Saving Africa’s soul through our names

By Tombong Saidy A name is never just a word. It is history, identity, and culture condensed into a single expression. Across Africa, names once spoke volumes: they told of kingdoms, clans, ethnic groups, and regions. They carried deep meanings, often tied to family history, birth circumstances, or ancestral blessings. Before the arrival of Arabs, Europeans, and, more recently, Asians, African names were our universal markers of identity. Today, that heritage is fading. Colonialism, slavery, and religious expansion introduced foreign naming practices that have taken root. Many African Christians bear names like John, Peter, William, or Mary. Many Muslims carry names such as Muhammad, Aziz, Abubacarr, or Zainab. While religion is a matter of personal conviction, it should never demand the abandonment of one’s cultural heritage. Faith and African identity can coexist. We can worship in any religion while still proudly carrying African names. Names such as Fama, Nana, Jewru, Tombong, Kinneh, Pateh, Yateh, Nfansu, Nyima, Karafa, Mpondu, and Olembet are more than just labels. They are cultural treasures, the oral archives of our people. They embody rhythm, meaning, and identity. Each one connects us to our ancestors and grounds us in our heritage. Yet, if we do not actively preserve and pass them on, they risk disappearing into history’s silence. The issue becomes clearer when seen through the eyes of the African diaspora. In the United States, I met African Americans who questioned why Africans today still carry Western names. To them, names such as John or Mary are not neutral; they are reminders of slavery, of ancestors stripped of their true identities and forced into alien ones. They look at us in disbelief, unable to understand why free Africans would willingly exchange their original cultural names for those tied to conquest or bondage. This should give us pause. If those who lost everything in slavery now long for authentic African names, why should we, who still live on African soil, willingly abandon them? As the Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o once observed, “The biggest weapon wielded and actually daily unleashed by imperialism against that collective defiance is the cultural bomb”. Names are part of that cultural bomb. When we give them up, we accept the erasure of memory and identity. Similarly, the revolutionary thinker Amilcar Cabral reminded us: “A people who free themselves from foreign domination will be free culturally only if, without complexes and without underestimating the importance of positive contributions from the oppressor’s culture, they return to the upward paths of their own culture.” In Africa, preserving our names is part of that upward path. Our names are not trivial. They are acts of cultural preservation, resistance, and pride. Every African name carried forward is a testament that our heritage is alive. Every African child named after their traditions is a victory against cultural erasure. The call is urgent: let us return to our roots. Let us give our children African names that reflect our languages, our histories, and our cultures. Religion may guide our faith, but our names must tell the world who we are and where we come from. In the preservation of our names lies the preservation of Africa itself. To lose them would be to silence the voices of our ancestors. To keep them is to ensure that our identity endures — strong, proud, and unmistakably African.

By Tombong Saidy

A name is never just a word. It is history, identity, and culture condensed into a single expression. Across Africa, names once spoke volumes: they told of kingdoms, clans, ethnic groups, and regions. They carried deep meanings, often tied to family history, birth circumstances, or ancestral blessings. Before the arrival of Arabs, Europeans, and, more recently, Asians, African names were our universal markers of identity.

Today, that heritage is fading. Colonialism, slavery, and religious expansion introduced foreign naming practices that have taken root. Many African Christians bear names like John, Peter, William, or Mary. Many Muslims carry names such as Muhammad, Aziz, Abubacarr, or Zainab. While religion is a matter of personal conviction, it should never demand the abandonment of one’s cultural heritage. Faith and African identity can coexist. We can worship in any religion while still proudly carrying African names.

Names such as Fama, Nana, Jewru, Tombong, Kinneh, Pateh, Yateh, Nfansu, Nyima, Karafa, Mpondu, and Olembet are more than just labels. They are cultural treasures, the oral archives of our people. They embody rhythm, meaning, and identity. Each one connects us to our ancestors and grounds us in our heritage. Yet, if we do not actively preserve and pass them on, they risk disappearing into history’s silence.

The issue becomes clearer when seen through the eyes of the African diaspora. In the United States, I met African Americans who questioned why Africans today still carry Western names. To them, names such as John or Mary are not neutral; they are reminders of slavery, of ancestors stripped of their true identities and forced into alien ones. They look at us in disbelief, unable to understand why free Africans would willingly exchange their original cultural names for those tied to conquest or bondage.

This should give us pause. If those who lost everything in slavery now long for authentic African names, why should we, who still live on African soil, willingly abandon them?

As the Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o once observed, “The biggest weapon wielded and actually daily unleashed by imperialism against that collective defiance is the cultural bomb”. Names are part of that cultural bomb. When we give them up, we accept the erasure of memory and identity.

Similarly, the revolutionary thinker Amilcar Cabral reminded us: “A people who free themselves from foreign domination will be free culturally only if, without complexes and without underestimating the importance of positive contributions from the oppressor’s culture, they return to the upward paths of their own culture.” In Africa, preserving our names is part of that upward path.

Our names are not trivial. They are acts of cultural preservation, resistance, and pride. Every African name carried forward is a testament that our heritage is alive. Every African child named after their traditions is a victory against cultural erasure.

The call is urgent: let us return to our roots. Let us give our children African names that reflect our languages, our histories, and our cultures. Religion may guide our faith, but our names must tell the world who we are and where we come from.

In the preservation of our names lies the preservation of Africa itself. To lose them would be to silence the voices of our ancestors. To keep them is to ensure that our identity endures — strong, proud, and unmistakably African.