Black consciousness: significance of names and the politics of naming

Black consciousness is an ideology that sprouted in the African mind as a result of slavery and colonialism. Let me cut to the chase. Black consciousness is one’s awareness of one’s identity as a black person.

Slavery and colonialism defiled the purity of African diverse cultures by deliberately imposing foreign influences on them. Besides, there was the intrinsic culture shock-related excitement that urged Africans on in their bid to model their cultures in the mirror image of those of their masters.

Keen on the complete conquest of the African, slave and colonial masters reinforced the efforts of any African who denounced their culture, economic freedom and political systems. This, they did by rewarding their ‘converts’. It is pointless to say that any resistance was countered with brute force.

In the end, African cultures suffered dilution. And the identity of the African man got grossly eroded. Africans shrugged off their indigenous names, languages, dances and cuisines, among other aspects of their cultures. They instead threw themselves headlong into their masters’ ways. But something jolted them back to reality –their rejection by the foreign cultures in favour of which they had walked out of their own.

The pioneer African elites and intelligentsia in the diaspora had a first-hand experience of this rejection. It beat their imagination why in spite of their education and assimilation into the colonialists’ cultures, they were still treated as second-hand human beings. They were upset, frustrated and lost. It occurred to them that the most effective move was to rally the African masses back to their cultures, identities and pride.

For an effective combat, they lined their warchest with ideologies that resonated well with the African populace. This was how negritude philosophy, Pan-Africanism and black consciousness became the high masts on which African scholars and elites pinned their pro-African cultures crusade.

Why am I regaling you with all these details? Listen. This background information is critical because the politics of naming in Africa stems from it.

The black consciousness campaign ignited a cultural renaissance. It was the inspiration behind the literary productions that revolved around black aesthetics. In east Africa, Okot P’Bitek’s two songs –Song of Lawino and Song of Ocol – and Everett Standa’s poem, I speak for the Bush were offshoots of the war against cultural domination. It didn’t stop there.

Proponents of black consciousness called for change of names. Africans were advised to drop their Christian, European and Arabic names. Further, all installations on African soil that bore exotic names had to be renamed – they had to be given indigenous African names.

The position on naming was radical but democratic. There was unanimous endorsement of the need for change of the names of establishments and institutions in Africa. It is nonetheless instructive to note that the decision to either drop or retain one’s Christian, European or Arabic name was left at individuals’ discretion. Congo was however a different case.

In the early 70s, the then president of Congo, Mobutu Sese Seko initiated the authenticisation policy. He led the way by changing his name from Joseph Desire Mobutu to Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu wa Za Mbanga – the cock that leaves no hen unruffled. After that, he decreed that all Africans choose African names for themselves. He also made it clear that any religious leader who henceforth used a Christian name to baptise any newborn would be sentenced to five years in jail.

The question that begs is what names had to do with the realisation of black consciousness. In Barack Obama’s memoir Dreams from My Father lies the answer to this question.

In his reminiscence of his maiden visit to Kenya, Obama remembers how his sister, Auma Obama, picked him up from the airport in an old Volkswagen Beetle. He shares memories of how often the car broke down during his visit and how they had to endure long waits for the arrival of a mechanic on each of those occasions. He also reveals how he spent nights on a couch in his sister’s house at The University of Nairobi lecturers’ quarters. And he recalls taking tea and feeding on sukumawiki and ugali. Lastly, he shares his recollections of his encounters with his relations in Nairobi, Alego and Kendu-Bay.

The greatest highlight of Obama’s first visit to Kenya is its illumination of the link between one’s name and one’s identity and cultural heritage.

Obama concedes that his first visit to the land of his father was devoid of luxuries. He however acknowledges that there was something in the visit that towered above luxuries – being recognised, being seen.

He remembers that at the time of his visit, he was a young man, just a few years out of university. Prior to his trip, he had worked as a community organiser in the low-income neighbourhoods of Chicago. He agrees that when he came to Kenya, he was a Westerner, an American, unfamiliar with his father and his birthplace. He submits that, at the time, he was disconnected from half of his heritage.

It was while Obama was looking for his luggage –which he could not trace upon landing – that someone recognised him, thanks to his name. When the lady who was handling his case saw his name, she instantly looked at him. She then asked him if he was related to the late Obama Senior. Obama confesses that that was the first time in his life when his name had meant something. It was the first time his name had rung a bell to someone.

There goes the verdict. Our indigenous names have meanings and in them lie our identities and heritage. Like our indigenous languages, these names are careers of our diverse cultures. In our distorted national psyche Christian names are presumed to be a profession of our faith in Christ, a sign of elitism and redemption from our primitive ways. Nothing can be farther from the truth!

It’s time we asked ourselves the cultural significance of the names we give our children. My suggestion is premised upon my observation of how anxious the modern parent is to give their children names that have no traces of their African heritage in them. Perhaps the justification of this trend resides in the modern parents’ interest in their children’s acquisition of global citizenship. This is understandable. But does it bother anyone that thanks to the names we give our children, generations that shall come after us might never know their history, culture and origin?

A luo without an indigenous name shall never feel any ties between himself and Ramogi Ajwang, the man to whom the Luo trace their roots. What about a Gikuyu child with no name that connects him to his Gikuyu heritage? Shall he grow into a man who acknowledges that it was Ngai – God –who created Gikuyu and Mumbi, settled them at the slopes of Mount Kirinyaga and blessed them with nine beautiful daughters? Your guess is as good as mine.

Our penchant for European names advances neocolonialism. It amounts to our refusal to break the shackles of oppression so that we can bask in absolute freedom. Even though our European names are our official names, we are not under any legal obligation to retain them.

There is a question however that we must not ignore in our interrogation of the cultural significance of our names and those that we give our children. We should seek to know what motivates our love for European names. In the Kenyan context, this trend is partially attributable to bigotry and prejudice that characterise our socio-economic and political systems. What options does one have in a society where people’s names allegedly ‘betray’ them?

What, then, should we do to turn things around? First, let us shake off all the negative connotations that we have been socialised to associate indigenous names with. Put another way, let’s not associate our diverse naming systems with tribes. In our appreciation of these names, we should focus on culture, and not tribe. This way, we shall marvel at the beauty that resides in these names. We should turn the demystification of our indigenous names into a national cultural quest. Ever bothered to ask a friend why a man in the Luo community would be called Kwach, the leaopard, or Omuga, the rhino? Still, have you wondered why your neighbour’s name is Wambua, or Nafula?

We should invest in the decolonisation of the African mind. Let us roll out sensitisation campaigns that shall rally people back to their roots. These campaigns can assume the form of radio and television talk-shows, artistic productions aimed at reminding the people of the values of preserving our cultures by giving our children African names. We should tell the masses that one is neither formless nor less religious than the next person if their name is Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Koigi Wamwere, Wangari Maathai, Wafula Wamunyinyi, Apiny Abura or Anyang’ Nyong’o.

Our indigenous naming systems are very rich – they are laden with meanings, metaphors, symbolism, history and memories that we shall forever never let go.

The conversation on the cultural significance of names and the politics of naming has stalked us into the 21st Century. This is enough a proof that Africa never went full hog in her quest for black consciousness. It’s also a reminder that we still have a chance for a rebirth. What we need is audacity!