“YOU CAN’T just pick a name for yourself, families give names,” says the mother of Nigerian R’n’B singer Tems on the track Témìládè interlude.

Names are a form of identification. A name describes who you are and often reflects the culture you come from.  My first name, (pronounced ha-beeb-ah) is an Arabic name that means beloved. There isn’t any special story about my name other than the fact that my dad really liked it. Growing up people usually assumed I was Muslim because of the Arabic link to my name. Though I’m not Muslim, this taught me the power names hold within specific cultures. 

For Africans, our names are usually given to us through traditional and religious means. In Yoruba culture, a naming ceremony is held when the child is eight days old and different family members pick different names for the child. This was the case for accounting executive Elisheba Akalawu.

When I came to the UK I was forced to make my name more digestible – that was an immediate erasure of who I knew myself to be.

Sukohule

She tells me that her middle name ‘Ozioma’ was given to her by her grandparents. “It means good news from God or gospel,” she explains.

“It makes me an individual and it means a lot to me. It tells a story about me coming into the world.”

Ghanaians are named after the days of the week. Many are also named after their grandparents. Twenty-five year old Roseline says her Ghanaian name connects her to her roots.

“Akpene is an Ewe name that means thank God or thanks be to God. It means a lot to me because it’s the name those closest to me know. It’s the name God calls me with. It’s the name my mother chose for authentically,” she tells me.

For black Brits, our names are a way for us to connect with a culture we don’t have direct access to. As we live in the UK our names are a reminder of where we come from.

This is definitely the case for 25-year-old Sukohule. 

She shares: “At home [in Zimbabwe] just by hearing my name, you more or less already know my story and which part of the land I come from.

“When I came to the UK I was forced to make my name more digestible for others and to me, that was an immediate erasure of who I knew myself to be.”

Yewande on Love Island

When people butcher our names, they are not just insulting us as individuals. They are also insulting our culture.

When Yewande opened up about how her Love Island co-star Lucie refused to pronounce her name properly, black people were in uproar.

Lucie also attempted to shorten Yewande’s name. In a piece for The Independent, she shared that people have mispronounced her name since she was young.

It’s something 22-year-old Akachi can relate to. She remembers kids making fun of her name when she was small so she didn’t like it growing up. Now she loves it.

“My name means the hand of God. My parents named me that because I’m the last child and they weren’t expecting any more children. There’s like seven years between myself and the next sister, so they said this is surely the hand of God,” she shares proudly.

Our names are powerful and attempting to shorten them to fit in makes us feel small. When white people mispronounce our names, it affects the way we see ourselves and our culture.

Our names are eventually the things we become and they should not be undermined.