbs, roads and street names, which were a reflection of the situation back home or of the aspirations of the colonisers, but always with an inclination towards the mother country or of places in other colonies. The Rhodesians, through this naming act, ensured that colonial memory also became public memory. It furthermore became part of the memory of the colonised. Through this same naming practice, they were making a political statement as well – that they were now the ones who had the reins of power in their hands. As a Mnemonic device, the colonists’ naming practice was purposeful. It helped their retention of the value of the metropolis to the colony. In addition, names were used to honour their heroes both back home or in the colony. They could also give names that were found in other colonies. For example, in Mutare, there is a park named Fairbridge Memorial Gardens and a low-density suburb also by the same name, Fairbridge Park. Both the memorial park and the suburb are named in honour of Kingsley Fairbridge who aggressively promoted British imperialism and migration to Rhodesia and other parts of the British Empire. Their naming was also a yearning for home. That explains why one area was called New England and why, for example, some roads in Yeovil, Mutare, were given such names as Leeds, Cornwall, Hampshire, Morris Place and Somerset. The same can be said of American cities such as New York, Durham etc. The colonists identified and created places and monuments that reminded them of their homes and their origins. This was despite the fact that some of the things and objects they named already had names relevant and were significant to the locals. This ignorance of the British colonists is amplified by Jenkins (cited in Koopman, 2011, p. 113) who observes that, unlike English names in South Africa, Dutch/Afrikaans names are like Zulu ones because they

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are linked to the local landscape, which is quite unlike English ones that, he states, hark back to Britain and are nostalgic.

Renaming The end of colonialism has seen an attempt by the once-colonised countries at renaming their environments using indigenous names, a move that can be described as the reversal of the colonial naming practice. It is also an indication that power relations have changed. This, however, has been done only with reference to cities and towns and not to residential areas except a Harare high-density suburb that was rechristened Mbare. Perhaps this is because its name was taken and used to replace Salisbury, which was the former name of the capital. The researchers describe this as a half-hearted attempt because, as will be shown, it was neither done systematically nor wholeheartedly as some places retained the foreign names given by the former colonisers. Yet some streets and roads that are found in former white residential areas, such as Borrowdale in Harare, and Hillside in Bulawayo, were not renamed. Those that were renamed, and continue to be renamed, are street names in the central business districts of the cities and towns. The names of the former whites-only suburbs that are occupied by the present ruling black elite, however, have remained unchanged. The same is true of the former townships which are now called high-density suburbs, with the exception of Mbare, as already observed above. Some such examples include Rhodene in Masvingo, Bellevue in Bulawayo, Southdowns in Gweru and Vainona in Harare. Most street names in former white suburbs, such as the Chase and Mt Pleasant in Harare, remain unchanged. Some towns, such as Redcliff, Victoria Falls, Beit Bridge and Norton, have also retained their colonial names.

Naming in Mutare This research analysed five suburbs in Mutare that represent the continued celebration of colonial memory through their place names and those of their streets. These are Fairbridge Park, Greenside, Hospital Hill, Westlea and Yeovil. This celebration continues even more than 30 years after the attainment of self-rule and also despite the indigenisation legislation that brings the black population into the mainstream economy. The names of the suburbs themselves are a continuation of the colonists’ choice of names, despite the end of colonial rule. Most colonists have left the country with the coming of black rule. To a critical observer, the colonial names are a sad reminder of former white rule instead of a reminder of

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black freedom. Such a state of affairs shows self-denial. In the words of Vandercook (1926), ‘a race is like a man. Until it uses its own talents, takes pride in its own history, and loves its own memories, it can never fulfil itself completely’. Vandercook (1926) shows the importance of memory in the lives and history of any people. What it means, therefore, is that any nation without a memory is as good as non-existent. One way of telling the nation’s history is through names. This chapter wishes to re-establish the thinking on the continued use of colonial names in the areas of Mutare city that are being explored here. The tragic aspect is that most blacks like these names. Some are even oblivious to the implications of the names that their suburbs carry. This is proof of the effects of what Ngugi (1987) calls ‘the cultural bomb’ inflicted on blacks by the colonisers, the effects of which he sadly sees as even more dangerous than those of physical bombs that were unleashed on the indigenous people, mainly unarmed and defenceless women and children during the armed struggles that brought political independence to colonised African states. Ngugi further argues that political and economic control could never be complete without cultural and mental control, such as the cultural bomb that can shock, weaken and destroy a people’s land and culture. The data on some of these names that were gathered and analysed by researchers are presented in the next section.

Research Methods As a means of carrying out the research, the researchers used the methodological triangulation scheme of questionnaires, interviews, and reading of literature that relates to memory and onomastics as well as the naming of landscapes in colonised areas. The researchers administered questionnaires to lecturers and students in Mutare, at Mary Mount Teachers’ College, Mutare Teachers’ College, the Zimbabwe Open University Manicaland Region Campus, as well as at Africa University. Africa University was considered of paramount importance because of its cosmopolitan student population. Others who were given questionnaires were Advanced Level teachers and students of history. Lecturers and students in these institutions were deliberately chosen because the researchers wanted to find out what people who are believed to have advanced academically think about the issue of the continued use of colonial names in an independent Zimbabwe, as stipulated in the Names

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Alteration Acts 4/1983, 31/1985, 8/1988; S.I.’s 594/1983, 116A/1985, 77/1988, 34A/1990, 71/1990, 88/1991 and 158/1997, which state: An Act to provide for the alteration and correction of the names of certain local authorities, institutions, statutory bodies, places, areas and companies within Zimbabwe; and to provide for matters connected with or incidental to the foregoing. [Date of commencement: 6th May, 1983.]

The problem of this Act is that it leaves the implementation to the Minister of Local Government, Rural and Urban Development, or any Minister to whom the President will assign the task from time to time. This, however, does not mean that local authorities and other interested parties cannot approach the Ministry and submit requests for name changes. The reality is that no one has really done that. The decision to use students as subjects was further necessitated by the realisation that all tertiary institutions in Zimbabwe, except for universities, now run a course called National Strategic Studies (NSS) that is largely a study of Zimbabwean history with a slant towards what Ranger calls ‘patriotic history’. The idea was, therefore, to find out how they perceive the act of continuously using colonial names. In addition to the Act and the NSS course, the researchers also realised that most senior and principal lecturers of Mutare teachers colleges as well as university lecturers stay in low-density areas such as Greenside, Hospital Hill and Fairbridge Park. They therefore wanted to find out how these people who have risen up the social ladder think about the names of the places they reside in and whether in the event of name changes such changes will diminish their property values. Besides the use of questionnaires, the researchers also used interviews. Those who were interviewed were City of Mutare residents who are broken down as follows: five from the high-density areas Chikanga, Dangamvura and Sakubva, as well as two each from the low-density areas of Fairbridge Park, Greenside, Hospital Hill, Westlea and Yeovil. Of those from the high-density areas, two were male, aged twenty-five and forty, while the females were a nineteen-year-old, a thirty-two-year-old, as well as a lady in her early fifties who did not state her actual age. The ten from the lowdensity areas were two teenagers of eighteen and nineteen, all male with two whites (one male and one female), all in their sixties. The remainder were two black males, one a retired civil servant and the other a business executive. The remaining were all female, one a nurse, aged thirty-six, another a primary school teacher in her forties, a high school teacher in her early fifties and a twenty-five-year-old who did not state her job.

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The study basically uses the qualitative approach. The method uses data to identify items, explain aspects of usage, and to provide real-life examples of usage. The inductive process of the qualitative method begins with general questions, collects huge amounts of data, observes this data carefully and then presents findings. These may conclude with tentative answers to what was observed (Glesne & Pesnkis, 1992). The advantage of using the qualitative method is that findings are descriptive (Leedy, 1997). Thus, it captures the vagueness and subjectivity of a language analytical study, like analysing the naming practices being focused on in this study. Interviews were as well carried out with some inhabitants of the City of Mutare who are generally referred to as ‘ordinary’ people. The term ‘ordinary’ is here very significant because it is generally used to refer to citizens who are perceived as not having much to contribute to the development or welfare of a given administrative area. Their only contribution is their vote. Outside elections, such people are seen as not deserving the ‘honour’ of being consulted.

Discussion of Other Responses The data gathered from the questionnaire and interviews were presented and analysed through the use of descriptive statistics. Open-ended questions were categorised and interpreted for possible generalisations. The results were presented in the order of the questions as follows. Question 1. Is there a relationship between naming and memory? This question solicited information on whether or not respondents see a relationship between naming and memory. Of almost all respondents, 98% said ‘yes’, there was a close relationship between naming and memory. They gave varied reasons and examples which showed how naming aided the name-givers and their newfound society to remember critical issues around them. Some of the recurrent reasons and examples given included: x Most people give their children names that remind them of landmarks in their individual/family or clan lives. Such landmarks include successes or failures, trials and tribulations. x Name changes that took place with the coming of independence in our country from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe are a reminder of the country’s history. x Roads that were renamed after former Black leaders like Kenneth Kaunda and Julius Nyerere are meant to remind Zimbabweans,

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including future generations, of those historical figures that helped Zimbabweans in their fight for political independence. x Some indigenous Zimbabweans have foreign surnames such as Dick and Thomas given to their forefathers by their colonial masters. Such names are a reminder that those forefathers once worked as domestic servants for the whites during colonialism and were denied the right to name themselves. Question 2. As a resident of Mutare, what names of residential areas and roads/streets quickly come to mind as English names or names linked to the English and other European languages or histories? Do you think that they inform residents of the memories of the former colonialists and other colonial enterprises? For this question, the respondents gave many foreign names that are given to some suburbs and streets of the city of Mutare. Most respondents, especially those who are residents of Mutare, know all these names judging by the numbers that individual respondents were able to list. Most of the students among them listed a few names. This is understandable because students in colleges and universities in Mutare are not necessarily permanent residents of that city. Examples given included: Fairbridge Park, Yeovil, Pasteur, Jenner, Lister and Currie. Question 3. In your opinion, does giving Shona names to streets and residential areas lower the standards of these areas? This question was solicited for attitudes of the respondents towards the use of an indigenous language in naming their residential areas and streets. The researchers wanted to see whether people’s attitudes towards language played a part in naming. Most of the student respondents (72%) felt that there was nothing wrong with giving Shona names to streets and residential areas. On the other hand, 98% of Mutare residents from the low-density residential suburbs felt that giving Shona names to streets and residential areas lowered the standards and value of properties in these areas. Many reasons were given by those who felt that Shona names lower the standards, and the most recurrent ones include: x Most sprawling suburbs of Zimbabwean cities have English names or names that sound English, for example, Borrowdale, Mount Pleasant, Belleview, Highlands. x English names for residential areas distinguish them from highdensity areas.

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x English names indicate a high socio-economic value of the property and of the residents. x Shona names are old-fashioned. Those who answered ‘No’ gave the following reasons, which are presented in order of those most frequently registered: x Shona names have a meaning for us, for example, the name ‘Robert Mugabe Way’ reminds people who Robert Mugabe is in Zimbabwe and the contribution he made towards the liberation of this country. x Shona names remind us of the historical events that have taken place. x Shona names remind us of our culture and help us pass on that culture and history to our children. x Shona names make us proud of who we are. x Shona names show us how we defeated colonialism since blacks now occupy residential areas that were ‘no-go areas’ for them before independence. x Those who prefer English names are colonised mentally. Question 4. What do some of these names relating to streets and residential areas mean to you as an individual? This was an open-ended question that asked for reactions to foreign names for street and residential areas. While respondents came up with different ideas, there were some recurring meanings, as recorded below: x x x x x x

English people once lived here. English people were more powerful than the locals. English people, not locals, gave these names. The English had their own reasons for giving these names. People of Mutare embrace names that are meaningless to them. Mutare residents prefer English names to their own.

Question 5. Would renaming these streets and residential areas using public figures from fields such as education, politics and the military, as well as the arts and business appeal to you? Most of the respondents were unanimous and all agreed that local names of achievers in the areas stated should be used to name residential places as well as roads and streets. Some, however, said that it was not

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appropriate to use names of living people but only those of people who have died.

Discussion of Results The respondents may not have first-hand information on the reasons for the colonial names of some of the suburbs and streets of Mutare but, as they pointed out in their responses to Question 4, above, some of them believed that the English had their own reasons for naming these areas. The low-density suburb of Fairbridge Park was named after Kingsley Ogilvie Fairbridge, who founded the ‘Fairbridge Society’, also known as the ‘Child Emigration Society’, where he proposed that the British Empire should be built up through the emigration of children from the United Kingdom to places such as Rhodesia, Australia and New Zealand. However, Jenkins (1997, p. 74) opines, ‘His longing to see white-owned farms was a reaction to this early rejection by alien black people and his devastating sense of loneliness’. In their responses to Question 5, most respondents unanimously agreed that the names of local achievers should be used as place names to honour them and to motivate the young to aspire to great heights. The respondents were aware that some of the roads and street names in this Mutare suburb celebrate English literary laureates such as William Shakespeare, William Wordsworth and Rudyard Kipling. Such names are a celebration and they commit to memory the names of these English achievers. Some of our interviewees wondered why neither the City Council nor the respective residents stop to think of their own literary laureates, such as Dambudzo Marechera, Charles Mungoshi, Kenneth Bepswa, or even continental African artistic giants, such as Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiong’o and Mongo Beti, to mention just a few. Marechera, Mungoshi and Bepswa are all linked to Manicaland Province. Marechera was born in Rusape and went to St. Augustine’s High School in Penhalonga. Mungoshi was born in Chivhu but, like Marechera, he also attended St. Augustine’s High School. These two writers have put Zimbabwe on the world map, and yet the City of Mutare has failed to honour them. Kenneth Bepswa was one of the pioneering Shona novelists who wrote Ndakamuda Dakara Afa (meaning, I loved her till death) in 1960. He hails from the Mutasa district, which was carved out for the City of Mutare, and Fairbridge Park is located in what was formerly Mutasa’s land. But he has not been honoured in this way.

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This researcher is not suggesting that only literary luminaries who have some attachments to the province should have streets named after them. Rather, they are suggesting some of the reasons why some streets have to be renamed in honour of these writers, as in the case of Fairbridge Park. In an interview with one of the researchers on 8th March, 2012, the Town Clerk, Mr. Obert Muzawazi stated that these are the names that the people wanted. It is essential for councils to get out and ask the people the significance of names that their suburbs and streets bear. This is necessary so as to assist residents and enable councils to give more relevant names, just as older suburbs have had extensions added to them (for example, Fairbridge Park now has a Fairbridge Extension). While some of the interviewees wondered, some provided answers to such behaviour by pointing out that Zimbabweans have a great love for anything that is English, whether things or ideas, even at the expense of their indigenous traditions or values. Some residents said this is reflected even in the names that they give not only to their children but even to their business enterprises. An example they gave is Chapter One Leisure Spot, an entertainment venue on the outskirts of the City of Mutare as well as Eldorado, another venue situated in the Mutare Agricultural Show grounds. Another low-density suburb of Mutare where streets have foreign names is Westlea, a suburb formerly occupied by the Rhodesia Railways technicians. Street names in this suburb celebrate some of Britain’s colonial conquests. These names are of places in the former colonies of Britain, namely Australia and New Zealand. Some of the names are Canberra, Adelaide, Reef, Christchurch, Perth, Wellington and Sydney (The Oxford School Atlas, 1997, pp. 118 –19). Canberra is Australia’s political capital. Wellington is New Zealand’s capital. Reef is named after the Great Barrier Reef found in Australia, even though Zimbabwe has no such feature. This shows that these names have no significance to an independent Zimbabwe and yet they have been retained. To retain and continue to use such names is a continued celebration of colonial memory. This is encouraged by, among other things, the use of the English language and the continued use of the names that were given by the former colonists. The continued use of names with Australian origins in independent Zimbabwe ought to raise eyebrows. From history studies, we learn about the not-so-attractive origins of Australia as a British colony. Australia was meant to accommodate British ex-convicts as a penal colony. These convicts were given two options, either to remain jailed in Britain or to be sent to Australia. What this shows is that Australia was, thus, a place

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established to get rid of criminals and other undesirable elements in the British community. In short, it was a kind of dumping ground. Now, for a city council in independent Zimbabwe to continue admiring the Australian names at the expense of local ones, begs an explanation. What this means is that the City of Mutare voluntarily continues to perpetuate British history, cultural and social aspirations on behalf of the British, most of whom left Zimbabwe with the coming of Zimbabwe’s political independence in 1980. There is another suburb that borders Westlea. It is called Yeovil. It would appear as if Yeovil was named with very fond memories of ‘home’, especially south-west England. This suburb has road and street names such as Hampshire Road, Cornwall, Somerset and Dorset. Yeovil in England is found in Somerset. Hampshire Road is named after the Hampshire Gardens. There are also Sussex Gardens in Mutare’s Yeovil even though they are a dry area with a playground. The only name that is not taken from England but is taken from a British colony is Dawson, which is named after Dawson’s Creek in Canada (The Oxford School Atlas, 1997, p. 32). Greenside is a suburb on the eastern side of the city close to the border with Mozambique. Like the other low-density suburbs discussed above, Greenside’s streets have foreign names. The only difference is that, here, the streets are named after local birds. Examples of such birds’ names are Kingfisher, Raven, Starling and Sparrow. The researchers observed that these foreign names given are of indigenous birds found in the area. It would have been more prudent if the black city council had used indigenous names such as ‘Kondo’ for Kingfisher to rename the streets with the coming of liberation from colonial rule.

Observation In these low-density affluent suburbs, a feature of all cities of Zimbabwe, we find the black elite, most of whom emerged after independence in 1980. Most of them were even at the forefront in the fight against colonialism, condemning all forms of colonialism, be they physical or mental. At the height of the independence euphoria, they were again in the forefront giving indigenisation awareness to the people. However, little was done to indigenise the names so that they became meaningful to the indigenous people – the formerly colonised. They should all have been renamed so as to recreate national memory and have a memory that would

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place the formerly oppressed and exploited blacks at the forefront of history, not as its objects but as its makers. What it means is that many places in the country, as well as natural phenomena, have remained using colonial names that were given as memory retention devices by the colonisers, and this memory has been retained by the blacks. What the blacks do not seem to realise is that, for the colonisers, these names were purposefully given and, therefore, meant a lot to them. As has been shown above, some were named after their literary giants, some after medical people and some after conquered places, as found in Australia, Canada and New Zealand. The names that the white settlers gave also honour and cherish what the former colonialists valued most. Again, their names give their descendants role models to emulate. It would appear that the black elite did not or still do not stop to think of all this but merely inherited the suburbs and names as they are. In fact, most of them appear to be happy to be kwaimbogara vaRungu/Kumatongo evaRungu, meaning, ‘staying where the whites used to live’. The researchers can, therefore, conclude that this new black elite celebrates what it does not understand. They have names of black heroes that they could have used, but they have left these out of the national memory. The conclusion that one could make here is that when the blacks celebrate their move to these places whose names have not been changed, they would be celebrating institutionalised amnesia.

Conclusion The field of place names is a minefield that needs to be negotiated carefully. This is so because place names are not mere labels. They are carriers of historical memories and they are some of the cultural and political devices that are used in contested spaces, both cultural and political. While the researchers are of the opinion that streets and residential areas need to be renamed, they suggest that, in an effort to minimise constant name changes in future, non-partisan teams be appointed to look into possible names that could be given to the residential areas as well as the streets and roads. Municipalities and other local government authorities are also encouraged to engage the communities and residents so as to discover their opinions as well as to invite suggestions that they would like to be included in the renaming process.

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References Adichie, C.N. (2004). Purple Hibiscus. London: Fourth Estate. British Parliament. (1893). Local Government (England and Wales) Bill HC Deb 09. November 1893 volume 18 cc537-41. [Online] Available from http://hansard.millbanksystems.com/commons/1893/nov/09/matabelela nd. [Accessed: 15 May 2012]. Chakaipa, P. (1966). Rudo Ibofu. Gwelo: Mambo Press. Chirikure, C. (1989). Rukuvhute. Harare: College Press. Chiwome, E.M. & Thondhlana, J. (1992). Sociolinguistics and education: A survey concerning attitudes on the teaching of Shona through the media of Shona and English. In R.K. Herbert (Ed.), Language and society in Africa (pp. 247–263). Cape Town: Witwatersrand University Press. Dube, S. (1997). A Study into the Reasons why Shona Exists as the Low Variety in a Diglossic Relationship with English in Post-independence Zimbabwe (Unpublished Honours BA. Article). University of South Africa, Pretoria. Glesne & Pesnkis (1992). Becoming Qualitative Researchers: An Introduction. New York: Longman. Hulley, C.M. (2010). Memories of Manicaland. [Online] Available from http://memoriesofmanicaland.blogspot.com/2010/10/3-arrival-inmanicaland-of-pre-pioneers.html. [Accessed: 20 June 2012]. Jenkins, E. (1997). The fall from grace of Kingsley Fairbridge. English Academy Review: Southern African Journal of English Studies, 14(1), pp. 73–86. Koopman, A. (2011). Engaging With the Landscape: Cultural and linguistic Patterns in selected Toponyms of KwaZulu-Natal. Nomina Africana, 25(1 & 2), pp. 90–119. Leedy, P.D. (1997). Practical Research Planning and Design. New York: Macmillan. Lubbe, H.J. (2011). Name Changing in South Africa. A Historical Overview, with Emphasis on the Period after 1994. Nomina Africana, 25(1 & 2), pp. 43–66. Meharg, S.J. (2006). Identicide: Precursor to Genocide. [Online] Available from http://www3.carleton.ca/csds/docs/working_papers/MehargWP05.pdf. [Accessed: 30 August 2011]. Meinhof, C. (1915). An Introduction to the Study of African Languages. New York: J.M. Dent & Sons, Ltd.

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Mtukudzi, O. [1998]. Tsika Dzedu [Recorded by Oliver Mtukudzi]. On Tuku Music [CD]. New York: Putumayo. Ngugi, wa T. (2012, June 24). End Linguistic Slavery. The Sunday Times, p. 24. —. (1987). Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House. Pfukwa, C. (2012). A Dictionary of Chimurenga War Names. Harare: Africa Institute for Culture, Peace, Dialogue and Tolerance Studies. Pierre, N. (Ed.). (1996). Realms of Memory: Rethinking the French Past (Vol. I: Conflicts and Divisions). New York: Columbia University Press. Savage, K. History, Memory, and Monuments: An Overview of the Scholarly Literature on Commemoration. [Online] Available from http://www.cr.nps.gov/history/resedu/savage.htm. [Accessed: 30 June 2011]. The Oxford School Atlas. (1997). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vandercook, J.W. (1926). Tom-tom. New York: Harper and Brothers.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN PHONEME-GRAPHEME DISPARITIES IN SOME BULAWAYO NDEBELE TOPONYMS SAMBULO NDLOVU

Introduction There has been much debate about the origin and orthography of Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo. Nyathi’s (2014) writing in The Chronicle of 31 May, 2014, avers: it is generally observed that the Bulawayo City Council had a policy of documenting Ndebele history through the naming of townships, streets in the townships, and names of beer halls. Incidentally, its formerly whitesonly low density suburbs were given names of towns or villages found in either Britain or the United States and those of some prominent white colonial officials.

Nyathi’s claim cannot be totally true as there are some low-density suburbs in Bulawayo that were given Ndebele names in the colonial era such as Kumalo, Ilanda, Malindela and Matseumhlope. It is, however, interesting to note that up to the present-day, there are some Ndebele place names that are still written in an orthography that was last used in the 1950s. The original Ndebele orthography was developed by white missionaries and is usually referred to using the names of the missionaries who came up with it. The Sykes/Moffat alphabet was officially adopted in April 1862 (Hadebe, 2006, p. 55). It is quite obvious that the orthography had serious flaws since the missionaries worked on Ndebele orthography at the same time as they were learning to speak the language and planned books to help them in their religious and educational work (Mhlabi, 1992, p. 3).

