Legend has it that on the night I was born, having seen my face, my father decided the names he and my mother had picked out no longer suited. They had chosen Fidel for a boy and Fenda for a girl, after a woman who had befriended my mother in Sierra Leone. There was also "Donna," a mix of my parents' names, Ann and Don. I'm grateful I didn't end up as Donna.
Donna is a perfectly good name, but it's not me. There seems to be a real connection between the names we're given and how we respond to the world. I've seen people struggle with names that don't fit, men burdened by their fathers' names, and women whose names set expectations they don't want to meet.
I was nameless for days, a healthy and, apparently, quite beautiful baby, simply referred to as "the child." Eventually, an aunt with a keen insight convinced my father that I deserved a name as unique and beautiful as he believed I was. She remembered a poem but not how the name it mentioned was spelled. Before the era of Google, finding that poem by Léopold Sédar Senghor was a challenge. The book she had read it in was left behind in London. So, they settled on Naette, adding an 'e' because it seemed to make sense at the time.
Years later, driven by a newfound confidence and curiosity, I sought out the poem to understand the origin of my name. I learned about Léopold Sédar Senghor, his poetry rich with the essence of Négritude—a celebration of the cultural values and life force of the black world. This exploration brought me closer to understanding not only African decolonization but also the depth of my connection to a heritage that I had always felt but couldn't articulate.
Here is the poem by Senghor:
"I will pronounce your name, Naett, I will declaim you, Naett!
Naett, your name is mild like cinnamon, it is the fragrance in which the lemon grove sleeps
Naett, your name is the sugared clarity of blooming coffee trees
And it resembles the savannah, that blossoms forth under the masculine ardour of the midday sun
Name of dew, fresher than shadows of tamarind,
Fresher even than the short dusk, when the heat
of the day is silenced,
Naett, that is the dry tornado, the hard clap of lightning
Naett, coin of gold, shining coal, you my night, my sun!…
I am you hero, and now I have become your sorcerer, in order to pronounce your names.
Princess of Elissa, banished from Futa on the fateful day."
This poem, and the name it inspired, opened a gateway for me to engage with Africa's history and its diaspora. It also served as a litmus test for potential friendships, revealing much about a person's interests and values based on their reaction to Senghor's politics and the broader implications of Négritude.
However, my journey took a turn when I encountered another poem, this one presenting a starkly different perspective:
"Should I pronounce your name Naett?
Is it still wisdom to declaim you Naett?
Naett your name has become wild like the leaf of a pine tree
It bears an odium that provokes a shrieking run from the grove
Naett your name is the clanging of steel voices
It is the sound that rang across Kigalian fields
The sound of blood dripping down a ravine
Name of hue, weary as dusk
When the shadow of the night has screened the sun
Naett, that is the sound of silence
A storm of tears
Naett, you are chains of iron
A boulevard of misery
You are a dirge, Naett
I hoped to be your hero, but now I have become your victim
Naett… how did this song become a dirge?
J'ai honte Naett?"
The contrast between the celebration of my name in Senghor's poem and the lament in the latter poem underscored the complexity of identity and heritage. It reminded me that names carry histories, emotions, and legacies that can inspire or burden their bearers. I never learned the name of the second poem's author and the truth is I don't want to know.
I've learned things from exploring my name. And I've been connected to a rich cultural and historical heritage. It's a testament to the power of names to shape our identities and the ways in which we engage with the world.
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