The Grammar of titles and naming (I)
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- Category: Notes from Atlanta
- Written by Farooq Kperogi
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I’ve lost count of the number of times Americans have asked me why the Nigerian president has a common Western first name (Jonathan) as his last name. These queries remind me of the question the late Chief Abraham Adesanya asked former ThisDay editor Bolaji Abdullahi when the latter introduced himself to the Chief on the phone. “Bolaji what?” the late Yoruba leader asked. “Why not Abdullahi Bolaji?”
Americans—and other Westerners— seem to also be asking, “Goodluck what? Why not Jonathan Ebele—or any other name but a Western first name?” In the West, last names, also called family names or surnames, are the names often used to identify members of one family (dad, mom, children, paternal cousins, paternal grandparents, etc) and sometimes to trace a family tree. They are distinguished from first or given names—which are, for the most part, common—by the fact that they are usually unique. Of course, many hitherto unique last names have now become so commonplace that they might as well be first names. Examples are Smith, Doe, Adams, Brown.But the concept of the “family name” is either non-existent or entirely new in most Nigerian cultures—and, for that matter, in most non-Western cultures. When I started elementary school in Nigeria, for instance, I was only asked of my first name and my “father’s name,” not my family name. Of course, I gave my father’s first name, Adamu, an African Muslim rendering of the Semitic name, Adam. And so I had been known as Farooq Adamu for the first 24 years of my life.
But my own father, who was an Arabic and Islamic Studies teacher in the same school, is known and addressed as Malam Adamu Kperogi, Kperogi being my grandfather’s first name. So if you didn’t know us, you would never guess that I was related to my dad since there are a thousand and one Adamus in my community. The absurdity of my names only dawned on me when I was 25 and already a journalist. I realized that my names denuded me of an identity.
It was then I swore a court affidavit and changed the order of my names: I “demoted” Adamu to a middle name, excised my former middle name completely, and added Kperogi—a name exclusively associated with my family—as my last name. Many of my paternal cousins and uncles had been bearing Kperogi. But until I changed my last name, few people knew they were my relations.
My experience typifies the naming dilemma many Nigerians grapple with. The name Jonathan is, of course, President Goodluck Jonathan’s dad’s first name. I am certain that his paternal cousins have a different last name from him. And it won’t be unusual if the president’s children bear “Goodluck” as their last name. Well, because the culture of last names seems to be taking roots in Nigeria now, Jonathan’s children may well adopt “Jonathan” as their last name. His grandchildren may also bear Jonathan as their last name.
But the truth is that almost no one bears “Jonathan” as a last name in the West from where the name originates; it’s a first name in the class of Moses, John, William, Adam, etc.
Interestingly, although Nigerians are nonchalant about last names—in ways that both surprise and amuse Westerners—we do really subconsciously pay attention to last names that are distinctive. For instance, we talk of the Aguyi Ironsi regime, the Gowon regime, but talk of the Murtala regime. It should have been the Muhammed regime; the full name of Olusegun Obasanjo’s predecessor is Murtala Muhammed. But Muhammed is such a common name (actually, it’s the most common name in the whole wide world) that it is easy to forget.
We also call the former Nigerian Vice President “Atiku” instead of “Abubakar,” his last name. This is also because, like Muhammed, Abubakar is so common that it is easily forgettable. And we’re confused what to call Abdulsalami Abubakar because both first and last names are common. The less common Abdulsalami seems to be increasingly preferred by Nigerian newspaper headline writers these days. The lack of a last-name culture in Arab societies from where these names are borrowed is partly to blame for this.
Our blithe unconcern for the importance of first and last names is reflected in the annoying habit of many Nigerians who write their last names first and their first names last even in informal contexts. For people whose first and last names are undistinguished to start with, this can make identification a strain. I have, for instance, received friendship requests on Facebook from friends I’d lost touch with a long time ago. But their first names, by which I’d known them, would often appear last and their last names, which I didn’t quite know, would appear first. Of course, I hesitated to accept such requests. They would then send me messages to remind me where they knew me.