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The Ndebele orthography has been revised twice since its inception in 1862; however, some Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo are still written in the old orthography, which creates disparities between the spoken and written forms of these toponyms. The correct Ndebele spellings according to the current orthography can be used but, surprisingly, the erroneous orthographies still ‘litter’ the Bulawayo linguistic landscape. Disparities are also caused, especially, by English transphonologies of Ndebele words. The English who spearheaded the Ndebele orthography could not pronounce some Ndebele phonemes properly and this may have led to some disparities between the spoken and written Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo. In some cases, the erroneous English transphonologies are used on the written forms, creating a situation whereby native Ndebele speakers speak the toponyms differently from what is written. In some cases, it is the ambiguity in some phoneme symbols that create disparities as the phonemes represent two different sounds and, to some extent, the inherent limitations of the Ndebele orthography.

Remnants of the Old Ndebele Orthography Ndebele orthography is still violated by some Ndebele toponyms in urban Bulawayo today. The violation creates a disparity in the sense that what is written is different from what is spoken, as in properly spoken Ndebele these names are not correctly represented. One of the reasons for the misfit between the spoken and written forms is that, as mentioned above, the names were written using the old Ndebele orthography, which was developed by non-mother- tongue speakers of Ndebele, and when the orthography was revised the names were not revisited to be aligned to the new orthographic developments. Consequently, the orthographic problems started when the missionaries wanted to create a different Ndebele orthography from the Zulu orthography. Hadebe (2006, p. 54) argues: As already alluded to previously, this creation of a distinct orthography for Ndebele had far-reaching effects later. For example, the same word in both languages would be spelt differently, in order to show the alleged difference between Ndebele and Zulu.

Hence, some of the spellings in Bulawayo toponyms are remnants of an orthography that was created partly to prove that Zulu and Ndebele are different and this preoccupation with the Zulu-Ndebele differences ended up creating the errors in some Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo. The missionaries got to a point where they had to vote over some graphemes instead of looking at orthographic concerns in choosing a symbol.

Phoneme-Grapheme Disparities in Some Bulawayo Ndebele Toponyms 309 Since there was such a difference of opinion on the choice of symbols to be used, agreement had to be reached on the principle that the majority opinion should be followed, the majority being usually formed by Sykes and Moffat, Thomas being the odd man out. (Mhlabi, 1992, p. 1)

However, the quasi-democratic process that was applied, instead of procedures for making a good orthography, created an orthography with many shortcomings and, therefore, symbols from the old Sykes/Moffat alphabet were still used to write new Ndebele names. The differences between the old Ndebele orthography and the current as revised are tabulated in table 1 below. Table 1: Some symbols in the old and new Ndebele alphabets Phoneme

IPA symbol [p], [b] [p’] [ ȕ] [t], [d] [t’]

Sykes/Moffat orthography /p/, /b/ /t/, /d/ -

Current orthography /ph/, /bh/ /p/ /b/ /th/, /d/ /t/

Bilabial stops Bilabial ejective Bilabial fricative Alveolar stops Alveolar ejective Velar stops Velar fricative Velar ejective Lateral fricatives Labio-dental nasal

[k], [g] [ܵ] [k’] [ ܾ], [݀]

/k/, /g/ /k/ /lh/, /hl/

/kh/, /g/ /k/ /k/ /hl/, /dl/

[݃]

-

/mf/

The symbols in table 1 are taken from Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo that use the old Ndebele orthography. A look at the affected toponyms creates an impression that the names were written using the old orthography and were never revised. The toponyms that create a phoneme-grapheme disparity due to the use of the old Ndebele orthography include Makokoba, Makandeni, Mabutweni, Mpopoma, Kumalo, Lobengula, Nketa, Pumula and Famona. These toponyms are not written in the way they are pronounced in Ndebele. Table 2 gives these toponyms and shows the disparities that exist today.

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Table 2: Old Orthography Influenced Disparities in Some Bulawayo Toponyms Erroneous Orthography on Bulawayo Linguistic Landscape Makandeni [mak’andeni] or [maܵandeni] Makokoba [mak’ok’oȕa] or [maܵoܵoȕa] Kumalo [k’umalo] or [ܵumalo] Nketa [ket’a] Mpopoma [mp’op’oma] Mabutweni [maȕut’weni] Lobengula [loȕeƾula]

Pronunciation

Proper Orthography

[makhandeni]

Makhandeni

[makhokhoȕa]

Makhokhoba

[khumalo] [ketha] [mp’ophoma] [maȕuthweni] [lobeƾula]

Khumalo Nketha Mpophoma Mabuthweni Lobhengula

The representation of aspiration appears to have been the major challenge in the orthography that was used to write the toponyms in table 2. The revision of the orthography to cater for the aspiration was done around the 1930s, where further changes were made to Ndebele orthography culminating in the orthographic reforms of 1953–6. The changes in the 1950s were spearheaded by the Ndebele National Language Committee (NNLC), which included native Ndebele speakers unlike the Southern Rhodesia Missionary Conference which only had white missionaries (Mhlabi, 1992). In the Sykes/Moffat orthography, a symbol such as /p/ would represent the ejected stop [p’] and its aspirated allophone [ph]. The crop of educated Ndebeles that was incorporated in the revision of the orthography could have been instrumental in the distinction of ejected stops from aspirated ones. In English, aspiration occurs in certain phonological environments. English phonological environments could have been employed by the missionaries on Ndebele orthography. Parker and Riley, (1994, p. 124) note that in English phonology, each of these allophones of /t/ is predictable, in that it typically occurs in a particular position within a word or phrase. For example, [th] as in Tim occurs when /t/ is followed by a vowel but does not begin a syllable. Ndebele orthography was then changed to correspond to Ndebele aspiration. There was a notable change in the marking of the aspirated sounds like /p, b, t/ by diagraphs /ph/, /bh/ and /th/ respectively. Earlier on there was no

Phoneme-Grapheme Disparities in Some Bulawayo Ndebele Toponyms 311 distinction to mark these phonemes in Ndebele, for example bala [b] (to write) was spelt like bala [ ȕ] (to read). (Hadebe, 2006, p. 56)

The distinct markings of aspiration in the revised Ndebele orthography do not seem to have affected toponyms in Bulawayo. There are toponyms in Bulawayo today that are still written in the old orthography, yet they are pronounced with a clear aspiration. It follows, therefore, that there is a lack of a fit between what is written and what is said; for the fit to be achieved, toponyms that have aspiration should be corrected to indicate the aspiration distinction, as in table 3. Table 3: Aspirated Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms Current Wrong Spelling Makandeni Mpopoma Kumalo Makokoba Nketa Mabutweni Lobengula Pumula

Correct ‘Aspirated’ Spelling Makhandeni Mpophoma Khumalo Makhokhoba Nketha Mabuthweni Lobhengula Phumula

Aspiration is a key phonological component of the Ndebele language and it is important to mark the aspiration when it occurs. In the case of the toponym, Makokoba Ndlovu (2014), writing in the chronicle of 31 May, 2014, notes that: Africans were originally confined to the ‘Old Location’, popularly known as ‘Makokoba’, a stone’s throw west of Lobengula Street. Oral tradition has it that the name ‘Makokoba’ was derived from a white superintendent of that high density suburb who would crouch in the bush to frighten the location’s residents from relieving themselves in the bush. ‘Wayekokobaetshwaleni . . .’ The reader will note that modern SiNdebele orthography spells the word with an ‘h’ (Makhokhoba).

According to the etymology given by Ndlovu, the toponym is derived from the verb ukukhokhoba, meaning to crouch. The verb is spoken with the aspiration and the derived toponym has the aspiration, but the writing on the Bulawayo linguistic landscape does not indicate the aspiration according to the current Ndebele orthography.

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The correction of the above toponyms will ensure that what is said in Ndebele fits in well with the written forms. People read the toponyms factoring in the aspiration although it is not represented in the linguistic landscape of Bulawayo today with regards to the toponyms in table 3. Another case where the old orthography creates problems in the fit between a written and spoken toponym in Bulawayo is the place Masotsha Ndhlovu. This is a street in Bulawayo that is written using the old way of representing the [݀] phoneme in Ndebele. One of the noticeable changes was the representation of the voiced lateral fricative [݀]. It had originally been represented by /lh/ and was now represented by /dl/. I could not establish the reasons for the change but one can note that Zulu had already been using the diagraph /dl/ for the voiced lateral fricative. (Hadebe, 2006, p. 56)

The change from /dhl/ to /dl/ should have meant that the name changed to Masotsha Ndlovu, but it is still written using the old orthography. The old Ndebele orthography had no way of representing the labio-dental nasal [݃] and this could explain why the toponym Famona was not written as Mfamona, the name of king Lobhengula’s daughter, but instead the /m/ was left out. Low-density suburbs in Bulawayo were in most cases named using English toponyms, but Ndlovu (2014) indicates that ‘one exception is, however, Famona, named after one of Lobhengula’s daughters, Mfamona. Pathisa Nyathi tells me that the name was corrupted to Famona. That suburb was the only one bearing a black person’s name when Bulawayo was a city of two racial characters, one black and the other white’. However, Ndlovu’s claim can be contested as Kumalo and Matsheumhlope also appear to be as old as Famona. If the current orthography is to be used, the toponym should be written as Mfamona instead of Famona.

English Transphonologies Interestingly though, there are some Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms that are written following the current Ndebele orthography, but there are still disparities in the spoken forms. The English that were the colonial masters in Bulawayo had their own way of pronouncing some Ndebele terms; these English pronunciations created disparities in some cases between what is said and what is written with regards to some Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms. The process of pronouncing a foreign sound using the phonology of one’s language is called transphonologisation. The English used their pronunciation

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on some Ndebele names in Bulawayo and these English transphonologies came to be the popular ways of pronouncing these names, creating a disparity with what is written. Neethling (2005) describes transphonologised Xhosa forms of English surnames. Describing the transphonologisation of English names in Xhosa, Neethling (2005, p. 136) says, ‘they appear to be sincere attempts at adaptations to Xhosa facilitating pronunciation and ‘domesticating’ these ‘strange sounding’ English names’. In the case of the concerned Bulawayo toponyms, it was the English attempting Ndebele words. According to Neethling (2005, p. 136), There is sound play on the one hand which could be considered as lighthearted and friendly, but at times also reflecting phonetic liberties, suggesting a lack of effort ‘to get it right’. Some names have been twisted phonetically for the sake of convenience or amusement.

Under this category of phoneme-grapheme disparities there are three examples of toponyms in Bulawayo and these are: Bulawayo, Ilanda and Malindela. These toponyms are written in the proper Ndebele orthography but they are usually if not always pronounced differently by even native Ndebele speakers. The disparity is exemplified in table 4 below. Table 4: Some Erroneous Pronunciations in Bulawayo Ndebele Toponyms Written Form and Proper Pronunciation Bulawayo [ȕulawajo] Ilanda [ilanda] Malindela [malindela]

Common Erroneous Pronunciation [buluwejo] /bhuluweyo/[bulawajo] /bhulawayo/ [ajilanda] /ayilanda/ [ma’li:ndela] /maliindela/

The toponyms in table 4 are written in the current and correct Ndebele orthography, but the pronunciation is typically English. The Ndebele words are spoken using the English accent in a way that has even influenced the Ndebele speakers to pronounce them with an English accent. When the whites came to Bulawayo the place had its name already, but as it developed to, an urban centre it is most likely that it came to be associated with the whites. As for Malindela and Ilanda, the suburbs were formerly whites-only areas and it could explain why even the Ndebele ended up using English transphonologies in pronouncing the toponyms. Transphonologization of toponyms in colonial Zimbabwe then was two sided: the British mispronounced existing place names in indigenous

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languages and on the other side, the colonised people mispronounced the new English names given to their places. (Ndlovu & Mangena, 2013, p. 347)

Naison Ndlovu, the first black mayor of Bulawayo, quoted by Ndlovu in The Chronicle of 7 June, 2014, says Ilanda was named after well-known tick-birds amalanda (egret). The birds are usually seen where there are large herds of cattle or buffaloes. The area now called Ilanda according to the former mayor was adjacent to ‘Enyathini’ (at the buffaloes), so named because the locality was a favourite habitat of those animals. The birds amalanda must have been seen there in large numbers because of the buffalo herds. The former mayor continued to say Ilanda should be pronounced phonetically, that is to say letter ‘I’ should be pronounced as in ‘India’ and not as in ‘Ireland’ (Airilend). The pronunciation of the word with the ‘i’ sound as in Ireland is not Ndebele phonology but rather English phonology. The three Bulawayo toponyms appear to be pronounced by many Zimbabweans using the erroneous phonemes that can be explained in English phonology. A participant observation conducted on ten people from each of the three major languages in Zimbabwe – English, Ndebele and Shona – indicates that the English transphonologies are very popular with Zimbabweans. The participant observations were done with English, Shona and Ndebele mother-tongue speakers in Masvingo and Bulawayo, and the results are represented in table 5 below. Table 5: Pronunciations of some toponyms by different mothertongue speakers Pronunciation

Bulawayo [ȕulawajo] Bhulawayo [bulawajo] Bhuluweyo [buluwejo] Ilanda [ilanda] Ayilanda [ajilanda] Malindela [malindela] Ma’liindela [ma’li:ndela]

Mother Tongue Shona 0 10 0 0 10 2 8

Mother Tongue Ndebele 6 4 1 9 7 3

Mother Tongue English 0 2 8 0 10 0 10

Speakers of the three dominant languages in Zimbabwe show an affinity to the English pronunciations of the three Ndebele toponyms. Shona and

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English phonologies do not have the voiced bilabial fricative [ȕ] as it is used in the Ndebele word Bulawayo. As a result, in the name Bulawayo, it is only Ndebele native speakers that pronounced it properly in the majority. In the case of the toponym Ilanda, only one Ndebele man pronounced it properly (this could be because the interviewed person may have noticed the motive of the discussion). The name Malindela is pronounced by many people using the English transphonologies that lengthens and raises the vowels. In the case of the three toponyms, the disparities between the written and spoken forms are inspired by English phonology. In these cases, the written forms are correct according to Ndebele orthography as revised, yet people still pronounce them in a way that is different from what is written. In the cases discussed above, correction may be difficult as it may mean teaching adults how to speak. In cases where the error is in the spelling, the spelling may be corrected on the linguistic landscape, but when the error is in the spoken version, it may be hard to correct. However, the correct spelling may influence people to pronounce sounds properly.

English Transphonologies in Graphemes Transphonologisation is a phonological process whereby the sounds of one language are pronounced using the phonology of another language. However, in some Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo, transphonologisation has spilled into orthography. There are some English transphonologies that even influenced the writing of those sounds. The unrivalled status that English enjoys today as a global language has brought a proliferation of English borrowings and associated spellings (often no-nativised). ‘Many highly regular (roman-based) scripts (perhaps hundreds) are now finding significant numbers of borrowed English spellings in their orthographic lexicon’ (Share, 2008, p. 604). In these cases, Ndebele words that are pronounced using the English phonology are also erroneously written following the erroneous pronunciations. The problems were compounded by the white administrators, some of whom could not pronounce Ndebele names properly. These administrators had place names spelt the way they pronounced them rather than the way they should be. (Hadebe, 2006, p. 57)

Under this category of phoneme-grapheme disparities in Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms, there are two toponyms, namely Umganin and Matsheumhlophe. In these cases, the spellings are written following the

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transphonologies. The names Umganin and Matsheumhlophe are typical English transphonologies in Ndebele, and it may be concluded that the whites influenced the writing of these toponyms in an orthography that is very foreign to Ndebele; even the old Ndebele orthography does not have the phonology and spelling displayed in these toponyms. Nyathi (2014) notes that: Mganwini refers to a marula (mpfula, isihlahlasomganu). The last tree where traders and missionaries from the south usually stopped and out spanned their wagon-pulling oxen and spent the night before getting into Bulawayo before the railway reached the city in 1897. Other trees where there were similar stops were Plumtree, Syringa, Marula and Figtree. Railway stations or sidings named after those trees were 16km (10 miles) apart (The Chronicle, June 7)

The suburb Emganwini should be written as Emganwini not Umganini; the use of the initial vowel /u-/ on the toponym Umganin makes the word a noun not a locative in Ndebele morphology. The correct spelling in Ndebele orthography is emganwini and this is a locative in Ndebele. Ordinary people in Bulawayo do not pronounce the toponym as Umganin but rather as emganwini although it is in some Bulawayo linguistic landscaping written as Umganin. In the case of Umganin, the disparity is now more in the spelling not corresponding with speaking rather than the transphonologised phonemes. The other name in this category is the Bulawayo toponym Matsheumhlophe. Matsheumhlophe is a low-density suburb in Bulawayo. Like Ilanda, it is a formerly whites-only area that was named using Ndebele toponyms. The name is a compound Ndebele noun combining a noun in the plural amatshe (stones) and an adjective amhlophe (white). The compound noun is written as amatsheamhlophe (white stone); to combine the two words, one vowel is elided in accordance with Ndebele phonology to derive the name amatsh’amhlophe. Nyathi, writing in The Chronicle of 7 June, 2014, avers: ‘the name Matsheumhlope comes from the association with the river (‘White Stones’)’. White stones in the Ndebele or Zulu language is amatsheamhlophe. The name Amatsh’amhlophe is used on the Bulawayo linguistic landscape as a toponym. However, the graphemes used in the writing of the toponym are foreign to Ndebele orthography. The toponym is written as Matsheumhlophe in Bulawayo, and this is how some whites pronounce the toponym. The disparity comes from the fact that the spelling of the word Matsh’amhlophe does not correspond to the Ndebele pronunciation of the toponym. It is erroneously written as Matsheumhlophe

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instead of Matsh’amhlophe, thus creating a disparity. The erroneous spelling would be pronounced as [mat‫ݕ‬İumܾophİ] instead of [mat‫ݕ‬amܾophİ]. The misspelling can be corrected by conforming the graphemes to the current Ndebele orthography.

Grapheme Ambiguities in Ndebele Orthography The Ndebele orthography that was revised in the 1930s and 1950s was not transformed into a perfect orthography. It could be argued that there is no perfect orthography in the world; however, the inconsistencies in the Ndebele orthography create some worrying disparities and ambiguities in the pronunciation of some Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo. There are some phonemes that share similar symbols in Ndebele orthography, thereby creating these disparities and causing ambiguities. Ndebele orthography uses an alphabetic system that was compiled in 1863 by the London missionary society (LMS) missionaries, namely John Smith Moffat, William Sykes and Thomas Morgan Thomas. Owing to the inconsistencies and inadequacies that bedevilled the missionaries’ alphabet for Ndebele, the writing system was revised in the 1950s. However, the 1950s reforms notwithstanding, Ndebele orthography, especially the spelling system, still exhibits numerous disparities between certain sounds and their orthographic representations. (Ndlovu, 2006, p. 2)

Some people pronounce Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo differently and erroneously, but they can be vindicated by the Ndebele orthography that creates the ambiguities. In Ndebele orthography, the following phonemes share symbols: [ƾ] and [ƾg] use /ng/, [h] and [ܸ] use /h/, [t‫ ]ݕ‬and [t‫ ]’ݕ‬use /tsh/ while [k’] and [ܵ] use /k/. These ambiguities create problems in writing and speaking with regards to the Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms that bear these sounds. People from different mother-tongue backgrounds may pronounce some Ndebele phonemes differently. In the case of some phonemes, the orthography may guide the pronunciation, but in cases of a shared grapheme, there is usually a problem as the wrong pronunciation is written using the same grapheme as the correct one. Table 6 is a demonstration of how these ambiguities play out to create disparities in speaking, especially looking at the English, Shona and Ndebele mothertongue speakers.

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Table 6: Grapheme Ambiguities in Some Ndebele Toponyms in Bulawayo. Pronunciation Iƾgut‫’ݕ‬eni Iƾut‫ݕ‬eni Mahat‫ݕ‬ula Maܸat‫ݕ‬ula Mzilik’azi Mziliܵazi Mzilikhazi Iƾgut‫ݕ‬eni

Mother Tongue Ndebele 10 0 4 6 0 10 0 0

Mother Tongue Shona 1 5 9 1 3 0 7 4

Mother Tongue English 0 3 6 4 2 0 8 7

Observations that created the results as displayed in table 6 were done on ten members from each mother-tongue group. Ingutsheni has three varieties in the spoken form, Mahatshula has two and Mzilikazi has three. The ten people observed distributed their pronunciations as represented in table 6. The proper pronunciations for the terms Ingutsheni and Mzilikazi are not problems to Ndebele speakers as all the ten pronounced the toponyms correctly. However, in the case of Mahatshula, even Ndebele speakers have disparities. While the orthography in the toponyms is correct by Ndebele standards, it falls short as it creates ambiguities. People attach more importance to the writing than the speaking at times, and it may be good for Ndebele orthography to be revised so as to iron out ambiguities and disparities in some Bulawayo toponyms. Saussure (1959), quoted by Mesthrie (2000, p. 26), argues: Language and writing are two distinct systems of signs; the second exists for the sole purpose of representing the first. The linguistic object is not both the spoken and written forms of words; the spoken forms alone constitute the object. But the spoken word is so intimately bound to its written image that the latter manages to usurp the main role. People attach even more importance to the written image of a vocal sign than to the sign itself.

The disparity in this case is caused by the inadequacies of the Ndebele orthography that in essence makes wrong pronunciations correct, at least by written standards. Shona and English speakers who erroneously pronounce some Ndebele phonemes may be said to be correct because the

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phonemes that they use, erroneous as they are, create problems as they are written in the same way.

Conclusion Most Bulawayo toponyms are derivations from Ndebele precolonial history and as such they are Ndebele names. A look at the spoken and written forms of these Ndebele toponyms in Bulawayo indicates that in some cases there is no fit between the words as they are written and as they are spoken. Causes of these disparities have several possible explanations. In some cases, the phoneme-grapheme disparities in some Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms are caused by errors that were created by missionaries that first established the Ndebele orthography. The first Ndebele orthography that was used to write the toponyms initially was revised, and yet the toponyms were not edited to conform to these revisions. Some of the disparities are a result of transphonologies, especially English transphonologies of Ndebele phonology. The transphonologies create disparities and, in some cases, the transphonologies are used to erroneously write some Ndebele toponyms. The Ndebele orthography is not perfect like most orthographies, but the inconsistencies create disparities and ambiguities in some Bulawayo Ndebele toponyms.

References Hadebe, S. (2006). The standardisation of the Ndebele language through dictionary-making. [Online] Available from http://ir.uz.ac.zw/jspui/handle/10646/549. [Accessed: 25 August 2014]. Mesthrie, J. (2000). Clearing the ground: Basic issues, concepts and approaches. In J. Mesthrie, J. Swann, A. Deumert & W.L. Leap, (Eds.), Introducing Sociolinguistics. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Mhlabi, S.J. (1992). Some remarks on Ndebele orthography. Paper presented to the Ndebele Language Committee (NLC), Bulawayo. Ndlovu, F. (2006). The Ndebele Spelling System: A Missing Link between Phonology and Orthography. [Online] Available from www.als.asn.au/proceedings/als2005/ndlovu-ndebele. [Accessed: 3 February 2014]. Ndlovu, S. & Mangena, T. (2013). Selected Transphonologized Zimbabwean Toponyms. In O. Felecan (Ed.), Name and naming: Onomastics in Contemporary Public Space. Baia Mare: Mega.

