what's in a name

A lot, suggested my cousin Kitui the afternoon I arrived in Nairobi.

"Did you know that you were the first person to be named after my late mother?" he kept reiterating, each time adding more weight to the statement.

"You are the first person to take my mother's name." I try to accept this as a tangible accomplishment on my part, but it's hard to take credit for a thing like that. I am named Nasimiyu after my father's sister, who was a very important figure in his life. She passed away before I was born. I've only been able to gather scraps of history and fragments of mental photographs about this woman. What I've gathered is that she was a very bright woman, and a very brave woman, whose life was filled - and ended with - tragedy.

I am a part of a generation of cousins, now, who are named Nasimiyu more often than not. When I first arrived I was amazed at how many young girls came up to shake my hand and introduce themselves, "I am your namesake." It's funny -- I couldn't have foreseen a time in my life when I heard someone call out, "Nasimiyu!" and when I answered it turned out they were meaning to call a different one. And every time I address one of the other ones I have to try not to laugh a little. It's a peculiar feeling to go from having the most unique name in your area to the most common.

I have a very favourite uncle with the male version of the name, which is just Simiyu. He and I are very close. He used to live in the states, and I've grown up knowing him. The first night I got here, he told me that I should always introduce myself with pride. Not to accept people's inability to pronounce my name.

"You tell them, look!
NAH (darting his finger at an angle, like gesturing no)
SEE (two fingers pointing to his eyes)
ME (touching his thumb to his sternum)
YOU! (pointing to my face) "

I laughed so hard, he repeated it like 8 times.

The name literally translates to mean 'a girl (female pre-fix 'Na') born in the dry season'. It's about as poetic as the bracelet placed on a newborn in the hospital - who, where, and when. This is the meaning I've always known, until I asked my Dad about it earlier this year.

"Nasimiyu is like the wind," he said, raising his hands above his head and then coasting them down, and making the sound of it, "jhhhhh." He explained the significance of the dry season in terms of it's agricultural connotations. It's the time for harvesting, and the time for regenerating energy. It's the time when the air shifts and brings new weather, a new season of fertility.

People in our tribe, the Luhyas, have 3 names. The first is their "Christian Name". European monikers like Ken, David, Grace, Caroline, Julie, and Sam. Mine is actually second, and it is Lynn.

Traditionally, second is their Luhya name - like Nanyama, Pelita, Chemiati, Naliaka, Anandako, Nahomicha, and Sitati.

Third, we take our father's first name as our last. It's a custom that is unique to our smaller sub-tribe, Tachoni. No one else in Kenya uses this style of immediate patrilineage to create surnames. And there are very few other places in the world that work that way.

My grandfather is Tete Lukivisi.
My father is Murumba Tete.
I am Nasimiyu Murumba. And so on, and so on.

Until this year, when my brother broke the tradition by giving his firstborn the same last name as his own, Murumba. He is officially American.

People here choose whether they prefer to be called by their Christian name or their Luhya name. It seems to be equally split, 50/50. Christian names are considered to be "modern" and "civilized". It's wack.


When people in village see me, they think I am a white missionary. When I introduce myself, their faces freeze as if they're trying to gauge whether they're falling victim to some kind of prank. Their faces say, "Wait. Wait wait wait a minute. There is a Mzungu here from America. But her name is Nasimiyu, like ours. How the fuck could this have happened?"

And my face is saying, "Yeah, dude. That's what I'm here to figure out."