Insights
What's in a Name? | The Power and Meaning Behind African Names | Brian Oduti
For ourselves and for posterity, we must exercise agency over how we use language to shape our future, including how we name our children and streets. Because names are stories of origin. How different would our lives become if we had different names from the ones we have now?
LéO Africa Institute Communications Team
Contributor
Growing up, I hated my name. Other children and teachers at school often asked me what my name meant, and I hated having to explain it. They also constantly mispronounced my name. My name Oduti, in Maditi, connotes to "sneering." I was born at a time of dysfunction within my father’s family; the sneering related to these circumstances. For me, it was a source of shame.
Among my people, the Madi and Lugbara of West Nile region of Uganda, names are mostly figurative, based on the circumstances of a child’s birth or the relationships that led to the conception. For example, my mother's name, Candiru, alludes to the difficult relationship my grandparents had when she was born. Just like hers, many of our names derive meaning from the circumstances of birth, tragic events, famine, or conflict. You might think they foreshadow curses, but names like Drani, which means "death," hold deeper meanings. They are living histories, a testament to the battles our families overcame. They are a sign of victory, a blessing, and a story.
Some names, however, are simply hilarious. My mother worked at a hospital and would come home and tell us stories about her day, including the interesting names of her patients. One such name was Baonziririkida, which means "the bad people are sitting there." Our family was left in stitches on hearing this name. I still wonder what was going on in that family when they chose that name for their child.
Our naming traditions are changing with the advent of modern Christianity. Priests now refuse to baptize children with these "negative-sounding" names, citing them as unholy. This has influenced us to have more Christian names in our languages, like Ayikobua, meaning "happiness is in heaven."
I started to rethink the meaning of names and their storytelling significance when I began writing personal essays. My essays are rooted in the cultures of West Nile, specifically the Madi and Lugbara communities. I write about how we speak, how we cook, and how we eat. I had conversations with friends who critiqued my work and shared similar cultural interests, and we discussed the meaning of my name.
Oduti is a common Madi name, and as a tonal language, it has a second meaning: to "raise voices," often in praise. This discovery was a turning point for me. I now love my name because it is a story of my origin, culture, and identity. It also made me realize the huge responsibility we have to critic and document our own cultures, including everyday things like names.
A name is the first point of identity for a person. It is used as a euphemism. People will ask for your other name, wanting to attach an identity that tells them who you are, where you come from, and where or how you pray. They want to decide how to engage with you based on your name. It could be innocent curiosity, but what identity can you attach to Brian or Anna? If our ancestors were to time-travel to the present, how would we explain our names like James and Jane?
Do not go and get a deed poll just because you have an English name. After all, English is as much a Ugandan language as is Luganda or Maditi. But the origins and process of its use in Uganda were tainted. We are living with the outcomes of that process. Our ancestors did not have the benefit of informed decisions over new ways of naming and a new language. Our country’s name, Uganda, takes after the name of the Buganda Kingdom. Swahili-speaking guides mispronounced Buganda, omitting the prefix "Bu" and simply adding a prefix "U" to Ganda. When the British established a protectorate over Uganda in 1894, they adopted the name they encountered, extending it to include all other kingdoms and chiefdoms.
Our country's name is built on a mispronunciation. Our borders were arbitrarily drawn. Our nation was built with little consensus. How does a nation grow when its origin is flawed and its identity a crisis? Our country’s name is a significant constitutional issue, synonymous with the nation-building challenges we deal with today.
For ourselves and for posterity, we must exercise agency over how we use language to shape our future, including how we name our children and streets. Because names are stories of origin. How different would our lives become if we had different names from the ones we have now?
So I ask: What history lives in your name? And how will you carry it—with shame or with power?