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Ndlovu, S.G. (2014, June 7). Origins of names Ilanda, Malindela. The Chronicle. [Online] Available from http://www.chronicle.co.zw/origins-of-names-ilanda-malindela/. [Accessed: 16 June 2014]. —. (2014, May 31) Suburbs, street names explained. The Chronicle. [Online] Available from http://www.chronicle.co.zw/suburbs-streetnames-origin-explained/. [Accessed: 16 June 2014]. Neethling, B. (2005). Naming Among the Xhosa of South Africa. New York: Edwin Mellen Press. Nyathi, P. Township names: a history narrative. The Chronicle, 7 June 2014. [Online] Available from http://www.chronicle.co.zw/township-names-a-history-narrative-2/. [Accessed: 16 June 2014]. Parker, F. & Riley, K. (1994). Linguistics for non-linguists. Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Share, D.L. (2008). On the Anglocentricities of Current Reading Research and Practice: The Perils of Overreliance on ‘Outlier’ Orthography. Psychological Bulletin, 134(4), p. 584-615.

SECTION 4: BRAND NAMES

CHAPTER NINETEEN SEMANTICS OF BAND APPELLATIONS: BAND NAMES AND MUSIC IN ZIMBABWE MICKIAS MUSIYIWA

Introduction In this chapter, I analyse the names of various popular musical groups in postcolonial Zimbabwe for the purpose of establishing the interplay between the semantics of the band name, on one hand, and the meaning of the music the band produces, on the other. The study is inspired by the recognition of the critical functions popular music performs in the Zimbabwean public sphere and the realisation of the growth, in leaps and bounds, of Zimbabwe’s music industry since independence. Although Zimbabwean popular music has been studied from historical, political, social, religious, linguistic, literary and cultural perspectives – or a combination of some of these – researchers have yet to approach it from an onomastics perspective. In a virgin territory as this, the main questions guiding my research are: To what extent and in what ways does a band name ‘semanticise’ the music (style/s) a band produces? Are the life experiences of the band leader and/or the entire group embodied in the group’s name? Do the prevailing societal/national conditions in which the band performs influence the naming of the band? My research answers to these questions have revealed that band names are important in understanding musical meaning-making and the consequent musical identity. They largely act as metaphors for the various meanings associated with the life of the band leader or the entire group, the nature of the music the group produces and its musical practice. In a study in which I blend theories of metaphor and rhetorical genre, as a metaphor, a band name has a rhetorical purpose determined by the social context in which a musical group operates, the context of which is dynamic, entailing as it does a number of spatial, temporal and ideological factors.

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Onomastics and Theories of Metaphor and Genre Band names in musical performance terms are a type of what are often called ‘stage names’ by music commentators. Whereas the band name is a stage name for the entire musical group, a name which identifies the nature of the band’s performance practice, usually there is also a stage name for every artist within a band which acts as a label for their idiosyncratic style of performance. The manifest reason why musical groups give themselves names is generally the same as why people name themselves and others, why people name animals and places and so on. It is a referential one, i.e., to designate something. First and foremost, they want to identify themselves as individuals and as groups and also with respect to animals and places, to identify and understand their physical environment. As regards band names, music audiences know that ‘Orchestra Mberikwazvo’ is Alick Macheso’s band, ‘The Black Spirits’ belongs to Oliver Mutukudzi and ‘The Bhundu Boys’ was fronted by Biggie Tembo and included other key members such as Rise Kagona. A latent reason for naming would refer to the perennial need by man to control both his physical and social environments as an existential strategy. Light (2004) and Azaryahu (1996) theorise in reference to street names that, besides their main (referential) function, they also have a secondary (or symbolic) function – that of commemorating historical milestones and figures. This special function also applies to the names of musical groups. In fact, I contend that this metaphorical function is more important than the literal meaning of the band’s name. It encapsulates the identity of the music the band produces as well as its musical practice and the audience’s attitudes towards the group and its music. It is the basis for myth-making by both the band and, particularly, its fans, regarding the popularity of the band’s music and its influence in the music industry. This important function is at the heart of my discussion in which I conceptualise Zimbabwean band names as metaphors. It is, therefore, imperative that I introduce the theory of metaphor that I adopt as the framework of my analysis. Metaphor is a powerful concept not only in onomastics but in every kind of speech. Onomasticians, therefore, cannot ignore it if they want to achieve a more comprehensive explanation of the meaning of an appellation. The theory of metaphor that has come to be commonly referred to as ‘the cognitive linguistic view of metaphor’ (Kovecses, 2010,

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p. x) is often credited to Lakoff & Johnson from the seminal work, Metaphors we live by (1980). The scholars challenge the traditional view of metaphor, 1 arguing that far from being merely a matter of words or linguistic expressions, metaphors should be conceptualised as an element of concepts in which one thing is thought in terms of another. The conception has given rise to what is called a ‘conceptual metaphor’ and provides new insights into understanding the various metaphorical meanings abound in the ‘process of human thought and reasoning’ (Kovecses, 2010, p. x). In this theory, a metaphor refers to the understanding of ‘one conceptual domain in terms of another conceptual domain’ whereby ‘a conceptual domain is any coherent organization of experience’ (Kovecses, 2010, p. 4). For purposes of clarity, a conceptual metaphor is presented as CONCEPTUAL DOMAIN A = CONCEPTUAL DOMAIN B. Sungura music is often referred to as museve (arrow) because of its fast and sharp beat. The idea can be reduced to a conceptual metaphor as follows: SUNGURA = MUSEVE (ARROW). People utilise the domain of the arrow (and its characteristics of being sharp and fast when fired) to help them conceptualise the abstract idea of sungura music. In the cognitive linguistic view of metaphor, the term ‘metaphorical linguistic expression’ is also important to comprehend Lakoff & Johnson’s theory of metaphor. It refers to the words or other linguistic expressions which emanate from the more concrete conceptual domain (i.e. domain B). Using the example of a conceptual metaphor I gave above, all the expressions that have to do with sungura music and come from the domain of the arrow are metaphorical linguistic expressions, and the corresponding conceptual metaphor they reveal is SUNGURA MUSIC = ARROW. To further clarify the theory, conceptual metaphor B, i.e., the domain from which the metaphorical expressions to understand another conceptual domain are drawn, is referred to as the ‘source domain’. The conceptual domain to be understood is the target ‘domain’ (Kovecses, 2010, p. 4). In our example above, ARROW is the source domain and SUNGURA MUSIC the target domain. Similarly, if the theory is applied to 1

The traditional conception of metaphor has five key concepts: that metaphor is a linguistic phenomenon, a property of words; metaphor is employed for rhetorical and artistic purposes; metaphor is based on the similarity between two things that are identified and compared; one needs special linguistic skills to be able to use it, meaning that the use of metaphor is a conscious and deliberate act; and lastly, that metaphor is something we can do without, it is neither an inevitable part of everyday communication nor used in daily human reasoning and thought (Kovecses, 2010, p. ix–x).

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band names, a band name is the conceptual domain B or the source domain and the band’s music becomes the target domain or conceptual domain A. It is domain A (a band’s music) that we try to comprehend through domain B. Some theoretical issues concerning genre are also important to broadening my theoretical framework. Genre pervades every aspect of human life. It has a cognitive value and thus makes comprehending phenomena easier. Genre is ‘a classification system of texts [or any other phenomena] based on shared formal characteristics’ (Devitt, 1992, p. 6). Following this definition, one can devise a classification scheme or genre based on the various variables determining band names. Each genre becomes a cognitive framework to understand the meaning of the band names that fall under it. In other words, the analysis of such genres triggers a genre discourse which becomes an avenue to comprehend the semantic correlation between band names and the music they produce. Genre always entails rhetorical purpose made in a specific social context. This implies that typologies are made for a particular purpose within a specific context. Understanding genre, therefore, entails ‘understanding of a rhetorical situation and its social context’ (Devitt, 1992, p. 13). When I combine these theoretical issues on genre and those on metaphor, it can be noted that as a metaphor the meaning a band name embodies conveys a rhetorical mission which is influenced by specific situations with temporal and spatial dimensions. Band appellations also share with all names the fact that they are not cast in stone, they change due to factors interior and/or exterior to the musical group. In many cases, variables in the social context of the band’s musical practice change and in the process affect the rhetorical purpose of the meaning of the band name. Hence, the need to rename the group so that it is consistent with the (factors in the) new social context.

The Case for ‘Musiconymy’ Considering the existing categories of names in onomastics, music and musically related names may fall under the ethnonyms category – that which deals with names of groups of people such as races, ethnic and tribal groups, clans, families, clubs and societies, etc. (Koopman, 2002, p. 12). However, because the semantics of band names are intended to refer to music, although the name may originate from non-musical quarters, I propose a separate category for band and all other musically rooted and related names. As I will demonstrate in this chapter, I find the study of the

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meanings of such appellations makes much more sense in the context of or by constant reference to the disciplines of musicology, ethnomusicology and related ones. Inasmuch as we have literary onomastics, a genre of names dealing with name construction in literature and whose semantics are anchored in literature, is it not logical that we also have another branch of onomastics called musical onomastics? I use the term ‘musiconymy’ to refer to such a field, which I think deserves such distinction and relative ‘autonomy’, as with the other onomastic fields referred to above. Its concern is the study of nomenclature within the confines of music and musical practice such as the names of songs, albums, bands, musical instruments, musical artists, names of musical performances and festivals, etc.

Genres of Factors Influencing Band Names and their Meanings My close analysis of Zimbabwean band names revealed a multiplicity of factors which influence the choice of a band name. Chief among them are: the personal experiences of the band leader or members of the group prior to band formation; dominant ideas in society; the place from which the band or band leader comes from; the institution that owns the musical group or to which the group is affiliated; the musical ambitions of the group leader and/or the entire group; gender; ethnicity; the size of a group; the group leader’s clan or family name; the artist(s)’s religious and/or cultural beliefs; the place the band is based and its ideological orientations; as well as the foreign influences factor. The musical style a particular band plays can also be a determinant in the coining of band appellations as, for instance, the case with ‘Sungura Boys’ which plays the sungura genre, ‘Mbare Chimurenga Choir’ which sings chimurenga songs, and ‘Mbira dzeNharira’ which performs the mbira musical style. However, I think this is a misleading genre of factors influencing the choice of a band name because many band names which include the name of a musical style do not necessarily play those musical genres. ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’ never played jazz music but rhumba and sungura. In band names where the mentioned music style is performed by the band, there are normally many more influential determinants of a band’s musical practice, such as the band’s ambitions, ideological and religious factors, as the discussion below will demonstrate. For a clearer illustration of my theorisation and analysis, in the table below I indicate the genres of the factors influencing the nomenclature of band names. Although I indicate many names under each category, for purposes of space I will only analyse those band names

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which best illustrate the theorisation I have proposed. The reader is free to add more names to each proposed genre to test the logicality of the theory. Table 1 Experiences of band leader and/or members

Ideological influences/dominan t ideas in society

Pengaudzoke Orchestra Mberikwazv o Ngosimbi Crew Voice of the Victimised

The Bhundu Boys The Blacks Unlimited The Black Spirits The Born Free Crew Zimbabwe Revolution Intelligence Choir Zanla Choir LMG Choir VaMugabe Chete Crew Barrel of Peace Shungu dzeMagamba eChimurenga Crew

Place of origin of band leader or members of group Insiza Brothers Mbira dzeNharir a Maungira eNharira Hurungwe Sounds

Place band is based + its ideological orientation

Musical ambitions of band leader and/or entire group

Mbare Chimureng a Choir TafaraMabvuku Chimureng a Choir Hatcliffe Third Chimureng a Choir Mhondoro Trumpet

Orchestra Dendera Kings Chazezesa Challengers Barura Express Utakataka Express Gakamoto Jumbo Stars The Shining Stars Huchi Band The Sounds of the Muddy Face Dzegonera Mbira Group Hit Machine Devera Ngwena Jazz Band Dandemutand e Mbira Group Sweet Melodies Sungura Boys OK Success

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Table 2 Band leader/band’s religious beliefs Fishers of Men The Puritans Vabati vaJehovah Chiedza cheVatendi The Living Word The Saints of God The Holy Psalms Tsuri yedenga

Institution owning the group or to which group is affiliated Jairos Jiri Band The Police Band St Joseph Catholic Choir (Rusape) Glen View SDA Group ZCC Mbungo Hotline Gospel Choir Zvishavane Sounds Gaths Mine Welfare Band

Gender

Size of band

Foreign influences

Maita Women’s Ensemble Maita Women’s Jazz Band Sea Cottage Sisters Mutanga Queens 2BG

Four Brothers City Quads Big Three The African Boogie Four The Famous Seven Mysterious Three The Other Four Mbare Trio Cool Four

Kasongo Band Pied Pipers Funkies Tutenkhamen The Blues Revolution Rhythm and Blues Band

Like any typology, my classification of band names is not completely watertight. There are some loopholes. For instance, ‘The Bhundu Boys’ group can also be classified under the ‘gender’ category. However, as I elucidate later, the gender factor becomes less significant when one considers the ideological influences behind the band’s name. The band names I listed under the religious beliefs genre of the band leader or group may be classified under the musical ambitions of the group genre. But for most musical groups falling under this genre (the majority of which play gospel music), (the Christian) religion is a more dominant and overt influence behind the name’s choice than the musical ambitions of the group. Again, the ‘Glen View SDA Group’ could be classified either under ‘the place where musical group is based’ or under ‘the band leader/band members’ religious orientation’. But because the group is owned by an institution and only performs under its auspices and for the benefit of the institution, I find the institution as the most important factor in justifying the placement of the choral outfit into this genre. Similarly

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‘Mbare Chimurenga Choir’, ‘Tafara-Mabvuku Chimurenga Choir’ and ‘Hatcliffe Third Chimurenga Choir’ can be classified under the ideological influences category. However, the place also becomes important because within the structures of Zimbabwe African National Union – Patriotic Front (Zanu-PF), the group wants to emphasise its place identity, the importance of the history of the place to the political history of the country, as well as the group’s quest for the recognition of its contribution to the party. In spite of these overlaps, the taxonomy I have proposed contributes a great deal in identifying the distinct factors shaping the dynamics of band nomenclature in Zimbabwe.

Experiences of the Band Leader and/or Band Members Like any form of art, music is performed and appropriated to deal with some of the fundamental questions of existence. As in literature, where writers often write about their own personal experiences without being autobiographically explicit, musicians in many ways do the same. It is clear that many songs for which, for instance, Oliver Mtukudzi, Susan Mapfumo, James Chimombe, Leonard Dembo, Kenneth Chigodora and many others have composed, are self-commentary in tone. The gospel musician, Agatha Murudzwa, for instance, has been explicit about her commitment to sing about her life experiences when she revealed that ‘I always like to sing reflections of my life […] things that happened in my life’ (Marwizi, 2014: E4). The social issues of concern in their music, love and romance, marriage and its joys and sorrows, poverty, family feuds, etc., are what they experienced, particularly before they became professional artists, or they detail what they are currently going through. Although the band name may not be overtly reflective of these circumstances, the artist(s) often finds music an appropriate space for engaging with some of the key questions of their personal lives. A case in point is the band name ‘Pengaudzoke’. Formed in the mid1980s, the band rocked fans with their socially rooted music commenting on marital problems, poverty and general socio-economic issues. The Shona term pengaudzoke is both a noun and verb. As a verb, it literally means to ‘wander and come back’, i.e., to leave one’s traditional home (leaving parents or one’s spouse) and then return after some time. As a noun, it refers to a person who wanders away from home but eventually returns, usually after having encountered some problems. As a concept, the hibernate-and-resurface element denotes the idea of social straying and returning, the return being for reconciliation with one’s relatives, spouse or

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friends. In this way, it carries moral connotations because the straying is often fraught with the breaking of moral codes, hence, one has to be penitential upon return. When emphasising a moral point, it is often used to describe the behaviour of a stray husband. He abandons his wife but after some time, when he realises his moral shortcomings, he goes back to show remorse and ask for forgiveness. In a sense, the prodigal son motif and its three compulsory elements of straying, returning and forgiveness are encapsulated in the name of the band. As a verb in the imperative form, it means ‘mend your ways’. These issues can be reduced to a conceptual metaphor, MUSIC = PENGAUDZOKE in which the conceptual domain A (or the target domain) is the music and musical practice of the band to be understood by the pengaudzoke concept which is the source domain. The specific rhetorical mission the music deploys is that of conflict and reconciliation, which the band members have invariably experienced before and after the formation of the group. The Somanje brothers, Daiton and Josphat, the core of the ‘Pengaudzoke’ band, grew up in the commercial farms of the Beatrice area. Their music is greatly shaped by the realities of the socio-economic life of farm labourers which is typically characterised by exploitation, poverty and general social decay. The farm context is not a conducive space for the positive and sustainable growth of humanity’s celebrated institutions of marriage and family. Marriage and family are forced to exist in crowded and often squalid conditions of the farm’s komboni (compound). Multiple relationships held by one person often exist while adultery and prostitution are normal abnormalities. Sex scandals, marriage breakdowns and single parenting are common social features of farm life. Because farm labourers are under strict control, their entertainment is often limited to evenings and on Sundays. As young boys growing up on a farm, the Somanje siblings used to travel at night from one farm to another interacting with the labourers of neighbouring farms and playing their guitars. This created conflict with their parents because they would go for many days before returning home. These disappear–resurface experiences culminated in the nomenclature of their band. The band’s song ‘Pengaudzoke’ (‘Mend your ways’) (see selected lines of the song’s lyrics below) explains the reasons behind the choice of the band name. Note in the lyrics the conflict between Daiton and Josphat, on one hand, and their parents on the other. The parents wanted to know exactly what their children were doing at night in the neighbourhood because they thought vapera kupenga (they had gone astray) but their sons told them, ‘Aa, iyi ipengaudzoke iyi’ (‘Aa, this group [of children] is a go-astray-and-return’).

Semantics of Band Appellations: Band Names and Music in Zimbabwe 331 Wotarise kumusha zvikanzi vana vapera kupenga honai Look back home, it is said the children have gone astray, please see Vana ava kupenga kwavo vanoziva kumba In their wandering these children know how to return home Saka takadaro pengaudzoke hee-hee That is why we said [we are] the go-astray-and-return hee hee Nekufamba kwenguva zvakanetsa vabereki vedu With the passage of time, our parents became troubled Sevanhu taifamba mitunhu yakati rebei munguva yeusiku Because we used to travel fairly long distances during the night Vakada kuziva kuti sei vana ava vachiita izvi They wanted to know why we were behaving in that way --------------------------------------------------------------Vakasvikako vakanzwa zvichinzi They arrived and heard that ‘Aa, iyi ipengaudzoke iyi’ Aa, this group [of children] is a go-astray-and-return Zvikanzi, ‘Ipengaudzoke?’ And they asked, ‘Are they the go-astray-and-return?’ Kubva zuva iroro kusvika nanhasi From that day until now [we have been called pengaudzoke]

Therefore, as the source domain, the term pengaudzoke and what it refers to is crucial in conceptualising the rhetorical strategy or meaning of the band’s music. The elements of straying (implying conflict), returning and reconciliation dominate Pengaudzoke’s music. From their early hits, ‘Mwanangu seiko kuonda?’ (‘Why being so thin my child?’) and ‘Sevenza mukadzi wangu?’ (‘My wife [please] work [with me]), and Josphat’s 2011 hit ‘Haulume’ (‘I will not accept’), the pengaudzoke motif has been expressed. In the first song, a daughter complains to her father about how she is being abused by her husband while in the second a husband advises his (supposedly lazy) wife to work and complement his efforts in sustaining the family. In the last song, a wife rejects divorce from her typically pengaudzoke husband who wants to divorce her for no apparent reason. Even off the stage, the pengaudzoke motif appears to characterise the lives of the Somanje brothers. In 2002, the brothers split with Daiton accusing Josphat of using juju to bewitch his wife and also abusing the band’s vehicle (Guchu, 2012). However, although the two sometimes perform shows together, their reconciliation is partial. Josphat, although still in the musical shadow of his brother, has done fairly well with his band ‘Somanje Stars’, which he formed in 2003, especially after he released his This Time album. In 2009, Daiton accused his son, Faheem, of taking his wife, the problem escalating to a stage where Daiton took legal action to evict his son and wife from his Marondera home (Guchu, 2012).

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However, in 2013, the father forgave his ‘prodigal son’ and helped him record his own album (Own Correspondent, Newsday, 2013).

Place of Origin of Band Leader or Where Band is Based Several Zimbabwean musical groups like ‘Hurungwe Sounds’ and ‘Insiza Brothers’, among others, derive their names from the place of origin of, in particular, the band leader or the place the band was formed and/or is more or less permanently based. Marko Sibanda’s band is called ‘Insiza Brothers’ because Sibanda comes from the Insiza district in Matebeleland South. Members of the ‘Hurungwe Sounds’ came from the Hurungwe district in Mashonaland West where, in the 1980s, the band was based. However, there are some bands named after the places in which they are based which are actually owned by certain institutions such that the band name can also be classified under the institution owning the band or to which the band is an affiliated genre. A good example is ‘Zvishavane Sounds’, owned by the Zvishavane asbestos mine. The term ‘Zvishavane’ refers both to a place and an institution. Because it is the mine rather than the place that caused the band’s formation, the meaning of the band’s name is better understood when placed under the institution owning the group genre. In order to provide entertainment to the mining community, mine managements often sponsor musical groups. As for ‘Zvishavane Sounds’, it was formed in the 1980s as part of the mine’s social responsibility and the band’s performance was limited to the mine’s four bars and functions held at the mine (Guchu, 2011). In contrast to band names influenced by the experiences of the band leader or entire group, under this category of band names there is no direct correlation between the name and the music the band produces. This is because, as toponyms, ‘Hurungwe’ and ‘Insiza,’ for instance, do not reflect the idiosyncratic experiences of the band leader and/or other members of the group. However, in the context of the success of the band, as the source domain the place name will symbolise the band’s music and identity.

Place Name + Ideological/Cultural Influence Under this category, the place where a band is based and the musical style it specialises in are used to construct the name of the musical group. The metaphorical linguistic expressions ‘Mbare’ and ‘Chimurenga’ are crucial in comprehending the ideological, historical and political context of the group’s music and its meaning and rhetorical purpose. Most of the members of the choral group reside in the high-density suburb of Mbare.

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The terms ‘Mbare’ and ‘Chimurenga’ implicitly embody the ideological influences of the group. Whereas the term ‘Chimurenga’ has two connotations, the first being musical, referring to the chimurenga music style the choir sings, it has a second meaning of an ideological nature. It refers to political issues associated with Zimbabwean nationalism. Since the colonial period, chimurenga music has historically been a conduit for anti-colonial sentiments. Recently, during the 2000 land seizures (officially dubbed The Third Chimurenga), the context of the band’s music found meaning and its songs were employed to articulate anti-opposition and anti-Western sentiments. Similarly, besides being a place, the term ‘Mbare’ also resonates with ideological influences. It is the oldest black residential suburb, synonymous with African nationalist activities and urban anti-colonial violence. With other old suburbs, such as Highfield, it was a hotbed of African nationalism (see Scarnechia, 2013) and is thus seen as the spiritual home of Zimbabwe’s nationalism. It is in Mbare (in Rufaro Stadium) that Zimbabwe officially received its independence in 1980. Today, in the context of patriotic history (see Ranger, 2004), Mbare symbolises enduring patriotism. It is the place the nation’s most revered sons and daughters (those conferred with hero status) have their bodies lain for public viewing in Stordat Hall before interment at the National Heroes Acre. As a place, Mbare, therefore, reinforces the chimurenga choir’s ideological rootedness with specific reference to Zimbabwe’s revolutionary history. With other choirs and bands, Mbare Chimurenga Choir has been instrumental in the articulation of Zanu-PF’s version of nationalist history. While the term ‘Chimurenga’ in the choir’s name makes explicit the nature of the group’s music, with the accompanying place name Mbare, the rootedness of the music in nationalist history and ideology is further concretised. For the mbira music outfit, ‘Mbira dzeNharira’ (literally meaning ‘the mbira music from Nharira’), its name is derived from the sacred Nharira Hills to emphasise the cultural significance of the place and the music the group performs. The ideological underpinnings of a cultural and religious nature are embodied in the term mbira and toponym Nharira. The hills, the area from which the band members reside, are considered a traditional shrine by the local people. It is clear that if the hills did not carry such religious and cultural symbolism, the mbira group may not have named itself after the hills. The group’s music, mbira, is largely a musical embodiment of and a medium for Shona religious and cultural expression.