This awkward naming habit is a holdover from the practice in schools where last names are written first in the school register to make sorting easy for teachers and administrators. But every country in the West that I know of also writes people’s last names first on school records, but this has not predisposed citizens of these societies to write their last names first in informal, out-of-school contexts.
Then, you come to titles. In the West, titles such as Mrs., Mr., Dr., Professor, Sir, Dame, etc appear either with first and last names combined or with last names alone. For example, it’s either “Mr. John Smith” or “Mr. Smith” but not “Mr. John.” We don’t respect that order in our everyday social interactions in Nigeria. Titles are regularly prefixed to people’s first names.
But what cracks me up big time is the Nigerian practice of prefixing “Mrs.” to a combination of married women’s first names and their husbands’ first names. For instance, Mrs. Gloria Fulani, whose husband is known as John Fulani, could be addressed as “Mrs. Gloria John.” I’m myself a “victim” of this ignorance. On my second daughter’s birth certificate, a Nigerian doctor wrote my wife’s name as “Mrs. Zainab Farooq”! Well, this practice owes its existence, again, to the absence of an established last-name culture in Nigeria that I talked about earlier.
It’s noteworthy that in conventional British English, Mrs. is traditionally only used with a woman’s husband’s first and last names (e.g. Mrs. John Fulani) rather her with a woman’s first name and her husband’s last name (e.g. Mrs. Gloria Fulani) unless she’s a peer’s daughter (which would cause her be addressed as Lady Gloria Fulani). This is now becoming outmoded because it’s decidedly chauvinistic. Similarly, in British society, women used to be addressed by their last names only (e.g. Mrs. Fulani) if they were servants or criminals.
And in modern British and American English, it is grammatically wrong to use “Miss” or “Mrs.” along with other titles, so that a woman doctor can’t be called “Dr. (Mrs.) Gloria Fulani.” Choose only one title. Of course, in a society like Nigeria where women rightly have a need to flaunt their professional and marital achievements, this rule will never be obeyed.
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The Grammar of titles and naming (I)
Category: Notes from Atlanta Written by Farooq Kperogi Hits: 1209
I’ve lost count of the number of times Americans have asked me why the Nigerian president has a common Western first name (Jonathan) as his last name. These queries remind me of the question the late Chief Abraham Adesanya asked former ThisDay editor Bolaji Abdullahi when the latter introduced himself to the Chief on the phone. “Bolaji what?” the late Yoruba leader asked. “Why not Abdullahi Bolaji?”
Americans—and other Westerners— seem to also be asking, “Goodluck what? Why not Jonathan Ebele—or any other name but a Western first name?” In the West, last names, also called family names or surnames, are the names often used to identify members of one family (dad, mom, children, paternal cousins, paternal grandparents, etc) and sometimes to trace a family tree. They are distinguished from first or given names—which are, for the most part, common—by the fact that they are usually unique. Of course, many hitherto unique last names have now become so commonplace that they might as well be first names. Examples are Smith, Doe, Adams, Brown.But the concept of the “family name” is either non-existent or entirely new in most Nigerian cultures—and, for that matter, in most non-Western cultures. When I started elementary school in Nigeria, for instance, I was only asked of my first name and my “father’s name,” not my family name. Of course, I gave my father’s first name, Adamu, an African Muslim rendering of the Semitic name, Adam. And so I had been known as Farooq Adamu for the first 24 years of my life.
But my own father, who was an Arabic and Islamic Studies teacher in the same school, is known and addressed as Malam Adamu Kperogi, Kperogi being my grandfather’s first name. So if you didn’t know us, you would never guess that I was related to my dad since there are a thousand and one Adamus in my community. The absurdity of my names only dawned on me when I was 25 and already a journalist. I realized that my names denuded me of an identity.
It was then I swore a court affidavit and changed the order of my names: I “demoted” Adamu to a middle name, excised my former middle name completely, and added Kperogi—a name exclusively associated with my family—as my last name. Many of my paternal cousins and uncles had been bearing Kperogi. But until I changed my last name, few people knew they were my relations.
