Yesterday a classmate asked me if the “K” I abbreviate when
writing my names stands for Kibali, and was rather surprised when I said
no.When people ask me what my name is, I tell them I’m Mwangi,
and they look at me in shock. They act like they don’t know what hit
them and I honest to goodness love the expression on their faces. You
see, many people rarely believe I’m Kikuyu, better yet some even get
offended when I insist on being called Mwangi and not Ken, my English
name. Yes, shocking as it may be, I actually do possess one, and no I
don’t hate it, I just consider it unnecessary. Why? Hmm, how about the
fact that I think it was just a formality for me to be given that name,
as if God would love me any less if I wasn’t just Mwangi.
It’s
an annoying trait I blame on the countless hours I spend in front of a
computer, voraciously reading anything and everything that I consider
conversation-worthy. Good thing is, I’m never short of answers when it
comes to arguments, or question answering in my communications classes!
However,
Kenneth is still Irish, and I…I’m black. It’s one of those things I
can’t quite wrap my head around, and even more confounding is that some
people act all offended when I insist that I will be called by my native
name…Mwangi. That is my name, it’s what I have been called since birth,
it’s what I refer to myself as when I’m having an internal dialogue,
and trust me, I love talking to myself.
It’s what my family calls me; Infact my mother refers to me as Mwangi wa Munene,
because Munene is my “Mbari” or clan, Munene having been my great
grandfather’s name. Those two names mean something to me, they reflect
my lineage, my connection to a past I know very little about, but
nonetheless treasure.
Do I detest my first name? Not any
more. Did I have issues with it? Yes? For the longest time, I was never
Mwangi outside of my family enclave, and neighbourhood. It was appalling
somewhat, it made me feel insecure, the same way some women just won’t
leave their houses without makeup. Just like they can’t bare it all for
the world to see, so was I, forlorn without my supposed shield, my Irish
name.
That was the same battle I had with writing and singing, my
giftings were never good enough so much so, that none of my friends or
neighbours except the ones that had seen me on stage, or had
accidentally found me yelling in the bathroom knew of that part of me.
But
one day, a journey slow began to unfold in my mind. I began to question
who I was, what I had gone through in life, and what those experiences
had birthed in me. I began to accept me as I was, imperfect at best,
pitiful at worst, and it no longer mattered. This was who I was.
I
looked at myself in the mirror, face covered by acne and epidermal
scars and I smiled at the reflection. It was my, as Oprah calls it, my
AH moment, and I owned it, I was no movie star and that was fine, I was
Mwangi.
From then onwards, the paradigm shift became evident. I told myself I
would no longer apologize for being myself, whoever felt I didn’t live
up to their expectations could go roast in the Sahara. I began to piece
my life back together, erasing every hurt that had been emblazoned din
my mind, coming to terms with every rejection that had broken my
previously fragile heart. I became a warrior inside, telling myself
I'm better than they give me credit for, able to achieve more than they
could fathom. That was who I was, not the inevitable failure I had been
painted to be, destined for the dungeon, doomed from the start. No, I
was a success waiting in the wings, and I was meant for something.
Today
I live up to the name Ken; I call myself handsome even when most days I
don’t feel that way. But if God can call those things that be not as
though they were, who am I not to right?
So why won’t I use it?
Because I’m from the school of thought that doesn’t consider
it neccesary to be referred to by an English name. Why be who everyone
expects me to be when I can comfortable with plain name? Sure there are
many Mwangis, but you’d never know unless you were to take a peek at
their identification cards.
You all must think I’m
conceited, even vain for subjecting you to this kind of crap, but bare
with me, I’m getting to my point, if I haven’t made it already.
Whichever
name you go by, atleast know it’s meaning. Secondly; just because you
don’t find an aspect of someone appealing or cool, that doesn’t give you
the prerogative to make them feel like they are less than.
I’m
Mwangi, and that’s enough, if it wasn’t for the mentality back then that
one had to have a certain name to ascertain the God or deity you allude
your allegiance to, I’d have been called Munene, big, great, strong,
but hey I lost out on that one and I blame them missionaries!
Maybe
this whole piece was pointless, who cares, it was important that I
write it, so I lay this debate to rest. This is not aimed at anyone in
particular, it’s just a reply to a question that has been coming up for
many years now.
People have many hang-ups about the Agikuyu, and
the stereotypes don’t help either. But whether or not I look, act,
speak, or act like one, I still am, and I don’t consider it a handicap, I
consider it being part of the diverse cultural fabric of the Adam
family.
I don’t fit in very well, and that is no longer an issue,
what is most important is that I esteem myself and try everyday to see
me through the eyes of the Potter, not the clay. So until I issue a new
memo, wonder no more why I prefer a name doesn’t stand out, that is
considered shady.
I love it because it reflects who I am now, plain; at peace with all of me, and no longer needy of the spotlight, or glitter.
kIbALi
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