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Clan or Other Personal Names of Band Leader Some artists intend to have their clan names or totemic epithets as names for their bands. In Africa, many artists attribute their artistic talents and musical practice to the influence of their (artist) ancestors. This is the case, for instance, with the griots of West Africa and the imbongi of Nguni society, whose hereditary position as royal poets ensured that the art of poetry stayed in the family and was passed from one generation to another. It appears that band names taken from an artist’s family or clan’s musical tradition are intended to have the band establish its musical hegemony on the basis of a well-known historical and ancestral musical practice. Many cultures in Africa and beyond correlate the origins of music and certain musical practices to paranormal powers including, particularly, the influence of ancestral spirits (see Kebede, 1995, p. 94). In John Chibadura’s band name, ‘Tembo Brothers’, as a linguistic metaphorical expression, the term ‘Tembo’ is a praise name for the people of the Zebra (Mbizi) totem. Shona totemic praises are associated with the praise-singing of a person’s chief, clan or family identity through the use of his/her totem as the basis of the praises (see Hodza & Fortune, 1979). When transferred to music, it suggests that the music produced is good and deserves praise from the listening public. Indeed, Chibadura became one of the most influential artists in shaping the direction of the sungura genre in the 1980s and 1990s. Similarly, the mbira group ‘Mhuri yekwaChimombe’ (‘The Chimombe Family’) drew its name from the family’s clan name. The name suggests that the mbira musical practice has a long tradition in their family/clan and the group was formed to keep and pass the tradition on to future generations. From the conceptual metaphor perspective, as the conceptual domain B, the name facilitates in comprehending mbira music as performed by the Chimombe family. The name also expresses the religious commitment of the family. As I stated before, mbira music is closely associated with Shona religion, thus again, they believe that their inspiration to play music comes from their ancestors. The gospel outfit Mahendere Brothers adopts its band name from the name of the family. Singing gospel music implies that the family has a strong Christian tradition which inspires the group. However, in reality, it does not mean that the group is only composed of the Mahendere blood brothers; other artists not related to Amos (the band leader) are also members of the group. So in that sense, the name may be misleading in terms of the family origins of the members because, as the source domain, it embodies other elements which have nothing to do with the Mahendere siblings. However,

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in this case, the implication is that the core of the band (especially including the band leader) belongs to the Mahendere family. Whereas the band name also makes the sex of the band members explicit and thus can be grouped under the gender factor, it is the family name that is more important here because the band also consist of female members.

Ideological Influences Dominant ideas within a country also form a genre of factors influencing not only the formation of bands but also their names. As I noted earlier, this provides a social context which determines the rhetorical intention and meaning of a band’s music. The most prevailing ideologies in the history of Zimbabwe and indeed the entire Third World are colonialism and imperialism as well as nationalism, a counter-ideology to the first two. A close look at the history of art in Third World societies indicates that modern art emerged and grew in response to these ideologies. Whereas this is particularly true for literature and theatre, the same is also true for popular music. In Zimbabwe, Turino (2000) has shown how the ideologies of nationalism and cosmopolitanism have shaped modern music, while Musiyiwa (2013a) has demonstrated, inter alia, the various purposes for which popular music is appropriated by various interest groups in post2000 Zimbabwe. In Africa, music has been crucial, if not indispensable, in the anti-colonial struggles (see Turino, 2000). As the source domain in a conceptual metaphor, Thomas Mapfumo’s band name relies on issues of black oppression and resistance to articulate the rhetorical purpose of the singer’s (chimurenga) music. The linguistic metaphorical expression, ‘unlimited’, symbolises blacks resistance to colonialism and its relentless pursuance of policies which restricted African freedom. The resource ‘Blacks’ foregrounds black identity and the African people’s search for (unrestricted) freedom. Furthermore, it shows that the ideological struggles of the colonial period were binarised – they were a black–white confrontation with blacks being oppressed on the basis of their race. Therefore, the rhetorical mission of Mapfumo’s songs of the pre-2000 period was to deploy the various forms of (colonial) oppression. However, it is important to note that if an artist shifts their rhetorical mission usually due to ideological or other changes in the social context, retaining the original band name may distort the logical correlation between the band name and the music as a conceptual metaphor. For instance, Mapfumo’s ideological shift at the turn of the millennium, from praising the chimurenga ideology as interpreted by Zanu-PF to embracing

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opposition sentiments, resulted in the meaning of the band name no longer embodying the black–white, but rather black–black (political) confrontation of post-2000. The communicative purpose of the music became proWestern, pro-Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) and regime change. The (white) liberalism, which Mapfumo’s music now articulates is not enshrined in conceptual metaphor B, ‘The Blacks Unlimited’. Like in Mapfumo’s band appellation, Oliver Mtukudzi’s ‘The Black Spirits’ foregrounds the term ‘black’ for the purposes of celebrating black identity, meanwhile implicitly denouncing whiteness and its racism-based black oppression. The stressing of blackness, as a negritude tendency, was one of the manifestations of African nationalism philosophically and culturally in its opposition to whiteness. Skin colour was the basis of all forms of colonial exploitation of the black people. Unlike in Mapfumo’s band name in which only political nationalism is embodied, in Mtukudzi’s band name, religio-cultural nationalism is more grounded and explicit. The linguistic metaphorical expression, ‘black spirits’ is closer in meaning to African ancestors and their place in the spirit world (Mbire) as well as their interaction with the living. The African spiritual world is alluded to in the band name in order to inspire the musician’s musical practice. Religion ‘is the strongest element in traditional background, and exerts the greatest influence upon the thinking and living’ of the African people (Mbiti, 1969, p. 1). (Shona) religious issues constitute one of the defining features of Mtukudzi’s music, particularly in the songs in which the singer is obsessed with death, the dead and the spirit world, hence the spiritual dimension reflected in the band name. In the context of the colonial ideology, Mtukudzi’s music largely confronted colonialism culturally. The singer’s morbid imagination in many of his songs such as ‘Sahwira’ (‘Funeral friend’), ‘Rufu ndimadzongonyedze’ (‘Dead upsets life’) and ‘Tinomuchema’ (‘We mourn him’), inter alia, signify Mtukudzi’s obsession with the dead, spirits and the spirit world. Colonialism was notorious for denigrating African culture and religion, branding them pagan practices. The African people were said to be immersed in darkness and destined for (divine) perdition. The band name ‘The Black Spirits’ can be seen as countering such Western preconceived ideas. I do not need to belabour the theorisation of the names of bands which appeared since 2000 inspired by the ideologies of the period, suffice to say that like independence had done in 1980 to inspire the rise of new musical groups (see Musiyiwa, 2013b), the Third Chimurenga also did the same. Many scholars on post-2000 Zimbabwean popular music, such as Manase (2009), Musiyiwa (2013a) and Thram (2006), among others, have

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demonstrated how the amendment of the Broadcasting Services Act in 2001 to introduce a 75 per cent local content clause and the mobilisation of popular music in support of the Third Chimurenga led to the formation of many musical groups, particularly among the youths performing gospel, urban grooves, zim-dancehall and chimurenga genres. Noteworthy was also the revival of wartime choirs such as the Zimbabwe People’s Revolutionary Army’s (Zipra) ‘Light Machine Gun (LMG) Choir’ and the formation of many pro-Zanu-PF musical groups, particularly ‘Mbare Chimurenga Choir’, ‘Tafara-Mabvuku Chimurenga Choir’, ‘The BornFree Crew’, the Cde Chinx-led ‘Zimbabwe Revolution Intelligence Choir’ and ‘VaMugabe Chete Crew’.

Band Size The number of artists which make a band, particularly at its formation, sometimes determines the name of the band. Often this is to show the equality of the contribution of each artist to the band’s musical practice. In spite of this, the band, however, often has its frontman or leader. The name ‘Four Brothers’ simply means that the Marshall Munhumumwe-led band had four members. Naming a musical group after the number of members in the band was a trend during the colonial period. In the 1950s and 1960s, there were such musical groups as ‘The Big Three’ (consisting of Simangaliso Tutani, Faith Dauti and Chris Chakabuda) while ‘The Broadway Quartet’ had four members (Simangaliso Tutani, Andrew Chakanyuka, Jonah Marumahoko and Zachariah Gwaze) (Jenje-Makwenda, 2005, pp. 128–9). However, the number can be misleading in some cases when the band decides to recruit more members beyond the original number of artists who established the band in the first place. Usually, the band name does not change because the band intends to maintain the musical tradition it has already created which is now the source of identity for its music. Band names under this genre of factors are often two-worded. One of the words refers to the numerical size of the band while the other qualifies the numerical connotative resource by expressing how the group (and its music) should be identified. In a sense, it conveys the group’s musical ambition(s). In ‘Big Three’, the metaphorical linguistic expression, ‘big’ suggests that, despite being small in size, the group’s music has a huge impact on audiences. The same point applies with respect to Staben Mawire’s ‘Famous Seven’. The group of seven artists desired to be well known in producing good music. Despite the group’s short period in action, from the late 1990s to the early 2000s, it is still known for its moralistic hit single ‘Chimbekeya’ (‘[Morally] short, clumsy person’).

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Band/Band Leader’s Musical Ambitions Initially, all musical groups dream that their music will have a huge impact in the music industry, dominate other musical groups, create a huge fan base and earn a lot of money. There are even a number of bands which are named with anticipated success in mind. It is precisely for this reason that when a band collapses, its members would often coin a new name for the band when it is resuscitated. For example, the ‘Tutankhamen Band’ of the 1970s renamed itself the ‘New Tutankhamen Band’ in the later period of the same decade after squabbles in the band led some members to quit. Band names often have a fetishisation purpose on the musical practice of the band. The metaphorical linguistic resources in this band name genre often comprise high sounding and/or rhythmic words such as ‘Sea Cottage Sisters’, ‘Cool Crooners’, ‘Utakataka Express’, ‘Gakamoto Jumbo Stars’ and ‘Orchestra Dendera Kings’, to mention but a few. In some cases, the names include the type of music the band intends to excel at such as ‘Sungura Boys’ and ‘Jazz Impacto’. In other band names, the intention to entertain the audiences is foregrounded such as in the band names ‘The Sounds of the Muddy Face’, ‘Sweet Melodies’, ‘City Crackers’ and ‘City Slickers’. The band name ‘The Sounds of the Muddy Face’ implies humour – a person with a muddied face looks ugly and elicits laughter. Like band names under the band-size category, our knowledge of the source domain does not effectively help in understanding the target domain. Mashakada’s music is not comical but melancholic. His song ‘Ndarangarira magamba’ (‘I remember the fallen heroes’) has a dirge tone, while ‘Samson’ and others have a serious, pleading tone. It is Kenneth Chigodora’s ‘Sweet Melodies’ which, as the source domain, gives meaning to the band’s name and enables him to capture the tenor of his music. Punctuated as it is with humour and the enthralling mhande and jiti rhythms, the music is just sweet. In his early coruscating 1990s hit, ‘Musango ndodzungaira’ (‘I wander in the forests’), the sweet mhande rhythm is the launching pad for the comical lyrics in which the protagonist engages in self-satirisation, a musical quest for therapy for the negative feelings engendered by the social destruction of his life. The singer reduces poverty into laughter as he incessantly searches for a musically induced catharsis. In ‘Sisi Dhori’ (‘Sister Doroth’), the natural process of ageing (which no one can prevent and everyone must grudgingly accept), is criticised for contrasting the youthful life of Sister Doroth, during which she was plump and beautiful, with her current old age in which she has lost all the glitter of her maiden days. The ambition to be the most popular musical group is also seen in Paul Matavire’s band name, ‘Hit Machine’.

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The name is used as a metaphor in which the band is equated to a machine which ‘manufactures’ songs that always top the charts. Indeed, many of Matavire’s songs when he was with the ‘Jairos Jiri Band’ in the late 1980s and later his own, the ‘Hit Machine’ from the 1990s, were quite simply hits. The band’s fast-paced music characterised by prurient lyrics garnished with steamy conversations remain memorable (Musiyiwa, 2013b), particularly ‘Tanga wandida’ (‘Love first’) and ‘Dhiyabhorosi nyoka’ (‘The diabolical serpent’). It is important to note that the often linguistically ornamented conceptual metaphor B is inspired by the artists’ realisation that the contemporary musical creative process is highly competitive, such that a band should be determined to work hard in order to achieve success. For this reason, the idea of success appears in many band names, particularly those which include in the source domain words like ‘kings’, ‘success’, ‘famous’ and ‘stars’. The band names ‘The Shining Stars’, ‘OK Success’, ‘The Famous Seven’ and ‘Zimbabwe Chachacha Kings’ are immediate examples. In their desire to make an impact on the musical arena, many bands include elusive or invisible things (e.g. wind), destructive objects (such as fire, the storm), harmful animals and insects (e.g. snakes and bees) and birds with musical sounds (such as dendera [the hornbill], and hohodza [woodpecker]) as part of conceptual domain B. This gives rise to such conceptual metaphors as music = fire, music = dendera (the hornbill) and music = hohodza (the woodpecker). But what attributes of fire are important in understanding music? After all, fire, for instance, is also a metaphor for destruction. To answer this question, the competitiveness (and the inherent rivalry) of the musical creative process, as I alluded to earlier, should be taken into consideration. Whenever people are in a competition (competition implicitly and explicitly pervades every aspect of our life), they often adopt (nick)names or are given appellations by their supporters and admirers, names which usually carry fear-instilling connotations or meanings of unconquerability. In music circles, fire has two main metaphorical connotations: the psychological and the aesthetic. Equating music with fire is intended to gear up the group for the rivalry and machinations it will encounter from other key participants of the music industry – other bands, recording companies and promoters. It, thus, psychologically prepares the band for the trials and tribulations of the music industry. As for the aesthetic dimension, it is interesting to note that fire has also been used as a metaphor for everything that has a profound sensual and emotional impact such as music and sex. In music, it denotes music which greatly captivates the audience and registers a powerful emotional impact in their minds. It is for this reason that some songs and

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albums have been described as ‘hot hits’, aesthetically meaning enthralling music which leaves the listener with emotional satisfaction. As I will later indicate with specific reference to the music of the System Tazvida’s ‘Chazezesa Challengers Band’, their music, called smoko, is described by the artist as moto unopisa (fire that burns). In the band name ‘Gakamoto Jumbo Stars’, the linguistic resource gakamoto, which literally means ‘that which sparks/spits fire’, refers to the indefatigability of the band in providing beautiful music and a musical performance which conquers the audience’s imagination. The three linguistic resources constituting the band name all refer to greater things. The resource ‘Jumbo’ refers to an enormous thing, implying the immense impact the group imagines its music will have. The noun ‘stars’ captures the idea the band members have that they will excel in their performance practice, surpass other bands and thus acquire fame. In Mitchell Jambo’s ‘Sungura Stars’, the implication here is that the group thinks that they will be or are already the champions of playing the sungura musical style. Chase Skuza’s ‘Shining Stars’ has added the adjectival metaphorical linguistic expression, ‘shining’ to suggest that their supposedly excellent performance will endure competition from other musical groups and remain noticeable to everyone like a star in the sky. The band will perpetually entertain the audiences as the stars perpetually light up the sky. Thus, the attributes of a star are used to assist and conceptualise the target domain, i.e., the group’s music. The same idea applies to Simon (and earlier with Naison) Chimbetu’s ‘Orchestra Dendera Kings’. The term ‘kings’ implies their dream to be champions in music who dominate other artists and thus ‘rule’ the Zimbabwean musical universe. With particular reference to the use of birds as musical metaphors, theorists on the origins of music have often emphasised the ‘musical capacities of non-human animals’ (Alder, 2009, p. 696). There is a multiplicity of legends which tries to explain the origins of certain musical styles by attributing them to human beings’ imitation of certain birds’ sounds. For example, drumming among the Asante of Ghana is attributed to human beings’ imitation of the melodious call of the kokokyinaka bird. It is said to have taught Asante drummers how to play their drums, whereas in Sierra Leone, balanji (xylophone) music is said to have originated from a small boy’s imitation of the whistling and melodious sound of a small bird (Kebede, 1995, p. 93). Those who derive the names of their musical groups from the sounds of birds or other animals often intend to create a mystery or myth around their music. The myth/mystery is crucial in myth-making which would facilitate in popularising the

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group’s music. However, as the more concrete conceptual domain B, the term dendera relies on the peculiar temperament of the hornbill to explain the character of the Chimbetus’ music, now popularly known as dendera. The bird has a deep echoing sound normally heard in the wee hours reverberating in the silent mountains and forests. Simon Chimbetu (or the Chimbetu as a music dynasty) claims that the sound of his bass guitar is fashioned out of the hornbill’s (mysterious) sound. Thus, dendera has become an identity for a sungura sub-genre, associated in particular with the Chimbetus. It is also trendy to name musical groups by using both local and immigrant musical terms. Cases in point include ‘Orchestra Mberikwazvo’, ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’ and ‘Blues Revolution’. The influence of the term ‘orchestra’ on Zimbabwean band names dates back to the 1940s when local musical groups were inspired by American large jazz bands like the ‘Duke Ellington Orchestras’ and the ‘American Countie Basie’ (JenjeMakwenda, 2005, p. 21). However, as the metaphorical linguistic resource, the term ‘orchestra’ does adequately correspond with the nature of Zimbabwean bands and their music. Zimbabwean groups have never been orchestras – those large Western instrumental ensembles composed of artists (about 100) playing a horde of musical instruments (string, brass, percussion and woodwind). Even smaller orchestras such as the chamber orchestra have a maximum of 25 instrumentalists (Felix, 2010, p. 175). What is more, unlike in Zimbabwe’s popular music, there is no dance in any orchestra, whereas dance is almost an indispensable element in the Zimbabwean musical activity. While this affects the understanding of the target domain, it suffices to state that it is the music played by the Western groups, especially jazz by the African–Americans and other immigrant Western musical styles, which has created the tendency to incorporate the term ‘orchestra’ in Zimbabwean bands’ nomenclatures. It is because of the instrumental aspect of the orchestra, the ability to play musical instruments with expertise, that Zimbabwean bands employ the term ‘orchestra’ to describe their music. Indeed, Zimbabwean artists have displayed mastery of Western musical instruments (particularly the guitar). Leonard Dembo compelled his lead guitar to talk/sing the tunes of his lyrics, so did John Chibadura, while Alick Macheso is arguably one of the best bassists in Africa. Innocent Mujintu is also a well-known rhythm guitarist who apparently named his band ‘Zimbabwe Rhythm Experts’ (‘ZARE’) to highlight his mastery of the rhythm guitar. It can be argued that through its use in Zimbabwean band names, the term ‘orchestra’ now simply means ‘good music’.

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In System Tazvida’s band name, ‘Chazezesa Challengers’ the idea of performing beyond other musicians’ expectations and (thus) winning the approval of the audience is captured in the metaphorical linguistic expression chazezesa, meaning ‘that which has made everyone hesitant or filled with fear or doubtful’. The linguistic resource, ‘challengers’, which completes the band’s name, implies the awareness on the part of the band that there are also well-established artists in Zimbabwe’s musical arena who have already made their names. But because the band’s members see themselves as ‘challengers’, they are prepared for a musical ‘fight’ to topple those who are already famous. After playing with Nicholas Zackaria’s ‘Khiama Boys’ in the late 1980s and recording the scintillating hit ‘Mabhauwa’, Tazvida went on to form ‘Chazezesa Challengers’ in 1993. The band’s early and mid-1990s hits such as ‘Anodyiwa haataure’ (‘One who squanders money pleasing women does so in silence’) (1995), ‘Chindidawo’ (‘Please love me’) (1994) and ‘Smoko’ (‘Smoke’) (1996), inter alia, catapulted the ‘Chazezesa Challengers’ to stardom. Although not reflected explicitly in the band name, Tazvida’s version of sungura has been popularly known as smoko music. The term ‘Boys dzeSmoko’ (‘Smoke Boys’) has been the band’s other stage name. Smoke is associated with fire. Fire is dreaded. The fear of fire is captured in the term ‘chazezesa’ (that which makes someone hesitant/afraid). Thus, the name of the band also semanticises, though subtly, the music of the band as fire. In the song ‘Smoko’, Tazvida employs the conceptual metaphor music = moto/smoko (fire/smoke) to explain the character of his music. Hama ndikuudzei smoko moto My folks I tell you that smoko is fire Vanoiziva vanokwenyana, ho-o moto unopisa Those who know it they whisper to each other, [that] it is true that it is a burning fire Tabvongodza nyika yose asi havasati yaiguta We have traversed the whole country but they have not yet been satisfied with our music Smoko moto, ho-o moto unopisa Smoko is fire, it is true that it is a burning fire ---------------------------------------Ndakanzwa smoko inhengo I heard that smoko is a participant

It can be noted that the various metaphorical linguistic expressions surrounding the source domain (i.e., fire and smoke) in the above lyrics greatly facilitate in making explicit the nature of the band’s music and its musical practice. Invariably, the music is in high demand. People are

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greatly enraptured by the music to the extent that after every performance, the revellers always call for encores. This is what line 3 in the above lyrics refers to. The verb tabvongodza, which means ‘we have traversed everywhere’, signifies the immanence of the band and its smoko music. The group’s ability to perform in virtually every place suggests that, as ‘challengers’, they can now effectively compete with or challenge those already-established musical groups as one smoko fan acknowledged, Ndakanzwa smoko inhengo (I heard that smoko is a/n [effective] participant [i.e. in musical competition]) (line 5), i.e. in Zimbabwe’s musical arena. The verb also captures one key feature of smoke, its ability to spread over a large area through diffusion. Another conceptual metaphor explaining the nature of the music that some bands produce is music = (high) speed (i.e., of a moving vehicle). Our knowledge of speed or something moving very fast becomes the source domain for comprehending music. Sungura musicians Leonard Dembo and Tongai Moyo’s respective band names, ‘Barura Express’ and ‘Utakataka Express’ are typical examples. An express bus, train or coach travels very fast and with no or very few stops along the way. Whereas the increased speed associated with the manner of movement of these modes of transport may signify the fast tempo of the sungura music the musicians play, it also denotes the ability of the musicians to churn out music which excites their audiences. Leonard Dembo could record as many as three albums annually. In Dembo’s band name, the metaphorical linguistic expression, barura, is a derivation from the Shona verb ku-parura, which means to introduce something. Musically, it refers to the beating of the lead drum or the strumming of the lead guitar to signal the onset of a prolonged performance. In the case of Dembo’s musical practice, it means his ability to play musical instruments and sing to the delight of the audiences. Indeed, Dembo will remain arguably Zimbabwe’s best lead guitarist and lyricist and no doubt one of Zimbabwe’s foremost musicians. Some of his timeless hits like ‘Chitekete’ (‘Beautiful lady’) and ‘Musha rudzii?’ (‘What sort of a home?’), among others, bear testimony to this fact. Music = bees/honey is another metaphor which can be deduced from band appellations so as to understand their music. The mbira outfit, ‘Dzegonera Mbira Group’ is a case in point. Dzegonera refers to a type of bees which make very sweet honey. Honey is also used as another metaphor for beautiful music. James Chimombe’s band was called ‘The Huchi Band’ meaning ‘The Honey Band’ with which he produced all-time jiti love hits such as ‘Bindura’ and ‘Cecilia’. Honey is also connected to romance and sex. It is noteworthy that most of Chimombe’s hits were love songs. With particular reference to the dzegonera bees, they are known for

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their harshness and pugnacity, hence the association of musical beauty with destructive or harmful things. Like in the music = fire metaphor, in the music = bees/honey metaphor, there are also elements of ‘untouchability’ and ‘unconquerability’ which merely serve to express musical pulchritude. Something touchable and conquerable will not astound the people or fill them with fear. Bees are untouchable, they are like an army, they can sting someone to death.

