What’s in a Name?

Nkombo. The word for ‘name’ in Lingala.

“What’s in a name?” were the words that the Bard put in Juliet’s mouth for her famous balcony speech. There is actually a lot in a name, as it happens. Congolese names are fascinating and are full of meaning.

In former times this was the case with English names too, but the chances of your next-door neighbour Mr Smith actually possessing an anvil or being able to shoe a horse are vanishingly small. Mrs Wood may or may not live in a forest. My mother-in-law married a Mr Taylor, but he was a fireman, not a cutter of cloth. English names have mostly become just labels devoid of useful information. Our tradition has it that wives take the husband’s name and children take the father’s – and so the names roll down the generations, mere echoes of a long-forgotten past. This tradition of the wife taking the husband’s name is still not in general use in Congo, although Western naming customs are gaining some foothold in the larger cities.

But every child in Congo receives a personalised name, so when a Congolese person introduces him or herself, we instantly know something about them. Mpasi is a very common name. It means ‘pain’ or ‘suffering’ in Lingala and Kikongo. Perhaps the mother had a difficult birth, maybe she even died in childbirth – an all-too-frequent occurrence in Congo – perhaps life was particularly hard at the time. It often is. Mpasi. Suffering, pain.

Matumona is another name frequently given by the Lari and Kongo ethnic groups. ‘The things we shall see,’ it means. It’s a prophecy. We expect great things of this child. We shall see some things with this one. Matumona.

Matingu. ‘Criticisms, backstabbing.’ The neighbours said that my womb was cursed. You said I would never bear a child. Well, so much for your criticisms. Here’s the proof that I am a righteous woman: have a look at my beautiful child. Matingu.

Almost every ethnic group has names for twins. In the old Bandundu province where we lived for a year, Mbo is the name given to the elder of the two twins, Mpia to the younger. The next child born – and there almost certainly will be another one coming along, since the average Congolese woman will bear eight children – will be called Landu, the follower.

Even at the first meeting then, we discover something of the life of our interlocutor, just by hearing his or her name. I was often asked the meaning of my own name, and in the early days living in Kinshasa I was embarrassed to have to admit that I didn’t really know. With time, the embarrassment got so great that I was obliged to do some research into the Stedmans. I draw a veil here. Suffice to say that ours is not an illustrious race.