My experience typifies the naming dilemma many Nigerians grapple with. The name Jonathan is, of course, President Goodluck Jonathan’s dad’s first name. I am certain that his paternal cousins have a different last name from him. And it won’t be unusual if the president’s children bear “Goodluck” as their last name. Well, because the culture of last names seems to be taking roots in Nigeria now, Jonathan’s children may well adopt “Jonathan” as their last name. His grandchildren may also bear Jonathan as their last name.
But the truth is that almost no one bears “Jonathan” as a last name in the West from where the name originates; it’s a first name in the class of Moses, John, William, Adam, etc.
Interestingly, although Nigerians are nonchalant about last names—in ways that both surprise and amuse Westerners—we do really subconsciously pay attention to last names that are distinctive. For instance, we talk of the Aguyi Ironsi regime, the Gowon regime, but talk of the Murtala regime. It should have been the Muhammed regime; the full name of Olusegun Obasanjo’s predecessor is Murtala Muhammed. But Muhammed is such a common name (actually, it’s the most common name in the whole wide world) that it is easy to forget.
We also call the former Nigerian Vice President “Atiku” instead of “Abubakar,” his last name. This is also because, like Muhammed, Abubakar is so common that it is easily forgettable. And we’re confused what to call Abdulsalami Abubakar because both first and last names are common. The less common Abdulsalami seems to be increasingly preferred by Nigerian newspaper headline writers these days. The lack of a last-name culture in Arab societies from where these names are borrowed is partly to blame for this.
Our blithe unconcern for the importance of first and last names is reflected in the annoying habit of many Nigerians who write their last names first and their first names last even in informal contexts. For people whose first and last names are undistinguished to start with, this can make identification a strain. I have, for instance, received friendship requests on Facebook from friends I’d lost touch with a long time ago. But their first names, by which I’d known them, would often appear last and their last names, which I didn’t quite know, would appear first. Of course, I hesitated to accept such requests. They would then send me messages to remind me where they knew me.
This awkward naming habit is a holdover from the practice in schools where last names are written first in the school register to make sorting easy for teachers and administrators. But every country in the West that I know of also writes people’s last names first on school records, but this has not predisposed citizens of these societies to write their last names first in informal, out-of-school contexts.
Then, you come to titles. In the West, titles such as Mrs., Mr., Dr., Professor, Sir, Dame, etc appear either with first and last names combined or with last names alone. For example, it’s either “Mr. John Smith” or “Mr. Smith” but not “Mr. John.” We don’t respect that order in our everyday social interactions in Nigeria. Titles are regularly prefixed to people’s first names.
But what cracks me up big time is the Nigerian practice of prefixing “Mrs.” to a combination of married women’s first names and their husbands’ first names. For instance, Mrs. Gloria Fulani, whose husband is known as John Fulani, could be addressed as “Mrs. Gloria John.” I’m myself a “victim” of this ignorance. On my second daughter’s birth certificate, a Nigerian doctor wrote my wife’s name as “Mrs. Zainab Farooq”! Well, this practice owes its existence, again, to the absence of an established last-name culture in Nigeria that I talked about earlier.
It’s noteworthy that in conventional British English, Mrs. is traditionally only used with a woman’s husband’s first and last names (e.g. Mrs. John Fulani) rather her with a woman’s first name and her husband’s last name (e.g. Mrs. Gloria Fulani) unless she’s a peer’s daughter (which would cause her be addressed as Lady Gloria Fulani). This is now becoming outmoded because it’s decidedly chauvinistic. Similarly, in British society, women used to be addressed by their last names only (e.g. Mrs. Fulani) if they were servants or criminals.
And in modern British and American English, it is grammatically wrong to use “Miss” or “Mrs.” along with other titles, so that a woman doctor can’t be called “Dr. (Mrs.) Gloria Fulani.” Choose only one title. Of course, in a society like Nigeria where women rightly have a need to flaunt their professional and marital achievements, this rule will never be obeyed.