Artists’ Religious Beliefs Some musicians’ religious beliefs and practices often influence the nomenclature of the musical groups. This is particularly true for groups which play gospel music. However, such groups of religiously-rooted traditional musical styles like mbira (e.g. ‘Mbira dzeNharira’, ‘Maungira eNharira’, ‘Mbira Nhare dzeNharira’ and ‘Matombo eNharira DzaMushore’) which have the Shona religion as the impetus behind their names. Thus, the rhetorical purpose of the music under this genre is the communication of a concerned religion’s tenets and beliefs. Christian band names, such as Mechanic Manyeruke’s ‘The Puritans’, Charles and Olivia Charamba’s ‘Fishers of Men,’ Matthias Mhere’s ‘The Saints of God,’ ‘The Holy Cross Choir’, and many others, often express important Christian tenets. Thus, from the vantage point of a cognitive linguistic view of metaphor, everything that has to do with the music of each group emanates from the domain of Christianity. The band name ‘The Puritans’ is concerned with righteousness, ‘Fishers of Men’ with evangelisation and conversion, and ‘The Saints of God’ with sainthood (and thus holiness). The name ‘The Holy Cross Choir’ expresses Christianity’s central doctrine, the cross, signifying the crucifixion of Christ and salvation of mankind. For the Charambas, for instance, they see their music as persuading people to repent and accept Christ as their Lord and Saviour. Their role is akin to the biblical twelve disciples whom Jesus told will be the ‘fishers of men’ (see Matthew 4 verse 19), meaning that some of them would abandon their work as fishermen and preach the gospel of the kingdom. Obsessed with conversion, in his music, Charles Charamba often condemns immorality, idolatry and African religious practices, calling upon Africans to convert to Christianity. His song ‘Uyai titaurirane’ (‘Come let us talk’), among others, embodies the communicative purpose of his music.

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Institution Owning a Band or to which a Band is Affiliated Many bands falling under this genre are owned by or affiliated with certain institutions such as church organisations, mining companies and hotel and nightclub owners. Often in the construction of their names, metaphorical linguistic expressions are included to reflect the institution or organisation that owns the band or to which the band is affiliated. ‘Zvishavane Sounds’ is a Zvishavane (formerly Mashaba) mine-owned popular band, while the ‘Jairos Jiri Band’ is owned by the Jairos Jiri institution for the blind and the handicapped. ‘The Police Band’ is a Zimbabwe Republic Police (ZRP). Mostly, church choirs and bands fall under this genre of musical group names. Some of the popular names include the ‘ZCC Mbungo Hotline Gospel Choir’ and ‘ZCC Dopota Brass Band’, both of which belong to the Zion Christian Church (ZCC), hence the abbreviation ‘ZCC’ which starts the narration of each name. The ‘Glen View SDA Group is a choir belonging to the Seventh Day Adventist Church, while ‘The St. Joseph’s Catholic Choir (Rusape)’ is under the Roman Catholic Church. It can also be noted that the names also specify the place where the musical group or their parish is based. The purpose is to distinguish musical groups within the same church but in separate areas. It is important to note that, in most cases, there is nothing in the source domain that suggests the aesthetic qualities of the music a group produces, except for church choirs whose musical genre is obvious, i.e., gospel. ‘Zvishavane Sounds’ plays sungura music and so does the ‘Jairos Jiri Band’. ‘The Police Band’ plays in most cases marching music derived from some tunes of chimurenga songs. Another contradiction when the idea of conceptual metaphor is applied to this genre of band names is that, in some cases, musical groups do not adopt a name suggestive of the institution which owns them. A case in point is the ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’ owned by Gaths Mine. Although formed in 1977 as the ‘Gaths Mine Welfare Band’, the name reflects the mine’s social responsibility for providing entertainment to the mining community (particularly the restless miners), and the band in no time renamed itself ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’ after becoming popular with mine workers. The new named indicates the band’s desire for an idiosyncratic identity which separates them from that of the mine, although it was still under mine ownership. The new name was inspired by the band’s unprecedented fame. According to one of its key members, the bassist Innocent Biti, ‘Devera Ngwena was adopted because [mine] workers would follow us wherever we played’ (Mazara, 2014: L1). The group’s name and the evident fame the band achieved may persuade one to

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classify it under the band’s ambitions genre. The new name gives rise to the conceptual metaphor music = deverangwena (crocodile following fish). As the concrete conceptual domain B, deverangwena comes from a Shona riverine legend which says that a ngwena (crocodile) is always followed by shoals of small fish called madeverangwena (the crocodile followers). The power to attract large numbers of fish on the part of the crocodile suggests fame. Indeed, ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’s music had the mythic power of attracting large numbers of revellers in the same way a crocodile does to the small fish. It was probably the most famous band in the early 1980s and 1990s when now trailblazing artists like Mtukudzi would act as its curtain raiser (Mazara, 2014: L1). However, because the band still remains mine-owned and its members mine-workers, it remains more logical to classify it under the current factor, despite the name change.

Gender The nomenclature of band names under this category is determined by the need to recognise the composition of band membership on the basis of sex. Like band size and other factors, the gender of the band is normally not an indicator of the type of music the band produces. It only serves to show that the members of the band are either male or female or, in uncommon cases, both. Gender-suggestive terms like ‘boys’, ‘queens’ and ‘women’ are compulsory metaphorical linguistic resources in the formulation of the band’s name. For example, during the colonial period, there were the Mbare-based ‘Maita Women’s Ensemble’, ‘Sea Cottage Sisters’ and ‘Mutanga Queens’, all of which were all-female musical outfits. Outside Zimbabwe, there were the South African female groups like the ‘Mahotela Queens’ (meaning ‘Queens of the Hotels’), ‘Intombi Zesi Manje-Manje’ (meaning girls performing simanje-manje music) and ‘Izintombi Zika Mthwakazi’ (‘Mthwakazi’s Girls’). For the Mahotela Queens, their name was perhaps inspired by the venues at which they usually performed, i.e. hotels. However, for the ‘Intombi Zesi Manje-Manje’ group, the music they performed was also reflected in their name. The Zulu/Ndebele term simanje-manje means nowadays or modern days, referring to the changes brought into African life by westernisation. Simanje-manje music meant the mbaqanga musical style popular in the 1960s. For male groups, the ‘Bhundu Boys’ and ‘Sungura Boys’ immediately come to mind. However, as I pointed out before, the ‘Bhundu Boys’’ ideology surpasses gender in terms of importance when classifying the

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band name. The band’s members were mujibhas (male collaborators who were acting as informers for the guerrillas during the war of liberation). The term ‘bhundu’ comes from the fact that the guerrillas lived in the forests where the mujibhas and other peasants would visit to interact with them. Thus, the rather subtle conceptual metaphor describing the band’s music can be expressed as music = vanamukoma (guerrillas) or liberation war. The guerrilla war becomes the source domain from which concepts to understand the group’s music are drawn. Many of the songs the band produced, such as ‘Viva Chinhoyi’ and ‘Chitima kwe’ (‘The train has hooted’), were about the war and nation-building. Similarly, ‘Sungura Boys’ can also be classified under the artist/band’s musical ambitions category as the name is suggestive of the band’s desire to excel in the sungura genre and win the appreciation of the audiences. Some band names, whose members include both sexes, sometimes intend to have both sexes recognised in the name and made explicit. The urban grooves outfit ‘2BG’, meaning ‘two boys and a girl’, recognises the participation of both sexes in the band. This is most probably in line with gender equality issues that have permeated every sphere of modern society with women agitating for recognition, equality and empowerment.

Foreign Influences I have already alluded to the influence of Western music in the naming of Zimbabwean bands when I made reference to Chimbetu’s ‘Orchestra Dendera Kings’, Macheso’s ‘Orchestra Mberikwazvo’ and Jonah Moyo’s ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’ in which, from a conceptual metaphorical standpoint, both local and Western terms are used in the conceptual domain B to construct the band name. In this section, I attribute to foreign influences alone the naming of some musical groups in an attempt to justify the current category’s distinctiveness in influencing band naming. By foreign influences, I refer to factors emanating from both African and Western musical practices. In her documentation of the evolution of Zimbabwean popular music, what she calls township music, JenjeMakwenda (2005, p. 67) states that foreign musical influences on Zimbabwe came largely from the US and South Africa, especially in the form of jazz. However, as I will illustrate, some of the external influences on the band names are not indices for the music a particular band plays, leaving the meaning of the band name and the music played at variance. Under this band-naming determinant, namers normally incorporate a Western musical style term such as ‘jazz’, ‘blues’ and ‘funky’, as in ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’, ‘The Blues Revolution’, ‘Funkies’, ‘Pied

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Pipers’ and ‘Tutenkhamen’. Since the 1950s, jazz music has left an indelible imprint on Zimbabwe’s musical arena. Whereas some groups which included the term ‘jazz’ as part of their name construction during the 60s and 70s indeed played jazz music or fused it with local styles (e.g., Mtukudzi), for later groups, they did not play typical jazz music. For example, ‘Devera Ngwena Jazz Band’ played rhumba and sungura or what the band leader, Jonah Moyo, called tsavatsava, a traditional Shona musical style now popularly known as jiti. However, whether the bands do or do not play the actual music genre cited in their names is neither here nor there. I raise this point to justify the distinctiveness of this category of band names and the clear external influence in which the foreign musical term is one of the metaphorical linguistic expression in the band’s name. ‘The Blues Revolution’ is named after the African-American blues genre. The genre’s main features of slowness, sadness and strong rhythm can be contrasted with the often fast and upbeat rhythm of sungura music, which the band performs. Thus, the two conceptual domains in a conceptual metaphor do not completely correspond, making the source domain misleading in an attempt to comprehend the target domain, i.e., the band’s music. The band named ‘Pied Pipers’, formed in 1971, was originally called the ‘The Rhythms and Blues Band’. The band’s name was inspired by the German legend of the flute-playing Pied Piper. The mystery behind the Pied Piper’s flute and its alluring power(s), just as in the deverangwena legend I discussed above, is what influenced the band’s adoption of the name. Note also that the band’s original name is externally influenced, coming as it does from the jazz-based African-American rhythm and blues (R&B) genre.

Ethnicity There are very few groups whose names have been influenced by ethnicity in Zimbabwe. Lovemore Majaivana’s ‘Zulu Band’ is one of them. Ethnicity in its various forms is one of the most influential identities in Zimbabwe and, indeed, Africa and the rest of the world. If Majaivana’s music and band name are reduced to the conceptual metaphor MUSIC = ZULU, it implies that key elements of Zulu society, particularly history, culture and the arts, become crucial in understanding Majaivana’s music. Outside Zimbabwe, names like ‘Izinthombi zika Mthwakazi’ (‘The Girls of Mthwakazi’) from South Africa and ‘Kalanga Boys’ from Botswana are good examples. In the former group, the metaphorical linguistic expression, ‘Mthwakazi’ is deployed to emphasise Ndebele/Zulu ethnicity

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and identity. Mthwakazi was a great kingdom of the Ndebele people under King Mzilikazi, while the members of the latter group were of Kalanga ethnicity. However, as the dominant social context, the colonial system and its policy of divide and rule, which was geared towards promoting tribalism and disunity amongst Africans, was also behind the adoption of ethnic-specific band names.

Conclusion There are many factors determining the nomenclature of band appellations and musical groups in colonial and postcolonial Zimbabwe, which I have classified into genres for easier conceptualisation of the correlation between band names and music. They include, ideological, a band’s musical ambitions, foreign influences, clan and family names, personal experiences of the band leader or group, ethnicity, the religious beliefs of the group’s members, gender, the institution owing the musical group or to which it is affiliated, and the numerical size of the band. Besides utilising some theoretical issues concerning genre, I have extensively employed the cognitive linguistic view of metaphor to unravel the semantics of band names vis-à-vis their music. I reduced the interplay between a band name and the music it produces into a conceptual metaphor, in which the former is the source domain and the latter the target domain. I have argued that whereas it is expected that the meaning of the band name should reflect the nature of the band’s musical practice, particularly its musical style, in some cases, the band name’s meaning is at odds with the music the band plays. In spite of this contradiction, however, the given name will embody the music played and act as the metaphor for the band’s musical creativity and rhetorical purpose. This chapter was concerned with the discourse of band appellations and was intended to argue for the pioneering of a new onomastics field which I have termed ‘musiconymy’ to deal with the study of musically-related names such as the names of songs, albums, musicians, places and venues of musical performances, and names of musical instruments, etc. From the foregoing, I think there are compelling reasons for pursuing such a field of academic endeavour.

References Adler, D. S. (2009). Archaeology: The earliest musical tradition. Nature, 460 (7256), pp. 695-696. Azaryahu, M. (1996). The Power of Commemorative Street Names. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 14, pp. 311–330.

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Devitt, A.J. (1992). Writing Genres. Illinois, Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Englert, B. (2008). Popular Music and Politics in Africa: Some Introductory Reflections. Stichproben. Wiener Zeitschrift für kritische Afrikastudien, 14(8), pp. 1–15. Felix, S. (2010). Music Dictionary. London: Alpha Books. Guchu, W. (2012). Daiton the Madder of the Two. [Online] Available from http://intimatemomentswithzimmusicians.blogspot.com/2012/02/ivejust-been-shaken-paul-matavire-few.html. [Accessed: 30 January 2014]. Hodza, A.C. & Fortune. G. (1979). Shona Praise Poetry. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jenje-Makwenda, J. (2005). Zimbabwe Township Music. Harare: Joyce Jenje Makwenda. Kakore, N. (2014, January 13). The Four Brothers’ Journey. The Herald Entertainment, p. E2. Kebede, A. (1995). Roots of Black Music: The Vocal, Instrumental, and Dance Heritage of Africa and Black America. Trenton: Africa World Press. Koopman, A. (2002). Zulu Names. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press. Kovecses, Z. (2010). Metaphor: A Practical Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lakoff, G. & Johnson, M. (1980). Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Light, D. (2004). Street Names in Bucharest, 1990-1997: Exploring the Modern Historical Geographies of Post-Socialist Change. Journal of Historical Geography, 30, pp. 154–172. Manase. I. (2009). Zimbabwean Urban Grooves and their Subversive Performance Practices. Social Dynamics: Journal of African Studies, 35(1), pp. 56–67. Marwizi, T. (2014). Agatha Tells the True Story. The Herald Entertainment. [Online] Available from http://www.herald.co.zw/agatha-tells-the-true-story/. [Accessed 23 May 2014]. Mazara, G. (2014, February 2-8). Devera Ngwena’s Sad Demise. The Sunday Mail Leisure, p. L3. Musiyiwa, M. (2013a). The Narrativization of Post-2000 Zimbabwe in the Shona Popular Song-Genre: An Appraisal Approach (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). Stellenbosch University, Stellenbosch.

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—. (2013b). Hit Songs and the Dynamics of Post-colonial Zimbabwe: A Study in Popular Music Trends, 1980–2009. African Music: Journal of International Library of Music, 9(3), pp. 59–91. Ranger, T. (2004). Nationalist Historiography, Patriotic History and the History of the Nation: The Struggle over the Past in Zimbabwe. Journal of Southern African Studies, 30(2), pp. 215–234. Scarnecchia, T. (2008). The Urban Roots of Democracy and Political Violence in Zimbabwe: Harare and Highfield, 1940–1964. New York: University of Rochester Press. Thram, D. (2006). Patriotic History and the Politicization of Memory: Manipulation of Popular Music to Re-invent the Liberation Struggle in Zimbabwe. Critical Arts, 20(2), pp. 75–88. Turino, T. (2000). Nationalists, Cosmopolitans and Popular Music in Zimbabwe. Chicago & London: University of Chicago Press.

CHAPTER TWENTY ENHANCED MASCULINITIES: NAMES OF MALE APHRODISIACS IN SELECTED SOUTHERN AFRICAN COUNTRIES KELVIN MAMBWE AND DINIS FERNANDO DA COSTA

Introduction Naming is as old as humanity itself. Religions such as Christianity attribute it to a divine source who gave the first man authority to name things and creatures around him. From this religious viewpoint, the authority to name is epitomised in the book of Genesis 2:23 of the Bible in which the first man, Adam exercised this given authority to name his companion: ‘this is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called “woman” for she was taken out of man’. Accordingly, this practice of naming has since been part of humanity and continues to be practised by every human species in different socio-cultural and political spheres across the world. In this regard, naming and names would be best described as social phenomena through which people interpret the world around them. This practice, at first sight, appears petty, yet it reveals complex ways in which people relate to fellow beings and the environment in which they live. Moreover, it reveals how humanity construes social and political situations. In this vein, Neethling (1998) argues that the study of names is inseparable from the study of societies in which human beings live. This means that names are embedded in people’s cultural and social practices, which in turn reflect them. In this regard, a study of names can reveal something about people’s values, practices and belief system. Thus, Pfukwa (2008) contends that names in every society are a ‘social peg’ that expresses a cultural or social position of a people. Going by this argument, a study of names for herbal aphrodisiacs in selected African cultures may

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reveal some dominant cultural practices and values of the African societies in which these names are found. Consequently, a number of studies have thus far been carried out on names and naming systems across the world. A fair amount of these studies have illustrated the importance of names and naming as a practice. This has particularly been well documented by a number of Western scholars (e.g. Vom Bruck & Bodenhorn, 2005; Lawson, 1973 & Van Langendonck, 1987, 2001). Similarly, from an African perspective, a number of studies in onomastics have been conducted (e.g. Koopman, 1990, 2004; 1987; Neethling, 1993, 1994, 1996a, 1996b, 1998; 1994, 1996; Jenkins, 1994; Haron, 1999; Prabhakaran, 1999 & Pfukwa, 2003, 2007, 2009). However, as Holland (1990) has rightly argued, most studies in onomastics have tended to orient more towards proper/personal names than other forms of names and cites nicknames as one example that has received little attention in this regard. However, the recent past has witnessed a burgeoning number of studies in onomastics focusing on other forms of names other than proper/personal ones. For example, Neethling’s (1996) study on the names of months in Xhosa, Pfukwa’s (2008) study on diurnal names in Shona, and Ndimande-Hlongwa’s (2010) work on the nicknames of South African soccer teams and players. This current study is yet another contribution to the new dimensions of studying onomastics. Clearly, there has been no known study particularly designed to consider, more generally, the names of traditional African herbs, and sexually enhancing herbs, in particular. It is for this reason that this area was deemed promising to add new insights about how we name in postcolonial Africa. Traditional African medicines have been part of the way of life for many Africans, especially in rural areas. This is because they are considered a cheap and readily available alternative to conventional medicines (Banda and Mambwe, 2013). In this regard, Ndulo, Faxelid and Krantz (2001, p. 2), as cited in Banda and Mambwe (2013), argue that ‘the traditional health care system has always been an inseparable part of the history and culture of the people and traditional healers maintain the same beliefs as the clients who consult them’ (see also Katenesi-Mugisha & Oryem-Origa, 2005). However, such medicines are always erroneously associated with witchcraft or backwardness. This could be attributed to the manner in which these medicines are often packaged and how they have been ideologically represented in the past, although few of them are now being conventionalised. Notwithstanding this fact, traditional herbal medicines are still a popular form of treatment in postcolonial Africa. Of much

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interest to the study are traditional herbs for sexual enhancement and the treatment of erectile dysfunction and/or impotence. Traditional herbal aphrodisiacs are popular among most men in Africa due to the therapeutic and sensual effects they offer to the users, which enable them to (sexually) please their partners. However, as it will be shown below, in typical African societies where a man’s strength or his worthiness is erroneously and partly measured by his ability to produce children or his sexual stamina, it is not always the case that men would use these herbs to please their partners. Rather, in some cases, they might use them in order to enhance their own self-esteem and worthiness (see Katenesi-Mugisha & Oryem-Origa, 2005). It is for this reason that in African societies young men are socialised to believe that sexual experience is linked to manhood or being a ‘man’. This, in turn, engenders a perception of sex as performance, especially as a way through which to demonstrate masculine prowess (Barker and Ricardo, 2005). Therefore, because of this cultural perception, young men in African cultures experience pressure from both their peers and members of the opposite sex to be sexually active and perhaps have multiple partners in order to be seen as men (Barker and Ricardo, 2005). These sexual experiences may be viewed among peers as displays of sexual competence and power (Musiglio, 1988). Conversely, lack of these sexual experiences may be construed as a sign of impotence or erectile dysfunction, which in turn results in unequal power relations with peers and the opposite sex. In such African societies, this is often stigmatised in descriptive terms. For example, in the Kaonde culture of Zambia it is described through the term kibolo bofwa, literally ‘a sponge-like penis’, whose actual meaning is ‘dead’ or useless penis. Notice that kibolo bofwa, ‘sponge-like penis’, is used to refer to the individual and not to the reproductive organ even if this is what makes them describe him as such. In other words, his penis is what makes him a man. In the Bemba culture of Zambia, where fertility is seen as a test of manhood, a man who fails to impregnate his wife is referred to as balifwa mung’anda, literally ‘he is dead in the house’, implying that his penis which is figuratively seen as something that enables a man to turn a house into a home is dead. However, this somehow contradicts the culture’s other belief that a woman is seen to be the ‘homemaker’, while a man leads and provides for the home. Similarly, in the Xhosa and Zulu culture of South Africa, terms such as uyabanda ‘he is cold’, meaning that he is incapable to perform in bed in the sense that he cannot sustain an erection needed for sexual excitement, is used. In addition, in Kinyankore of Uganda, the word ekefera, ‘worthless’, is used to describe a man who can neither satisfy a woman in bed nor reproduce, although the process of

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reproduction is a two-way activity (Katenesi-Mugisha & Oryem-Origa, 2005). It follows then that those who seek sexually enhancing herbs/aphrodisiacs do so in privacy and secrecy for fear of stigma brought about by some of the perceptions highlighted above. However, the irony of the matter is that these herbs are sought after by men who may both be impotent and those who are sexually capable but merely wish to enhance their virility in order to feel ‘accepted’ in society or prove a point to a woman. It is this association of sexual activity, manhood and identity that directly influences the naming of herbs for sexual enhancement, which we will discuss in subsequent sections. There are a few cases when women would access these herbs on behalf of their partners but without their knowledge. For example, a few women interviewed in this study agreed that there are times when they might add powders with aphrodisiac contents to their partners’ food if they noticed that his sexual stamina was waning. There are very rare cases when women would agree with their partners to take some herbs with sexual potency. As it will be demonstrated later, none of the names of the herbs discussed here metaphorically refer to impotence or stigmatise the users but, rather, most of them connotatively refer to the therapeutic effects that such herbs have on the users. In this vein, the aim of the chapter is to explore selected herbal names with a view to unravelling the complex nature of the meanings embedded in them and how these relate to people’s social and cultural experiences. Ultimately, the goal of the chapter is to analyse the onomastic system behind the naming of sexually enhancing herbs that in turn reveal some dominant African beliefs and values about sex and sexuality. Drawing on data from randomly selected southern African cultures, we analyse some names of sexually enhancing traditional herbal medicines. It is noted that the names of traditional herbal medicines generally bear connotative and denotative descriptions of the potency that such medicines have on the users. It is further noted that some names are used to project social structures associated with masculinity in relation to femininity in African societies. Following Pfukwa’s (2007) work, we adopt a social pragmatic analytical approach as well as linguistic notions of connotation and denotation in order to ground the analysis. This is elaborated on in subsequent sections.

