A name pronounced is the recognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce my name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service-Henry David Thoreau.

My parents love names, it seems. Either that, or they were beholden to a lot of creditors. I jest. Between the two of us, their offspring, we have seven (yes, seven) names. Big Sister has the lion’s share; I have a mere 3: One ngesiZulu, one Xitsonga name, and a third not-otherwise-specified.

Names are a latitude and longitude of who we are. They are the roots of our past, our identity in the present, the prophecy of our future. Take our names from us, and you deny our humanity. Not so innocent, is it?

At home, and generally in life, I go by my known name: Gugu, short for Gugulethu which means “Our treasure”. Short, simple, not much to mess up. Legally, it is my first name. When I started school in Gazankulu (ask your parents), I gave that name to my teacher. Teacher decided, “No, I’m not calling you by that name. You’re Shangaan. I’m calling you by your Xitsonga name”. Insisted on this, in fact, despite my explanation that I pretty much had never (in my 5 years on Earth) used that name. It was for decoration, nje. My name was not difficult to pronounce. I was not the first, nor will I be the last, Shangaan girl to have a Zulu name. It’s quite a common practice: isiZulu and Xitsonga have similar origins, being Bantu languages, and Soshangane having fled from Shaka during uMfecane. Intermarriage between tribes has been a thing for centuries.

No, I reckon now that it was some twisted power play (with a five year old; yes, I was 5 in sub A), since my Shangaan father had gone and got hisself a Zulu wife (my mom) from KwaZulu, and not one of the Shangaan girls from ‘round where he grew up. I digress.

(Also, adults: please sort out your insecurities out, instead of picking on little children.

Anyhoo, for my first school years, I was called by my second name. It is a good name, with a good meaning. I like it as a name, but I preferred my first name. But that teacher had issues. She essentially felt that it was her right to deny me the right to be known by the name I preferred.

When I was seven, we went across the seas, and I ended up at an elementary school in Am’rica. Again, “Gugu” was apparently too foreign for their tongues; we won’t even go into how my surname was demolished. Also, one gets tired of being called “goo-goo gaa-gaa” to one’s face. I went by my third name. That is, until our second year there; I guess my folks decided, nah! They need to get used to it. So they enrolled me with my first name as my first name. (Shout out to my main mans Jeffrey, who went the extra mile and called me by my full name, all the time. Bless your little American heart, Jeffrey!)

Cue to our return in 1994 to a newly democratised South Africa. A South Africa where my Gazankulu no longer existed. A South Africa where all children theoretically had access to all classrooms. You know the rest: so-called multi-cultural classes became the new normal, as racial segregation was made illegal. Other forms of segregation still exist, but we won’t discuss that on today. And so, all hues came to be accepted…as long as their names changed to easily pronounceable alternatives.

There’s no other way to say this—names were butchered. We all know what happened to the Tshepo’s and Sipho’s among us. It was either Anglicize your name, or shorten it. And so, it came to pass that Vusumuzi went by David. Kgothatso became KG (if she had no European second name). Names were shortened to meaningless nicknames, thus changing identities.

Black South Africans have been employing this particular brand of code-switching for generations. During apartheid South Africa, Africans moulded their blackness to suit those in power. Afrikaans and English (‘Christian’) names were given by parents, or adopted by individuals out of necessity. If one’s name is easy, we reason, we can put our co-citizens at ease, and thus perhaps maybe be more easily given employment. Maybe. The alternative, potentially, was unemployment and oblivion.

Now we can know that there is meaning-beautiful meaning- to names such as Johannes (God is gracious) and Petrus (Rock), but my people did not adopt these names out of sentimentality or any deep attachment to their meanings.

Now, regarding the notion of a ‘Christian name’. Look, as a Christian, I acknowledge the sometimes messy history of the church, Lord help us. Christian missionaries stepped onto African soil, made converts, and insisted on bestowing upon said converts ‘Christian names’. The coup de grace was taking our names from us, thus divesting us of our distinct cultural identity.

Africans names are unique, as the languages from which they stem are still living languages; thus their meaning is instantly recognisable to speakers of that language. It was a dark day indeed when our names were summarily deemed un-Christian or heathen. There went our identity as men and women created in the image of God. There continued our dispossession, on our own continent. In the name of religion.

Note: I did not say “in the name of God”. I think the Lord had very little to do in the colonialists attempting to make us into their own image. But I digress; the debate raging around how to redeem (not eradicate) cultures for the Gospel, is another post entirely. This act, among many many maaaaany others, contributed to the subjugation of a people.

I said all of that to say this: it is not an innocuous thing when someone says, “Your name is so difficult! What’s your English name? I’ll just call you Sue [giggle].” Excuse me?! Am I English? Is Arnold Schwarzenegger English? Is Tchaikovsky? Can you say their last names? But Mbalenhle is tooo much? Chiiiild……

That conveys to me, an African, that who I am is somehow unacceptable. When you call me not by my name, but by sounds that are convenient to you, you chip away at my personhood. It really is a simple thing to start honouring my full humanity by taking the time to pronounce my name correctly.

Names are a latitude and longitude of who we are. They are the roots of our past, our identity in the present, the prophecy of our future. Take our names from us, and you deny our humanity. Not so innocent, is it?

Dear fellow South Africans. Our names are our names. Learn them, in all their xiTsonga/sePedi/siSwati/isiXhosa/isiZulu/sePulana/seTswana glory. And while you’re at it, don’t forget my Asian brothers and sisters. As Destiny’s Deaconesses said, “Say our names”.

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