Methodology The data for the study was randomly collected from selected countries in southern Africa based on their frequency of use and the popularity of the

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names among the men. Two main methods of data collection were used, namely personal interviews and informal talk with selected men from the different cultures. Since the study was predominantly conducted in South Africa, these (men) were identified nationals of the respective countries who were of an older age, approximately between 25 and 55. The intention was to randomly collect names of African traditional aphrodisiacs from different cultures by interviewing 10 informants from each culture (country) of interest. Thereafter, we decided to focus only on the names that were common among the selected informants. This means that other similar medicines that are not as popular as those collected here were not part of the study sample. Owing to the scope of the study, the focus of which is on the names of herbal aphrodisiacs and how they relate to dominant African cultural practices, we could not collect all the names of herbs found in the languages of a given country. Moreover, in some cases, names from one or two nations featured more prominently than others due to the limitations involved in accessing informants from other diverse cultures as well as a lack of readily available data on traditional African medicines, more generally, and herbal aphrodisiacs, in particular. Thereafter, a corpus of all the names from the different languages of the countries under study was created and the data were then analysed for meaning and interpretation according to the common themes emerging.

Theoretical Issues Following Pfukwa’s (2007) study on war names which largely draws from theoretical linguistics and, in particular, a pragmatic perspective on analysing onomastic data, we equally take this theoretical path although with a slightly different orientation. In this regard, pragmatics is defined as a branch of linguistics which focuses on the use of language in social contexts and the ways in which people produce and comprehend meanings. According to Levinson (1983), as cited in Pfukwa (2007), pragmatics is the third dimension of the main aspects of semiotics, the other two being semantics and syntax. According to Pfukwa (2007), some of the key topics in pragmatics include speech acts, deixis, implicatures, declaratives, illocutionary and perlocutionary force in speech acts. In this vein, naming can be seen as a speech act carrying certain socio-pragmatic attributes, for example, perlocutionary force (Van Langendonck, 2001; Pfukwa, 2007). The advantage of using pragmatics as a general framework for analysing onomastic data is that it takes into account the speakers’ intended meaning and the receivers’ perceived meaning (Pfukwa, 2007, 2008; Batoma, 2009). Since this study partly looks at the intended

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meanings of the names of herbal medicines and the ultimate meaning a name gets from the target group or audience, these dimensions become critical. It follows then that names can be analysed socio-pragmatically. Pfukwa (2007) and Van Langendonck’s (2001) works have in this vein highlighted the importance of pragmatics in onomastic analysis. The other advantage of this perspective is that it moves beyond formal linguistics by considering social aspects of linguistic items. Furthermore, this perspective allows for the collection of data from oral forms and popular culture (see Pfukwa, 2003, 2007). Therefore, the names collected here would be best described as having been collected from some African popular culture. In addition, since the study generally deals with the meaning of names, we also draw on the notion of semantics from formal linguistics, that is, the study of meaning in order to analyse the data at hand. However, owing to the fact that semantics is a complex phenomenon, as observed by Pfukwa (2007), involving three different perspectives (lexical, denotative and connotative levels) and three main approaches – for example, there is the linguist’s approach, the philosopher’s approach and the onomastician’s approach – we will focus only on the linguist and onomatician’s approaches since these are of direct significance to the study. In this regard, a linguist often focuses on the first three levels of semantics, that is, the lexical, denotative and the connotative levels (Louwrens, 1994). Building on the first three levels, the onomastician then goes beyond them into what is known as descriptive backing, which is more or less a cognate of pragmatics (Nicolaisen, 1987; Louwrens, 1994; Meiring, 1980, 1993; Van Langendonck, 2001). Therefore, in order to understand the meanings of names under study, and following Pfukwa (2007), we briefly explain the different aspects of pragmatics upon which descriptive backing is based. Firstly, lexical meaning is the basic meaning or original meaning and is sometimes also called literal meaning (Louwrens, 1994). It entails the origins of the name or word (etymology) and its language of origin. These are all important aspects of the study, especially when taking into account that names, like any other linguistic item, constantly migrate from one language to another and from culture to culture. Or, indeed, that their meanings may be extrapolated to refer to something else, as will be illustrated (Batoma, 2009; Pfukwa, 2007). In this vein, the first level, which is the lexical meaning of a name, focuses on the original meaning of a linguistic item before it becomes a name: at this stage, it is still viewed as a pure linguistic item that can be subjected to the detailed linguistic analysis (Louwrens, 1994; Pfukwa, 2007). In their language of origin, most names have lexical meaning, but when they move into other

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languages they become lexically opaque (Neethling, 1995). According to Pfukwa (2007, p. 47), ‘when a word acquires onomastic attributes, its semantic properties change and one of these changes is described as denotation’. According to Kreider (1998, p. 45), denotation: identifies the central aspect of a word meaning, which everybody generally agrees about. Connotation refers to the personal aspect of meaning, the emotional associations that the word arouses. Connotations vary according to the experience of individuals but, because people do have common experiences, some words have shared connotations.

Clearly, denotation concerns an object being referred to and is therefore related to literal meaning. Thus, a name can have referential properties or meaning where it points to or denotes a person or an object (Pfukwa, 2007). Consequently, Meiring (1980) argues that the importance of a name lies in what it refers to. In a way, denotation can then be seen as a transitional point in the transformation of a lexical item into a full onomastic item. In the post-lexical stages, a name takes on referential functions and, at this stage, it begins to accumulate connotations (Pfukwa, 2007). The underlying feature of this term, Pfukwa (2007) continues, is ‘association’, which carries affective qualities. Meaning here loses the transparent, literal and referential qualities that are found in lexical and denotative meaning. It moves to a realm of the abstract and psychological which are quite complex to configure (Pfukwa, 2007). The lexical item by now has lost its semantic relationship with its referent and has become an onomastic peg. At this stage, connotation now firmly becomes critical in the onomastic realm as names carry their meaning and significance by association with or sometimes by the emotions they evoke (Pfukwa, 2007). Most onomasticians, for instance, Meiring (1980; 1993), Nicolaisen (1987), Raper (1987) and Neethling (1995), link connotation with onomastics. To quote Nicolaisen (1978, p. 43): ‘naming is the process by which words become names through association […] using a name involves knowledge of the appropriate associations’. This is partly what informs our analysis of herbal medicines. The notion of descriptive backing adds to the concept of there being a meaning behind a name by looking at it as some form of a collection of ‘all associations’ possible around that given name (Pfukwa, 2007; Batoma, 2009). Meiring (1993), cited in Louwrens (1994, p. 4), defines descriptive backing as that which ‘amounts to the collective content of all conventional beliefs and connotations attached to a name’. These beliefs and connotations may involve even some remotest assumptions (Pfukwa, 2007). Furthermore,

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they may have no link with the original meaning, especially where the name has moved from one language to another. At this stage, it has lost its lexical meaning because it traversed the ‘continuum’ of meanings. It is in this regard that we chose to analyse the data within the broader framework of formal linguistics and, in particular, pragmatics and semantics while bearing in mind aspects of African male sexuality and power.

Discussion The analysis and discussion of the data are done according to common themes arising from the names obtained. However, owing to the fact that we are dealing with herbal aphrodisiacs, most of the names are erotic in nature. In this vein, some names might be seen as vulgar but this is critical in as far as analysis of this type of data is concerned. The first theme deals with names that relate to animal attributes and this is followed by a theme dealing with names that suggest male sexual ‘alertness’. Thirdly, we discuss the theme that reveals dominant gender stereotypes about women as sexual objects and men as superior beings in terms of sex and power relations.

Herbal Names that Relate to Animal Attributes The reverence of certain animals based on their perceived abilities in African societies is not a new thing. For example, Africans have named their totems after particular animals that symbolise the collective strength, unity and common origins that a given totem has; for example, the crocodile or elephant totems are common names across Africa. This particular naming practice has also been extended to the naming of herbs that connotatively depict the effects on the users. We discuss a few of these below.

Pombwe > baboon The Lozi men of Namibia and Zambia name a particular sexual stimulant as pombwe. Lexically, pombwe refers to a baboon, but when used in particular contexts by men, its meaning has been extended to refer to a powdered traditional herb that is added to porridge or taken with any form of drink in order to sexually stimulate a man. Thus, this herb is known to arouse sexual desires and prolong sexual encounters. Speakers have symbolically attributed the effects of this herb on the user to the sexual exploits of a baboon. This animal is known not only for showing

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aggression towards male competitors but also in terms of its active sexual behaviour. For example, male baboons are known for their aggressive competition for females, frequent copulation turns and the monopolisation of a small group of females for ease of reproductive access. Therefore, as hinted at above, this appears to be the attribute that has been extended to the sexual effects that pombwe the herb is assumed to trigger on the user. Consequently, it is believed that when men take this herb before a sexual event, their sexual stamina is comparative to that of a baboon. The meaning of this name may further suggest the sexual potency that the user accrues from the intake of the herb in order for him to sustain a firm erection and a longer sexual encounter.

Mtunda Mbuzi >The Urination of a Goat Similar to pombwe is mutunda mbuzi, which literally means ‘the urination of a goat’ in ChiNyanja of Zambia and Malawi. In this vein, the phrase refers to the frequent ejaculations (akin to urination) that a male goat may have in a typical day accompanied by an aggressive sexual behaviour and domination of other male goats. In this way, only a strong and powerful male goat would succeed to monopolise a group of females and be able to ‘service’ them all. Based on a male goat’s sexual exploits, men have named a particular herb that gives instant sexual stimulation as mtunda mbuzi. This is because the herb also allows the user to enjoy multiple sexual encounters in a short space of time akin to the sexual behaviour of a male goat. However, this name only makes sense to societies that rear goats and have first-hand experience of the sexual behaviour of male goats. In this way, the name becomes more descriptive and alluring to the user as it clearly demonstrates the kind of comparable effects that the herb has on its users. In addition, the name may reflect some dominant cultural practice of polygamy or that of having multiple sexual partners in patriarchal African societies.

Imvusa Nkunzi > Waking Up A Bull This is a name of a herb found among the Xhosa of South Africa. Imvusa nkunzi literally means ‘wake up the bull’, or simply, ‘waking up the bull’. The mention of a bull in many African communities evokes the sexual power that this animal has in comparison to cows. Therefore, premised on its sexual abilities and behaviour, this prowess might be compared to that of a baboon and a goat, as discussed above, so the phrase has been used to name a traditional herb for sexual stimulation in men. In this regard,

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imvusa nkunzi as a name is a compound word whose meaning can be analysed at two levels, that is, at the lexical/literal meaning and connotative meaning levels. First, the word imvusa literally means ‘wake up’, while nkunzi means ‘a bull’. The two make up a word that refers to ‘waking up a bull’. The second level of meaning involves looking at the word connotatively. In this regard, imvusa has been used to descriptively refer to sexual stimulation of a man’s penis whereas nkunzi refers to a man and, in particular, his sexual organ. Thus, the herb has been named to describe the effects of sexual stimulation, that is, the instant stimulation of the penis that one gets after taking the herb. In this regard, the herb is responsible for ‘waking up’ a sleeping ‘bull’. Moreover, the word bull in the name of the herb can connotatively refer to power and control in matters of sex and leadership, which are clearly drawn from the cultural value system of African societies.

Names That Suggest Sexual Alertness This theme deals with herbs whose names suggest being sexually ‘alert’ which connote being able to keep the sexual drive alive in order to meet a partner’s sexual needs. This, in turn, reflects society’s stereotype about men’s sexuality. Under this theme, we discuss a few names below.

Vukavuka > wake up wake up Among the Xhosa and Zulu people of South Africa and Ndebele of Zimbabwe, vukavuka is a reduplicated word which literally means ‘wake up wake up’. This phrase has been used to name a traditional herb that offers sexual stimulation in men. The name vukavuka describes the potency found in this type of herb which enables a man to have a high sexual desire and sustain a firm erection throughout a sexual event. In this regard, the ‘waking up’ does not only refer to the man being kept awake but also to being able to keep an erection and perform his ‘sexual duties’. Furthermore, like imvusa nkunzi, the waking up connotes stimulation of the male private parts. The name was also found to have been used in Zambia among Nyanja speakers to refer to a similar herb but in which the meaning of the herb has since become lexically opaque, having moved from one language to another.

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Vukahlale > stay awake Related to vukavuka is vukahlale, the name of a traditional herb in Xhosa which has become conventionalised. Vukahlale denotatively implies ‘stay awake’. In this regard, the name refers to being active in bed, that is, the sexual potency the herb provides to the users, which in turn gives them the stamina to perform. We can also add that the name does not only refer to literal ‘staying awake’ at night but may also refer to erectile function, which is critical for a sexual encounter. In fact, it only makes sense, since one’s waking up and staying awake without being able to ‘perform’ may be equated with laziness in bed, which is essentially the reason why the herb must be taken. In this vein, the suggested waking up and staying awake connotes erection and sexual longevity which are often equated with masculinity and power.

Nyang’anya > shake This is the name of a traditional herb found among some Nyanja speakers of Zambia and Malawi. Literally, Nyang’anya refers to the act of making a subconscious movement similar to a movement that one would make when they are fast asleep to show life. Therefore, the herb describes the sexual stimulation effects that the herb has on its users, the form of stimulation that makes a man ‘alive’ or active in terms of their sexual drive. This name seems to be steeped in African traditional societies in which a man’s worth or life revolves around his ability to meet the sexual needs of his partner.

Bangalala > they can sleep This herb is found among the Xhosa and Zulu people of South Africa and is literally translated as ‘they can sleep’ where ba- is essentially an honorific prefix and not necessarily a plural form. In this case, bangalala is a name that suggests an invitation by a female to a male who has apparently shown his ‘worthiness’ in bed during their first encounter and, therefore, he is more than welcome to spend the whole night with her. Among all the herbs discussed, this is the only one which is suggestively named by the female, but it is not clear whether they do actually know about it since most of these herbs under discussion are found in the male domain of language use. Furthermore, this is the only herb which seems to suggest that its effects are clearly noticeable after the first sexual encounter, which causes the female to ask for more or to extend an

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invitation to the man to spend more time with her because of the supposedly intense pleasure she receives from he who takes it.

Names That Evoke Violence against Women Mutoba kongwe > clitoris breaker This is a traditional herb found among the Kaonde (Luba) men of Zambia and the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). The Bemba speakers of Zambia call it simply mutoba. In this name, mutoba literally means ‘breaker’ while kongwe is the clitoris. Thus, the full name means ‘clitoris breaker’. This name describes the aphrodisiac effect that gives a man a firmer erection capable of breaking the ‘clitoris’. From the meaning of the name, a woman here is portrayed as a sex object and her feelings are not considered as important since the idea of ‘breaking’ is not only suggestive of violence but also pain. This appears to reflect dominant gender stereotypes about a woman and her sexuality where a man’s sexual feelings come first and are regarded as more important, while a woman’s are secondary and less important. This could perhaps explain the practice of female circumcision among some cultures in Africa. From the informal interviews conducted with men, most of the men that had either used this herb or had heard about its effects talked about the fact that the herb makes a woman want to ‘run away’ due to the ‘animal-like’ sexual desire a man gets from the use of mutoba kongwe. The running away here refers to a woman giving up on sex due to a prolonged and often painful sexual encounter resulting from a firm erection and an unpleasantly long encounter. What was interesting to note was that the interviewees who had taken the herb before all wanted their women to respect them in the area of sex and life in general. In this case, the herbs helped them to enhance their familial and social roles as men. Therefore, they argued, the effects that mutoba kongwe gives is something that every man should try and take so they can demonstrate their worth. Others noted that this is a herb you do not use with your wife as she is likely to notice a great difference that might make her suspect you are using a herbal remedy. I have to point out here that all herbs are usually taken in privacy without the knowledge of a partner due to the reasons discussed above. The name of the herb in actual fact evokes some form of violence against women in a patriarchal society in which physical abuse on women by men is sometimes seen as a normal practice or as a way of disciplining a woman.

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Mkwapukwapu > a whip The Chewa/Nyanja speakers of Malawi name one of the sexually enhancing herbs as mkwapukwapu, which denotatively means a whip. This herb, just like others before it, is said to give sexual potency to the users, which in turn provides them with a firmer erection and enhanced sexual stamina to levels beyond pleasure on the part of the woman. In other words, the man enjoys the encounter more than his partner does. Therefore, this name also evokes the idea of a woman as a sexual object men can use to satisfy their needs. In addition, the idea of whipping suggestive of the name also reflects the dominant cultural practice in which a woman can be physically abused in the name of imparting discipline. It also projects man as the dominant one in matters of sex as he is the one who, in this case, literally does the ‘whipping’, while the woman is on the receiving end.

Mwanya anakazi > women you are warned This name literally translates into ‘women you will see’ which denotes a caution to women. This name is found among Nyanja speakers of Zambia. Similar to mutoba kongwe, the name depicts the intense erection that the herb gives to the user, which in turn is said to ‘harm’ the woman due to the man’s firm erection and prolonged sexual desire on a particular day, and thus necessitates caution. This name seems to further suggest women as objects for sexual gratification and that their feelings do not matter much, which is equally a clear reflection of society’s dominant beliefs about a woman as a sexual object. In addition, the name evokes some form of violence which is erroneously viewed as a form of discipline among African traditional cultures and thus the need for caution suggested by the name.

Tsenolithupalietsamoferefere > sticks that cause violence/havoc This phrase-like name is taken from Sotho of Lesotho and South Africa. It names a traditional herb that is said to provide sexual stamina to the users whose effects are so intense that they are comparable to being capable of causing violence or havoc. The idea of ‘sticks that cause havoc’ might be seen to have two meanings: the first being the lexical one, that is, referring to the actual herbal plant whose aphrodisiac effects are responsible for sexual stimulation in the man, while the second would refer to the nature of stimulation that this herb has on a man. In this regard, the sexual

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stimulation is seen as being one that gives pleasure to the man and one that might cause discomfort to the woman in the long run.

Nkondo ku bed > war in the bedroom This phrase is from Chewa/Nyanja of Malawi and Zambia and names a traditional herb known for the intense sexual potency and vigour that it supposedly gives to the user. The word nkondo, ‘war’, is used to describe the nature of sexual activity, that is, a prolonged sexual event that one would experience after taking the herb. Furthermore, the idea of sexual potency is reinforced by the use of the phrase in ‘the bedroom’, which is a physical space best known for erotic activities.

Herbs Named After Places Under this category, we identify some herbs that take their names from places known for their beautiful forests, which are the major sources of a wide variety of herbs.

Pau de Cabinda > stick of Cabinda Pau de Cabinda is a Portuguese name that refers to sticks of Cabinda, that is, herbs from this region. This herb is one of the most popular male herbs found in Angola. It is named after Cabinda, one of the small towns of Angola known for its beautiful forests that produce a variety of traditional herbs for different ailments for many Angolans and neighbouring nations. Among such herbs are aphrodisiacs. The name appears to have been used for economic reasons based on Cabinda’s famous record of herbs. It therefore follows that whenever some Angolan men hear of an aphrodisiac from this region, it evokes a certain belief and confidence in the herb. However, the danger is that the name is sometimes used as an umbrella term to refer to similar herbs by unscrupulous people whose motive is purely to make money. The same is true with Congo dust, which is discussed below.

Congo dust/Congo powder Like pau de Cabinda, this herb has been named after the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) based on its best forests which are believed to produce some of the best herbs in the region. In this regard, the motive behind the naming of this herb has been for economic reasons based on the

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perceptions that any herb coming from Congo forests are considered better than other types. In fact, this name appears to have been given by Lusaka herbalists with a view to market other similar herbs. The herb was found sold on the streets of Lusaka to passers-by.

Congo bululu > the sour of Congo This is the name of a traditional aphrodisiac which literally means ‘the sour of Congo’ in Luba of DRC. The fact that it is named after the Congo as a nation also suggests the earlier argument made above. Unlike other herbs thus far discussed, this herb was said to be sometimes secretly administered by the female partners when they noticed that their partners were not performing to their expectations.

Miscellaneous Names The names under this section have varied meanings which cannot be discussed under one consolidated theme. Therefore, we draw examples from different languages. You will notice that some of the names simply refer to the lexical meaning, that is, the actual name of a plant in a given language or place.

Thupasentle > beautiful sticks This is a Sotho name of a particular herb that provides potency and sexual stimulation. Based on its usefulness in this regard, the herb has been descriptively named as ‘beautiful’, which in turn relates to the favourable aphrodisiac effects that such herbs provide the users.

Phila > health This is one of the few traditional herbs that has been conventionalised and can be bought from the shelves of most pharmacies in South Africa. Phila means health in the Xhosa language of South Africa. The herb has been used as an umbrella name that covers other types of herbs that contain curative effects. However, one of the conventionalised herbs has specifically been named as phila for men in order to promote its aphrodisiac power in men. The notion of health connotatively refers to a state of having a normal sexual life; in this regard, any state that interferes with this ‘state’ is unhealthy.

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Monnamotso > black man The Sotho men of South Africa and Lesotho have named one of the herbs which provide the users with sexual stamina as simply black man after the African race. Thus, lexically, the name relates to a man who is black and therein lies the connotative meaning. The catchiness of the name is in the use of the word black. This seems to emanate from the long-held belief across the globe that African (black) men have great sexual stamina in comparison to other races. It then follows that any herb that has or gives such sexual potency is as good as a ‘black man’. Therefore, the name of the herb describes the perceived sexual prowess of a black man.

Mutototo > stiffness The word mutototo is derived from an ideophone, –tototo in Nyanja, which describes the stiffness of something. In this regard, mutototo (derived from –tototo) is the name of a traditional herb found in Zambia which describes the stiffness of the manhood resulting from its intake. The name mutototo is so famous on the streets of Lusaka that it is sometimes used as an umbrella term in order to advertise similar herbs.

Iqhawe > hero/warrior The word hero has many meanings but generally refers to a person (usually a man) who is admired for great or extraordinary acts or fine qualities. However, in this case, the term hero/warrior, ‘iqhawe’ in Xhosa, has been used to name a herb that gives sexual stamina to men. This potency is what is ideally conceived of as exhibiting ‘extraordinary effects’ by the users, in this regard, aphrodisiac effects. The name might also be seen to suggest that the plant or herb has very good effects in comparison to other similar ones. In fact, this herb has since been conventionalised as well and can be found on the shelves of many pharmacies in South Africa and across the world. The name has since been used as a trademark but is wrongly spelled as Ikawe for Men by an American company.

Fwamba kuyala > spread the bed quickly This phrase names a traditional aphrodisiac among the Tonga speakers of Zambia and Zimbabwe. The name sounds more like a call for a quick session of lovemaking to one’s partner, but, in actual fact, it connotes the

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extreme sexual potency and stimulation that the herb gives to the user. The name suggests that the herb stimulates the user almost immediately and, as such, a partner must be ‘near’ or ‘close by’ due to the immediate stimulation one gets. In a way, we may argue that the name is a caution in itself to the user.

Njugula > stimulator This name is also from Tonga and simply refers to the herb as an object that causes stimulation and, in this case, sexual arousal in men. The herb is not only known for stimulation but also for sustaining a firm erection.

Seven hours This is another name of a traditional herb famous on the streets of Lusaka. It is named after the effects that lead to sexual stamina, allowing the user to experience a prolonged sexual drive lasting for many more hours than usual. The name seems to be used for marketing purposes, as it is common to find men and women shouting it out to passers-by. However, the problem is that any herb that gives similar sexual benefits has been named as such. Other names that are used in a similar way include vubwe, whose actual meaning simply refers to a plant with aphrodisiac effects but is used as an umbrella name for any traditional aphrodisiacs in Zambia. In addition, many other herbs not discussed here bear the names of actual plants but which are known to have aphrodisiac effects. For example, goro (Lingala) and hankoro (Swahili) from DRC simply refer to plants but whose uses are renowned for sexual enhancement. Others include mthibulo, a herb used for improving the quantity of semen, and gondolosi for erectile dysfunction; all these are from Malawi, while mositsane, ‘green flower’, is from Sotho.

Conclusion This chapter took a ‘journey’ into the African men’s ‘world’ by analysing some of the names of sexually enhancing herbal medicines from selected cultures of southern Africa. From the discussion, it is clear that the practice of naming herbal medicines is descriptive of the aphrodisiac effects on the users. It is also clear that this practice is a reflection of dominant beliefs and values about masculinity, sex and sexuality in African cultures. Thus, some names are associated with sexually performance-enhancing herbs and

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others with both sexual performance and the power associated with masculinity. The chapter has also revealed that since most African societies are linguistically diverse, the names of these herbs are equally diverse and that sometimes one type of herb may have different names depending on the culture. The chapter has established that there are more similarities than differences in the naming patterns for these herbal medicines in the different cultures studied. Most of the similarities lie in the fact that all the names of herbs considered are descriptive of the sexually enhancing effects they provide to the users. In addition, they also tend to position men as domineering individuals over women in matters of sex and power relations. Clearly, the chapter has given new insights into how we name in postcolonial Africa, particularly in the area of traditional medicines.

References Banda, F. & Mambwe, K. (2013). Fighting HIV/AIDS through Zambian popular music. Muziki: Journal of Music Research in Africa, 10(1), pp. 1–12. Barker, G. & Ricardo, C. (2005). Report on young men and the construction of masculinity in sub-Saharan Africa: implications for HIV/AIDS conflict, and violence. [Online] Available from http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:GnOGGti2c4s J:www.hsrc.ac.za/uploads/pageContent/1698/World%2520Bank%252 0Soc%2520Dev26.pdf+&cd=2&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=za. [Accessed: 14 June 2014]. Batoma, A. (2009). Onomastics and Indirect Communication among The Kabre of Northern Togo. Nordic Journal of African Studies, 18(3), pp. 215–234. Haron, M. (1999). Naming Peoples: The formation of the South African Muslim Identity. Nomina Africana, 13(1 & 2), pp. 19–31. Holland, T.J. Jr. (1990). The Many Faces of Nicknames. Names, 38(4), pp. 255–273. Jenkins, E.R. (1994). Public Participation in Recent and Future Place Name Changes. Nomina Africana, 8(2), pp. 13–26. Kamatenesi-Mugisha, M. & Oryem-Origa, H. (2005). Traditional herbal remedies used in management of sexual impotence and erectile dysfunction in Western Uganda. African Health Sciences, 5(1), pp. 40– 49. Kreidler, C.W. (1998). Introducing English Semantics. London & New York: Routledge.

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Koopman, A. (1990). Onomatopoeia: Song reference in English, Afrikaans and Zulu bird names. Nomina Africana, 4(1), pp. 67–88. —. (1994). Onomastic Shift: From Sir Benjamin to Gobius Durbanensis. Nomina Africana, 8(2), pp. 59–77. Lawson, E.D. (1973). Men’s First Names, Nicknames, and short names: A Semantic Differential Analysis. Names, 21, pp. 22–27. Levinson, S.C. (1983). Pragmatics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Louwrens, L.J. (1994). A Linguistic Analysis of Sotho Geographical Names. Nomina Africana, 8(1), pp. 1–43. Prabhakaran, V. (1998). An Introduction to Indian Hindu Surnames. Nomina Africana, 12(1), pp. 33–49. Marsiglio, W. (1998). Adolescent male sexuality and heterosexual masculinity: a conceptual model and review. Journal of Adolescent Research, 3(3 & 4), pp. 285–303. Meiring, B.A. (1994). Toponymic Innovation and Social Change. Nomina Africana, 8(1), pp. 43–54. —. (1996). New Names for a new South Africa. Proceedings of XIXth ICOS. Aberdeen: University of Aberdeen. —. (2002). The Stormy Seas Around the Fairest Cape. Nomina Africana,19(1), pp. 1–30. —. 1994. Toponymic Innovation and Social Change. Nomina Africana, 8(1), pp. 43–54. Neethling, S.J. (1993). Black Elk Speaks: Native American (Indian) Onomastics. Nomina Africana, 7(1 & 2), pp. 17–36. —. (1994). Xhosa Nicknames. South African Journal of African Languages, 14(2), pp. 88–92. —. (1996a). January to December: Traditional Xhosa Nomenclature. Nomina Africana, 10(1 & 2), pp. 54–65. —. (1996b). Exploring Xhosa Surnames. Nomina Africana, 10(1 & 2), pp. 30–42. —. (1998). Amabokoboko and Other Species: Names in South African Sport. Nomina Africana, 12(2), pp. 57–73. Neuwinger, H.D. (1996). African Ethnobotany: Poisons and Drugs; Chemistry, Pharmacology and Toxicology. London, England: Chapman & Hall. Ndimande-Hlongwa, N. (2010). Nicknames of South African Soccer teams and players as symbols of approbation in a multilingual and multicultural country. South African Journal of African Language, 30(1), pp. 88–97.

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Nicolaisen, W. F. H. (1978). Are there connotative names? Names, 3, pp. 136–152. —. (1987). Onomastic onomastics. Paper presented at the XVI International Congress of Onomastic Sciences, Les Presses de L’ Universite Laval. Pfukwa, C. (2007). Function and significance of war names in the Zimbabwean armed conflict (1966–1979) (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of South Africa, Pretoria. —. (2003). Onomastic innovation in Zimbabwean noms de guerre. Language matters: Studies in the Languages of Africa, 34(1), pp. 13– 23. —. (2008). Shona Description of Diurnal Time: An Onomastic Perspective. NAWA Journal of Language and Communication, 2(1), pp. 58–65. Raper, P.E. (1987). Aspects of Onomastic Theory. Nomina Africana, 1(2), pp. 78–91. Van Langendonck, W.F. (1987). Proper nouns and pronouns. Paper presented at the XVI International Congress of Onomastic Sciences, Les Presses de L’ Universite Laval. —. (2001). Bynames within the personal names system. Nomina Africana,15(1 & 2), pp. 203–211. Vom Bruck, G. & Bodenhorn, B. (Eds). (2005). The Anthropology of Names and Naming. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE NAMING A RIDE: NAMES OF MINIBUS TAXIS AND FAMILY-OWNED BUSES IN EASTERN CAPE AND KWAZULU-NATAL PROVINCES IN SOUTH AFRICA MADODA CEKISO AND THENJIWE MEYIWA

Introduction and Background In 1987, the apartheid government of South Africa began easing restrictions on taxi licences. For all practical purposes, this meant two things: that for the first time black South Africans could obtain such licences; and that passenger vans could now legally be used as taxis. It is at this stage that the new industry of ‘the minibus taxi’ was born in South Africa (Hedgehogs without Borders, 2011, p. 2).1 South African taxi travel can be broadly categorised into two kinds: metred taxis and what are commonly referred to as minibus taxis. Metred taxis are private; at most, they offer a door-to-door service. They are generally regarded as relatively efficient, with experienced drivers behind the wheel. On the other hand, minibus taxis serve the general population, operating as public transportation that picks up and drops off passengers in areas not serviced by the country’s bus and rail network (South African Taxi Travel). The minibus taxi industry is one of the South African public transport systems, representing a model of successful black economic self1

‘Hedgehogs without Borders’ is an Internet website that reviews and reports on matters related to travelling and places. The website states that a minibus taxi in South Africa is defined as a ‘shared taxi’ which means that you share it with other people you do not know.

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empowerment. It is the only entire sector controlled by blacks through their ownership of the taxi mode of transportation. Arrive Alive further states that the minibus taxi industry is today the most critical pillar of South Africa’s public transport sector and is the most available and most affordable to the general public. Accordingly, Karol (2006) credits the minibus taxi industry with continuing to provide a vital service to millions of South Africans. It is thus considered a servant of the urban poor. Seeking and Nattrass (2005) affirm the importance of the industry and note that it does not only serve the poor in terms of transporting them, it also creates employment for the majority of the urban poor who remain marginalised from accessing employment opportunities. In this way, the minibus taxi industry plays a critical role in the public transport arena of South Africa. It comes as little wonder, therefore, that so much attention is given to the naming of taxis, as they are part of the daily life of many people. Neethling (2005a, p. 1) posits that ‘one realises that the act of naming entities is a vital and indispensable activity in organising our world’. Based on a seven-month-long study conducted between 2010 and 2013 of 120 minibus taxis and 33 family-owned buses, as well as in-depth interviews2 of 15 male respondents, this study explored the semantic and symbolic features of the names of these buses and minibus taxis. In particular, discussions focused on the cultural nuances related to the manner in which owners and/or drivers name and thereby interpret the names given to their buses and minibus taxis. The chapter, however, concentrates on a few names, interrogating cultural and onomastic scholars’ arguments relevant to the metaphorical aspects of and reasons for the said naming. Of all the minibus taxis and family-owned buses identified, only 22 and 9, respectively, were chosen for qualitative analysis for the focus of discussion in this chapter. The geographical area in which the research was conducted is largely populated by the isiMpondo-,3 isiXhosa- and isiZulu-speaking communities

2 All interviews were conducted in the home language of the respondents; however, the actual words used in the discussion were translated into English for ease of reference. 3 This language, although widely spoken in the former Transkei area of the eastern seaboard region, is not one of the eleven recognised languages of South Africa and is often referred to as the isiXhosa dialect.

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of the eastern seaboard of South Africa. The particular focus was on the towns and outlying areas of Butterworth to Port Shepstone (see Figure 1). Figure 1: Map of South Africa reflecting the area of study (north of Bisho and south of Pietermaritzburg).

Source: www.saexplorer.co.za

Communities between these two towns share at most a number of cultural similarities, ranging from linguistic to cultural – with the main officially recognised languages spoken in these communities being isiXhosa and isiZulu. These languages are mutually intelligible, belonging as they do to the same group of Nguni languages, which includes isiHlubi, isiPhuthi, isiNdebele, isiXhosa, and siSwati. Nguni languages are closely related to their speakers, sharing a number of social and cultural elements (Carton, Laband & Sithole, 2008; Guthrie, 1967; Msimang, 1975). Although varied, people of this region reflect similar naming practices portraying their lifestyle. Hence, in analysing elements of the collected names, less concentration is given to linguistic elements. All the names collected for this study are referred to as Nguni words, rather than disaggregated according to the various languages and dialects of the region. The research protocol for the study was approved by the Walter Sisulu University’s

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Faculty of Education’s Research and Higher Degrees Committee. It was also cleared with the gatekeepers at various taxi and bus stations, referred to as ‘rank managers’. All standard ethical protocols for research with human participants were adhered to, including voluntary and informed participation, confidentiality, and anonymity. According to Mahlangu (2002), the minibus taxi industry in South Africa has been marked historically by exploitative labour relations between owners and drivers, the former seemingly maximising profit at all costs. Mahlangu further points out that, in this industry, the owner of the minibus taxi and the driver act very much as free agents. As a result, every taxi driver makes decisions on a daily basis as to how he is going to make the most money. Thus, the work of taxi drivers is considerably less structured or controlled than that of workers within formalised public transport, such as trains and buses. The research site has many minibus taxis. Most of them look the same and bear similar characteristics, i.e. colour, shape, four wheels, a side door, etc. The important question to address is: how does each minibus taxi stand out from the crowd? In addressing this question, a design-engineering website suggests that ascribing a name onto the minibus taxi is one of the ways by which difference can be created (See Trick, 2012). The focus of this chapter is on the names bestowed on the minibus taxis and family owned buses – given by either their owners or their drivers. The chapter seeks to investigate the metaphoric, symbolic, and semantic significance of such names.

The Theory of Naming and Related Conceptual Matters This section of the chapter discusses the conceptualisation and the theories behind the naming process as it relates to the buses of the selected eastern seaboard region. Drawing from various literature, we provide insight into the motivation behind the creation of new names as seen from the viewpoint of linguistic and onomastic theories. According to Lycan (2000, p. 1), any theory seeking to explain the process of naming has to account for at least two factors. In the first instance, it has to account for the manner in which a name first becomes attached to an object; secondly, it must be able to expound on as well as calculate how the people not present at the time of naming and not acquainted with the objects can use the name in referring to the object. In an attempt to respond to these conceptual phenomena, we refer to and discuss two theories in this chapter, namely, the Causal Theory of Reference, and the Descriptive Theory. Arguing in favour of the Causal Theory of Reference, Kripke (cited in Lycan, 2000),

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points out that within the study of onomastics what is important is having a theoretical know-how of what allows a word to refer to the object to which it refers. In other words, the question that comes to bear is: what is it in the real world that establishes a relationship between those two items and what is the nature of this relationship? According to Kripke (2011), a name refers to something because there is a special relationship between the use of the name and the item to which it refers. Consequently, Kripke views names as rigid designations which have a causal connection to the items they name, hence, foreseeing several different ways of naming the same object in applying the fulfilment of the truth conditions (Dobric, 2010). On the other hand, the Descriptive Theory views names as denoting items only if they satisfy all or most of the descriptions or characteristics one associates with the items which the name is supposed to represent. Dobric (2010), an applied linguist, further points out that the speakers also have to believe and intend to use the given name with the necessary denotation, including the necessary set of characteristics. Thus, according to the Descriptive theorists, a name is associated with descriptive content; the name refers to whoever best fits that content. In other words, the Descriptive theorist does not care so much about the causal origin of the name, focusing instead exclusively on the fit between the descriptive content and its potential referent (Dobric, 2010). It is to this end that Dobric (2010) further asserts that the philosophical debate on the nature of proper names, although very important, does not shed light on the linguistic and cognitive motivation of people in the process of creating names. Hence, Dobric is of the opinion that names are always metaphors. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2011) defines ‘metaphor’ as a form of likening, comparing, or analogising. It goes on to say that the maker of a metaphor likens the primary subject to the secondary subject. Given Dobric’s (2010) stance alluded to above, it is fitting for him to denote this process, metaphorisation. It is apparent that Dobric’s analyses are influenced by Johnson and Lakoff (1980). Johnson and Lakoff (1980, p. 252) state that metaphorisation is based on the transfer from the source conceptual domain to the target conceptual domain. They further state that, most commonly, the structure of the concrete domain of the source is mapped. Exemplifying this assertion, Johnson and Lakoff cite an example of a person whose name is, for instance, Lion. They point out that the lion is the concrete source domain whose conceptual structure (such as strong, proud, fierce, independent, etc.) is transferred to the abstract target domain of a human being. The perception is that a more universal and basic principle of generating names would be metaphorisation. In illustrating this point further, Dobric (2010, p. 140) narrates the story of Vuk

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Stefanovic Karadzic in order to show how metaphorisation works. He says that Vuc was given his name for the reasons of protection against evil spirits and disease, the name Vuc meaning wolf. According to Dobric, the process and the importance of meaning are almost self-evident. One can imagine a small group of people, thousands of years ago, faced with high infant mortality and searching for a means to help a baby live. They look at the world around them, the physical experience of which is actually the primary motivation behind metaphorical concepts, and then see the wolf as a formidable animal – strong, courageous, and fierce. The idea comes that, in order to empower and protect the child, they should name him Vuc (Wolf). Somehow, they determine that the qualities of the animal would be transferred to the child (Dobric, 2010, p. 140). From this narration, the discernment is that the background experience of the environment plays an important role in the process of naming. However, Relevance (2013) warns that names can be problematic if the speaker and listener activate different metaphors when they use the same name. Conversely, in relation to the study of the buses discussed in this chapter, it was found that all the respondents within the entire eastern seaboard shared in the metaphoric attribution of the names of their buses. This was owing to the mutual linguistic intelligibility amongst the speakers at the research site. Another theory associated with the naming process is anthropomorphism. The discussion of the chapter and analyses of the bus names is equally influenced by this theory. According to Epley, Waytz and Cacioppo (2007), anthropomorphism describes the tendency to imbue the real or imagined behaviour of non-human agents with human-like characteristics, motivations, intentions or emotions. Thus, projecting human-like features onto non-human entities is the core feature of anthropomorphism. In this chapter, on one hand, we thus pose the question: when people anthropomorphise, what do they achieve by this behaviour? On the other hand, the question this chapter seeks to address is what inspires the name given to a minibus taxi or a family-owned bus? From the studied literature, as alluded to above, it is apparent that people are more likely to attribute human qualities, and in turn names, to inanimate objects if the object fits with their expectations of relevant human qualities. Epley et al. (2007, p. 864) argue that anthropomorphism hinges on two major motivational factors: the desire for social engagement, and the desire to be an effective participant in social situations. They further state that extreme loneliness can often cause people to create their own version of human companionship. They cite an example of a woman who ‘fell in love’ with her home stereo system. Epley et al. (2007) further point out that sometimes people perceive cars as loyal companions, going so far as to

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name them. A number of the respondents in this study, as discussed below, cited peer alienation, perceived or experienced, as one of the main reasons for regarding a bus as a companion, therefore ascribing to it a name.

The Process of Naming: The Power of Elevating NonHuman Objects to Human-Status Level The act of naming is among the most basic actions of language. Owing to the extremely competitive nature of the busing industry in South Africa, concerted efforts are made to distinguish a bus, as well as to attract passengers. Hence, Ntuli (1999) and Neethling (2005a) posit that bus names are in themselves a strategy of communication. Naming something enables people to communicate about it in specific terms, whether the object named is human or non-human, animate or inanimate (Borkfelt, 2011, p. 116). Having joined a taxi association in which many drivers had formed a clique, thus enabling the newcomer’s sense of alienation, a bus driver named his bus Mntakabab’oluhlazana (my father’s blue child). He confides, ‘Had it not been for this horse (referring to the blue-striped minibus taxi) I would be a loner and would hate this job’. This example is indicative of Kripke’s Causal Theory of Reference. Writing on naming non-human objects, Borkfelt (2011) points out that giving the non-living objects human names is a way of showing that they are somehow especially dear to us or of acknowledging their closeness. In other words, naming is a way of elevating the non-human objects to human or nearhuman level. In addition, Hulme (1992) points out that representation through naming comes loaded with current ideas of the world, certain values, subjective perceptions, and conceptions, which can then work their way into our own ideas and conceptions, whether consciously or subconsciously. The web blog post, Relevance (2013, p. 2) describes the process of naming as an act of creation. By attaching a name to a phenomenon, we suddenly see that phenomenon as a ‘thing’. This blog further states that because naming gives us latitude for discussion, it can be useful to name ‘non-things’ in order to ‘thingify’ them. In this study, it was found that, with some respondents, the names given reflected more about the thoughts and perceptions of the name-givers than the concrete occurrences leading to the ascribing of a name. Borkfelt (2011) accordingly notes that a name is a representation. It can therefore potentially comprise all the values, ideas, perceptions and conceptions carried by representations. Borkfelt’s inference reflects an earlier rationale stated by Greenblatt (1991), who

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points out that when naming, for instance, an individual animal or a species, name-givers do not only choose how they want to represent that animal but also how others are to represent and perceive it. This interpretation was evident in the manner in which some bus names came to be crafted. According to Fudge (2002), this validates the fact that the naming of non-living objects demonstrates the power vested in the human beings alone to do so. He further states that ‘now we as human beings feel that non-human objects cannot think, we think for them’ (Fudge, 2002, p. 13). Naming, thus, is symbolic of the unequal power relations between human beings and non-human objects. Accordingly, Hoad (1998), the author and editor of The Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, notes that word origins point out processes which go beyond stating the fact that the process of naming is the first and basic human linguistic ability. He intimates that it is also an excellent example of the power or control that is in many ways inherent in language use. Accordingly, whether what is named are people, animals, or other, the process of naming reflects the worldview of the one who names, rather than the views of what is named. In the South African context, the naming process has been viewed as a significant part of the Nguni culture and of enormous importance both to the people who receive names as well as to the society that gives the names. The onomastics literature listed below reveals that the research conducted in South Africa on naming has focused relatively more on the names bestowed on human beings. To the best of our knowledge, as authors of this chapter, there is little research conducted on the naming process of non-human objects, in particular, locomotives. Studies within southern Africa on non-human objects in this onomastics category were conducted by Ntuli (1999), Voss (1992) and Neethling (2005a; 2005b & 2009). The focus of Neethling’s study (2009) was to highlight and interpret a particular category type of registration appearing on vehicles that has to do with lifestyle and worldview, and that at the same time is intimately linked to aspects of identity. The findings of his study revealed the following elements apropos cars: x vehicle owners wanted to emphasise their subscription to a particular lifestyle or worldview; x many car owners saw their vehicles as extensions of their identities, projecting a certain type of image and lifestyle; x religious beliefs and affiliation, often intimately and directly linked with worldview, also featured; and

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x some name choices defy any classification but clearly show the originality and innovative thinking of some vehicle owners, e.g. Eish, Meteish etc. (Neethling 2009, pp. 762–764). The focus of Neethling’s earlier study (2005b) on non-living objects was on the names given to minibus taxis by drivers, owners or community members. In this study, he identified the following categories that were associated with the minibus naming process: x x x x x x

Appearance/features (of taxi); Characteristics of owner/driver; Identification/commemoration; Positive values; Religious affiliation; and Miscellaneous.

The concentration of this chapter is similar to Neethling’s 2005b abovementioned study in that it focuses on the significance of naming nonhuman objects; that is, minibus taxis and family-owned buses. In particular, the analysis is concerned with the meaning behind the said names. The findings of the study on which this chapter is based concur with the Neethling’s work and with the results of a study conducted by Ahrens (2009, p. 63) on the naming of minivan taxis used for public transportation in the Caribbean. As with Ahrens, we found that the bus name reflects the identity a particular driver or name-giver wishes to convey to his customers. Furthermore, we found that the names reflect the culture, interests, and desires of the immediate community in which the name-giver lives and/or of a particular context. However, we found that the contexts changed; they could also be determined by socio-cultural factors such as a significant sporting or even political event.

Some Social Trends in the Naming Process Southern African literature on the naming process reveals certain shifting trends in the process (see for instance Koopman, 1994; Moyo, 1996; Pfukwa, 2007; Ngubane & Thabethe, 2013). Further afield, US-based website, Phys.org (2013) infers that studying naming trends can be a subtle means of peering into a society’s beliefs and values without ever having to ask people to report directly on their beliefs. The perception is that the naming trend is influenced by the society’s values; it becomes important to see how those values translate into names. According to All

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Dog Names, a web-based body of literature, there is recognition that dog names have not been exempt from the rapidly changing trends of the time. This is reminiscent of the saying that ‘the dog is man’s best friend’. A prominent South African onomastics’ scholar, Adrian Koopman’s various academic publications have a concerted focus on studying dogs’ names. This scholar further points out that as dogs are common domestic pets, their names tend to serve as reflections of the times and people’s lifestyles worldwide, affirming the principles of the Descriptive Theory. The southern African literature referred to above also states that dog-naming reveals an entirely new trend, which includes giving human names to dogs. It maintains that this trend may be explained by the way in which most dog owners view their pets today, as members of the family and friends, but also, in particular among the Nguni, as the site of expressing intense emotions. As with dogs, this eastern seaboard study found that some buses assume family and friend status; in turn, they are given names traditionally attributed to dogs, for example, Sipoti and Rover (see Koopman, 2002, p. 217). A minibus taxi-owner said that he named his bus in memory of one of his dogs who had died of rabies. From this practice, it is apparent that, as times change, trends come and go, as do bus names. Accordingly, as bus owners evolve and live through certain experiences, there are more sources of inspiration for bus names. Besides these pleasurable causes that give rise to name-giving, the study revealed that unpleasant circumstances, such as tensions within the community, can also contribute to the naming of buses.

Names Reflecting Community Tensions One respondent, an owner of five buses, mentioned that the name of his bus was Bazingela ukhozi ngenja (they use a dog to hunt a crow). According to this respondent, the name was crafted so as to convey a message to other bus owners. The name and associated meaning were derived from the typical character of a crow, which flies up into the sky and cannot be hunted by a dog, since it cannot fly. This is metaphoric, reflecting what Dobric (2010) asserts, that the naming practice is laden with metaphors. In this instance, the actual message was a warning to the bus owner’s competitors: that they will never catch up with him in business and therefore must give up. This attitude also instills a spirit of competition among the bus owners. Two respondents within the same community of Bazingela ukhozi ngenja reported that they had bought new buses and named theirs as a challenge and response to this provocative name. In retaliation to his peers, the respondent who owns five buses

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seemed to have been further fuelled by his peers’ newer buses. His next (and sixth) bus bought after that was named Zazixina endala (they were defeating the old one). This name reflects the spirit of intense competition in the bus business industry. The message he conveys here is that for his business he has been using old buses that could not speed as fast as other newer buses in the community. Now that he has bought this new one, he has decided to challenge those newer model buses that have been ‘bullying’ his own in terms of speed. Competitors can now either match the recent bus model or give up because the new bus is regarded as hard to beat. The name Zazixina endala also reflects the language and the ethnic group to which the speaker belongs. Ukuxina is a Pondo verb literally meaning ‘to defeat’ and figuratively meaning ‘to outshine’. Another respondent, a family bus driver, mentioned that he named his bus Bafikile ooGila (the Gilas have arrived). The proper noun Gila, now a name, is derived from the Nguni verb gila, meaning ‘perform tricks on or outperform’ (Doke, Malcolm, Sikakana & Vilakazi, 1990). This respondent beamed, ‘the meaning of this name Bafikile ooGila was to firmly announce my presence, my arrival within the industry; I came with a bang’. He also said that his bus was a challenge to those owners who had been in the industry for a long time; that they must be aware of newcomers such as Gila (the shortened version of the name, Bafikile ooGila which the owner expressed emphatically, hitting his right fist on the palm of his left hand). What is found in common within this category of names is that the bus names assume full sentences that are packed with intense emotions. This kind of naming practice is quite responsive and is a form of reaction to which the Causal Theory of Reference refers. Some names come about by the circumstances in which people find themselves. Only one bus name was reported to have not been given by either an owner or driver, i.e. the name Ungahleki (Do not laugh). The etymology of this name was sketchy and none of the respondents were eager to provide an explanation of its origins.

Names Reflecting Family, Clan Ancestry and Pride It is common practice amongst the Nguni people to revere ancestors by using the names of previous family members to name new as well as forthcoming generations. This is a form of reincarnation and lineage continuity. African onomastics scholars (Madubuike, 1976; Ngubane, 2000) refer to this practice as a form of commemorating their ancestors. Ngubane (2000, p. 3) asserts that ‘Being named for an ancestor carries

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with it the guardianship of the child by the ancestor’. In relation to the eastern seaboard study of bus names, this notion was cited by more than three respondents as one of the reasons behind naming their buses; that is, while it is regarded as a form of evoking protection, on the one hand, on the other hand, it expresses pride and the celebration of family lineage. A sixty-six-year-old man who came into the industry as a young bus driver and owner mentioned that he named his bus Igugu lamaNtshangase (Ntshangase clan pride). Ntshangase is a clan name. In Nguni languages, igugu refers to a precious or valuable object. In this context, it means pride. This respondent stated that he believes in the power and grace of his ancestors. That he managed to own a bus does not signal his intelligence or wisdom; it is by the unyielding and constant supremacy of his ancestors. Seemingly bolstered by his reflections, he exuded joy, saying, ‘By giving this name to my bus, I am trying to give all the credit to the ancestors as what I have is due to their blessings’. He said that he believed that, in ensuring this lineage continuity, his ancestors might bless him with another bus. According to him, the name also reveals family unity. Because a clan name does not refer to an individual but to a collective, he thinks that the name-bestowing practice contributes towards making the entire clan of relatives feel proud of his business success. It is a belief of the Nguni people that what an individual person owns is not exclusive. It is not yours; rather, it belongs to the entire clan, not even just the immediate family. ‘The belief is derived from the fact that the enemies should not know who to attack’, confided a sixty-year-old family bus owner. It is common practice and a general perception for an Nguni man always to refer to his own house by denoting it as ‘my father’s house’, as a form of honour to the father, so that all the glory might go to his father even if he is no longer alive. Another male respondent of the Pondo Nguni group said that he decided to name his bus ‘Pondo Pride’ in order to demonstrate his relentless pride of being of the Pondo linguistic group; despite the fact that this group is regarded amongst the Nguni as one with a lower social status relative to the entire group. Furthermore, the Pondo language is, although somewhat debatable, regarded as a dialect of the isiXhosa language. It is not recognised as one of the official languages of South Africa. Hence, this form of naming practice becomes crucial in the recognition of a heritage that is less valued. This reveals the ethnic group to which the respondent belongs. He said that he had decided on this name because his bus transports people from Flagstaff in the Eastern Cape to Durban – South African towns that are more than 250 kilometres apart. Therefore, he perceives his bus as an ambassador of the Pondo people in a ‘foreign land’

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(Durban). Silandela amaNgutyana (We follow the Ngutyanas) is a name given to his bus by another respondent. This is also praise for the whole clan and a thanksgiving to the ancestors, Amangutyana being a clan name. An owner and driver of a long-distance minibus taxi whose hometown was in the Eastern Cape mentioned that the name of a vehicle he owned about a decade ago was Zanendaba (literally meaning, come with the news, i.e. deliver the news), and that he regarded his bus as tantamount to a newspaper. He indicated that the name of his vehicle was most appropriate since it was the first vehicle to ferry passengers between the Eastern and Western Cape. He indicated that the vehicle had been operating long before the family owned buses and before minibus taxis were legally allowed to operate in South Africa. He described his vehicle as a Chevrolet model known as Custom 10 which was long and spacious, carrying many passengers. He used to offer his service mainly to the people in the rural areas of the Eastern Cape. The name was inspired by people who used to give him parcels and letters to transport between the Eastern and Western Cape. In other words, his vehicle was used as a link between these two provinces. Based on the fact that he used to carry letters and parcels from Cape Town to the rural Eastern Cape, and vice versa, this vehicle was perceived as bringing the news, important information and mostly good news, for family members not working in a large town, hence the name Zanendaba, figuratively meaning, ‘bring along the long-awaited news’. The study found that some bus names were named after the clan names and surnames of the owners. The following names derived from isiXhosa clan names were cited: Dabane Tours; EyamaXesibe; Bhejula Tours; EzamaTshawe; and Shweme Transport. These names do not focus on the individual but on the clans. This shows how the family unity is promoted in these communities. The following names are the bus names derived from the owners’ surnames: Mangcu Tours; Zwelandile Tours; Jobela Tours; Mpengesi Tours; Mavumisa Tours and Bangani Tours. These are all isiXhosa surnames. The minibus names that make reference to clan names were observed by Neethling (2005a). He argues that the Xhosa society is organised around clan names suggesting a common ancestry. Therefore, it is not surprising to have minibus taxis and family-owned buses indicating that people pride themselves on their clan affiliation.

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Names Associated with Religious Affiliation While the above discussion and reference are limited to the honour of ancestry and family lineage, some owners and drivers, in addition, regarded ancestral veneration as part of their religion, conceding that they were followers of the African Traditional Religion. 4 However, it was found that not all the respondents subscribed to the African Traditional Religion. Hence, some minibus taxis reflected names associated with the driver or minibus owner’s alternate religious beliefs. According to Neethling (2005b), it is estimated that some 70% of the South African population is Christian. This is confirmed by names of this kind in the database. One respondent mentioned that the name he had given to his minibus taxi is In God We Trust. He claimed that he was of the strong belief that, as a devout Christian coming from such a religious home, all his achievements were blessings from God. He did not perceive himself as making any contribution; God was in full control of his virtues. The other name that cropped up was Bawo Baxolele (God forgive them). The respondent mentioned that this name is derived from Jesus Christ’s words when he was crucified. The respondent further mentioned that he was conveying a message to his enemies since competition and jealousy among the taxi industry are the order of the day. The other related names given to the buses were Psalm 21; Glory to God; Jesus is God and I Love Bantu Christ Church. The last name is more specific to a particular church of which the minibus taxi owner is a member. All the owners and drivers of buses bearing these names acknowledged Jesus Christ as their Saviour, expressing faith in Him as the Son of God. The linguistic construction of the category of names is different in that, relative to other categories, fewer names were derived from the Nguni languages. Also, this category had relatively more of its names in full sentence formation.

4

In a personal conversation with Dr Nokuzola Mndende, a prominent South African advocate of African traditional religion, Meyiwa. One of the authors of this chapter was informed by Mndende that this kind of religion is not known and dismissed by many people foreign to Africa. She defines the religion as ‘the indigenous religious beliefs and practices of the Africans exemplified in the belief in spirits, deities, ancestors, and the practice of medicine’ (personal communication with Mndende, September 2010).

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Names Associated with the Colour of the Vehicle Most of South Africa’s minibus taxis are white in colour, with a few donning additional signage. In an industry as competitive as this taxi industry, it comes as no surprise that taxi owners and drivers of a different colour would use that to further distinguish their vehicles, including for marketing purposes. As would be expected, this study revealed that most of the vehicles were different in colour from the majority. Their owners or drivers exploited this difference and accordingly derived their names from the colour of the taxi. One respondent mentioned that the name of his minibus taxi was Iqanda or ‘Egg’ and was derived from the yellow colour of his vehicle. Another respondent said that he decided to name his car Inkunz’emnyama, meaning ‘Black Bull’, because of its marked difference. He indicated that this name was because his minibus taxi had darker than usual black-tinted windows. This finding is supported by Neethling (2005b) who observed that many owners, drivers and commuters choose names that emphasise the appearance or a special feature of the taxi, which sets it apart from the others. It seems that the choice of the bull instead of a female cow also had some significance for masculinity, a trait that many taxi drivers and owner would readily relate to, as the industry is maledominated. The focus on masculine traits within the practice of naming is recorded elsewhere in the naming of animals. According to the website All Dog Names, male dog owners often choose male dog names which are macho-sounding, such as Diego, Escober, or Gangster. On the other hand, women tend to come up with more feminine dog names like Nicole, Melanie, or Lady. It was not surprising to find that this same notion within the study applies to the taxi industry in South Africa, the industry being male-dominated. Some buses, as discussed above, derived their names from animals, and in particular, from dogs. As all the respondents were men for this study, this was to be expected.

Names Associated with Social Networks, Sport, and Music Stars This study revealed that the above-mentioned category of names was the most dominant in the taxi industry of South Africa. The names that reflected current developments in technology were: Facebook, Twitter, WhatsApp, MixIt and Kangol. These names suggest the current developments in technology and they are also perceived as reflecting the lifestyles of the minibus drivers or owners. In addition, the names mirror the rapidly changing trends of the time as they show a new trend which is

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different from the above-mentioned isiXhosa names, which are based on community values and beliefs. Many dog names also indicate further name change trends in that the dog owners of today give human names to their dogs. Perhaps the same thing applies to the minibus owners, as they see their vehicles as symbols of change, which is highlighted by current social networks. In other words, the names reflect the flexibility of the vehicle owners or drivers. They cannot be overtaken by the current events. Other names that cropped up were associated with the stars of various sporting activities. One of the predominating features on the names on minibus taxis were those associated with wrestling, for example, Cena, Undertaker, The Rock, Triple H, and Big Show. The minibus owners and drivers indicated that they wanted their vehicles to be associated with the powerful sports champions whose success is undoubted. The association with names is aptly recorded by Dobric (2010) and Johnson and Lakoff (1980) who confirm the symbolic significance of these associations as a form of likening one object with another. The creator of the metaphor likens the primary subject to the secondary subject, in this case, human icons to buses. Dobric (2010) submits that this process is known as ‘metaphorization’, based on the transfer from the source conceptual domain to the target conceptual domain. In this context, the wrestlers’ names are the source conceptual domain transferred to the minibus taxis, regarded as target conceptual domains. The perception is that when the minibus taxi owners and drivers bestow names on their vehicles, the features of the wrestling champions will be transferred to their vehicles. This association with sports stars showed some trends in the naming process. For example, there was only one respondent who mentioned that his minibus was Zola Budd, despite that this name used to feature prominently in the taxi industry during the early eighties. Zola Budd was a South African-born barefoot runner who broke the women’s 5,000m world Olympic record in 1984. Now that she has retired from the sport, her name no longer features strongly among the names given to the minibus taxis. This shows that, as times change and trends come and go, so the names bestowed on the minibus taxis vary. The names of popular music stars also featured among the sample. Hence, the use of the names Babyface, an international R & B music star, and Mandoza, a kwaito music star. Mandoza’s most popular song, Nkalakatha featured four times as a minibus taxi name. Zahara’s name, a relatively recent female music star, was also found on a family bus. Unlike minibus taxis, naming family-owned buses after these icons was found to be not as common.

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Conclusion Amongst the Nguni of the eastern seaboard, in particular, the Xhosa and the Zulu peoples, both human and non-human names have a semantic and symbolic significance. The findings of this study revealed that names are given to non-living objects as a form of expressing the characteristics associated with them for metaphorical purposes. While metaphors are in general applied to something which is not literally applicable, in order to suggest a resemblance, the study found that minibus taxis and familyowned buses bear names that reflect community tensions, business conflicts, sports and music stars, special talents and family pride, clan names and surnames, owners’ nicknames, their colours, and religious significance. The study further revealed that the minibus taxis and familyowned buses were named mainly by their owners and drivers, rather than by community members.

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NOTES ON EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS

OLIVER NYAMBI (Editor) lectures in the Department of English at the University of the Free State’s QwaQwa Campus, South Africa. He has a PhD in English Studies from the University of Stellenbosch (South Africa) and has held research fellowships at the University of Stellenbosch, University of Zululand (South Africa) and Duke University in the United States of America. He taught in the Department of English and Media Studies at the Great Zimbabwe University from 2009 to 2015. His research focuses on modern African identities, onomastics and crisis literature. TENDAI MANGENA (Editor) is currently an Alexander von Humboldt fellow in Postcolonial Literary and Cultural Studies at Bremen University in Germany. She holds a PhD in literary studies from Leiden University and has published papers in peer-reviewed journals on Zimbabwean literature, cultures and onomastics. She lectures in the Department of English at Great Zimbabwe University and also sits on the Executive Board of the Names Society of Southern Africa (NSSA) as its Vice President. CHARLES PFUKWA (Editor) is Associate Professor and Executive Dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities at Bindura University of Science Education in Zimbabwe and a Research Fellow in the Department of Linguistics, College of Humanities at the University of South Africa. He holds a D. Litt et Phil in Linguistics from the University of South Africa. He has been teaching in Zimbabwean Universities for 25 years. He is the Editor of The Patriot, a Zimbabwean weekly tabloid. His research interests include: names in southern Africa, narratives of the liberation wars in southern Africa, the significance of visuals in the reading process and popular music in Zimbabwe. THENJIWE MEYIWA is a South African National Research Foundation (NRF) rated social scientist and the current Registrar of the Durban University of Technology in South Africa. Prior to joining the DUT, she was a Research Director at the Human Sciences Research Council and earlier a Research Professor at Walter Sisulu University, in the Eastern Cape, SA. She also served the University of KwaZulu-Natal, S.A. as Director for Gender Studies. Her areas of research interest include feminist

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theory, cultural constructions of gender, self-study, indigenous knowledge systems and the impact of HIV and AIDS on parenting. THANDOKAZI MASETI lectures in the Department of Family Medicine at the University of Witwatersrand. Prior to this, she was a Junior Researcher in the Education and Skills Development unit at the Human Sciences Research Council (HSRC). She has a Master’s degree in Research Psychology from the University of the Western Cape, SA. Her research interests include: feminist theory, gender and development, race and identity development, cultures and traditions of patriarchy. She is currently researching and writing within the field of gender-based violence. MADODA CEKISO is Associate Professor in the Department of Applied Languages at Tshwane University of Technology (TUT) in South Africa. Prior to joining the TUT, he was a lecturer in the Department of English at Fort Hare University and earlier a Senior Lecturer at North-West University (Potchefstroom Campus). He also served the Walter Sisulu University as a lecturer in the Faculty of Education. His areas of research interest include reading strategies in second-language learning, learning styles and second-language acquisition. CARINA NOMFUZO ROZANI holds an MA in Education from Walter Sisulu University (WSU), a Postgraduate Diploma in Education from the University of Port Elizabeth, B.Ed. Honours from Rhodes University and a Bachelor of Arts in Education degree from the University of Transkei (now WSU). She is currently working on a study on the patterns of successful ageing among centenarians in South African rural contexts. She is a member of eZiko Writers Institute (eZWI), an organisation concerned with issues of Indigenous Knowledge (IK-uLwazi lweMveli). HERBERT MUSHANGWE (ᮤᘙ᫂) is a Chinese language lecturer in the Confucius Institute at the University of Zimbabwe. He studied Theatre Arts at the University of Zimbabwe and the Chinese language at Tianjin Normal University and Hebei University in China. His research focuses on teaching Chinese as a Second Language. MARGRET CHIPARA teaches the Portuguese language and culture in the Department of Modern Languages at the University of Zimbabwe. Her research interests are in literature, language and onomastics. Her current research focus is in (Literary) Translation Studies.

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RICHARD MAPOSA has a PhD from the University of Zimbabwe where he is a Senior Lecturer in Political Theology in the Department of Religious Studies, Classics and Philosophy. He has published widely in international journals, contributed book chapters to edited volumes and presented papers at several International Conferences in the areas of liberation theology, church-state relations and politics of land issues in southern Africa. BERNARD HUMBE is a lecturer in the Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies at Great Zimbabwe University, Masvingo and a PhD candidate with the University of KwaZulu-Natal. His areas of research interest include but are not limited to: Indigenous Knowledge Systems, Religion and Social Transformation, Religion and the Marginalised and Religion and Power. NHLANHLA LANDA has a PhD in Applied Linguistics from the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. He teaches Communication Skills at Bindura University of Science Education in Zimbabwe. He is also a senior Communications Consultant. His research interests are in Media Discourse, Identity and Socio-technical spaces, Onomastics, Language and Politics, Language in Education, Communication, Conflict Resolution and Community Resilience. CHEELA HIMUTWE CHILALA holds a PhD in Literary Studies from the University of Zambia. He teaches literary courses at the University of Zambia and has published research in the areas of the history and characteristics of Zambian literature, African literature in general, language in African literature, gender and African literature, semiotics, literary onomastics and literary stylistics. Chilala is also an award-winning poet and playwright. JOHN WAKOTA holds a PhD from Stellenbosch University and is a Lecturer in the Department of Literature at the University of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. His research interests focus on language and the representation of gender and cultural history in Tanzanian Literature of both English and Kiswahili expression. SINDISO ZHOU is a holder of a PhD in Applied Linguistics from the University of Fort Hare, South Africa. She teaches English for Specific Purposes and Communication Courses at Zimbabwe Ezekiel Guti University (ZEGU) and Bindura University of Science Education (BUSE) in Zimbabwe. Her research interests include language contact, cross-

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linguistics, literary style, development communication, dialogic pedagogy, HIV and AIDS, coping and resilience, gender and onomastics. GIBSON NCUBE has a PhD in French and Francophone literature from Stellenbosch University, South Africa. His research interests include literary and cultural studies, onomastics as well as queer and gender studies. He is currently an NRF postdoctoral fellow in the Department of Modern Foreign Languages at Stellenbosch University and his current research involves looking at the role of the literary arts in the creation of an archive of queer sexuality in northern and southern Africa. AMOS MUSHATI holds an MA in English from the University of Zimbabwe. He is currently the Deputy Dean of the Faculty of Arts at Great Zimbabwe University where he teaches literature courses in the Department of English and Media Studies. His research interests lie in critical theory, liberation war literature and onomastics. ZVINASHE MAMVURA holds a PhD in Onomastics from the University of South Africa, a BA Hons and an MA in African Languages and Literature from the University of Zimbabwe. He teaches language and literature courses at both undergraduate and postgraduate levels in the Department of African Languages and Literature at the University of Zimbabwe. His research interests are mainly in Onomastics, Sociolinguistics and African cultural studies. MILDRED WAKUMELO holds a PhD and is a Senior Lecturer of language and linguistics at the University of Zambia. Her teaching, research and publishing interests are in the areas of descriptive linguistics, theoretical linguistics, onomastics, sociolinguistics and critical discourse analysis. DAVID MWANZA teaches English Teaching Methods at the University of Zambia and is currently a PhD candidate in Applied Linguistics at the University of Western Cape, South Africa. His research and publication interests are in the areas of teacher education, language teaching, language policy, education policy and sociolinguistics. BENSON MKANDAWIRE is a Lecturer in the Department of Language and Social Sciences Education at the University of Zambia. He is a holder of Master of education degree in Literacy and Learning from the University of Zambia.

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JACOB MAPARA is a Professor of Indigenous Knowledge and Living Heritage at Chinhoyi University of Technology where he is also the current Chairperson of the Centre for Indigenous Knowledge and Living Heritage. He is also a Research Fellow in the Department of African Languages, College of Human Sciences at the University of South Africa. His research interests are in onomastics, indigenous knowledge systems and Shona literature. SHUMIRAI NYOTA is an Associate Professor of Linguistics at Great Zimbabwe University and Research Fellow in the African Languages Department of the University of South Africa. She was an Alexander von Humboldt Research Fellow at Humboldt University in the African Studies Department from 2013 to 2014. She has researched and published individually and collaboratively in the following areas: Sociolinguistics, Structural linguistics, Indigenous Knowledge Systems, Education, Minority Languages and Contemporary issues. She has also presented papers at various international conferences. SAMBULO NDLOVU is a lecturer and current Chairman of the Department of African Languages and Literature at Great Zimbabwe University. His research interests are mainly in sociolinguistics and oral literature, and he has published and presented papers in Zimbabwe and abroad on the two areas. MICKIAS MUSIYIWA holds a PhD from Stellenbosch University, South Africa, a BA Hons and an MA in African Languages and Literature from the University of Zimbabwe. His research interests are in popular music and society, onomastics, children’s literature, folklore, gender, urban performances, and cultural and narrative theories. KELVIN MAMBWE has a PhD in Linguistics from the University of the Western Cape, South Africa. He teaches linguistics and African languages at the University of Zambia in the Department of Literature and Languages. His current research interests include onomastics, mediated communication, multimodality and documentary linguistics. DINIS FERNANDO DA COSTA obtained his PhD in Linguistics from the University of the Western Cape, South Africa. A former lecturer in the Linguistics Department of the University of the Western Cape, he now lectures in the faculty of Social Science and Human Development at University Gregório Semedo in Angola. His research interests are in the

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fields of discourse analysis, cross-cultural communication, and language ideology and attitude.