What's In A Name?

I have often been tasked with explaining why I ‘do not have a Christian name’, a question that continues to infuriate me to this day.  I beg to differ.  I do actually have a VERY Christian name, as do all of my siblings.  What I do NOT have, is an ENGLISH name.

Not for me, my two sisters and younger brother the Rachels, Charlottes and James’ of this world.  I won’t go into my siblings’ names, because I simply do not have enough space or time right now.

You see, my parents were rather poetic (and long-winded) when it came to naming their offspring.  Take my full name, for example:

Siima Kyakuhaire Kyomuhendo.  25 characters.  I’ll let that sink in a bit.

A veritable sentence, my name is.  And that’s excluding my surname, Tooro pet name AND Kigisu name.  In another post, perhaps.

The story goes (mbu), my mother thought she was expecting a boy when I was swimming around in ignorant bliss.  She already had two girls- how lovely it would be to have a boy!  Cue that fateful day in September (when I imagine the hospital bed was surrounded by adorable cherubs, seraphim in full song at my arrival in the world) when I came along.  My Dad, ever the diplomat and optimist, declared that at least she has ten fingers and ten toes, and seems perfectly healthy in every way.  So let’s give thanks for this precious gem that has been given to us.  (I paraphrase quite liberally.  But you get the picture.  I am precious. I am a gem).

My parents did get the boy eventually, which is great as I had someone to play with and torment when my older sisters went away to boarding school.  And they continued with their wonderful tradition of naming their children with decidedly un-English names.  A fact I hated for a while.  Let me explain.

I went to mostly international schools throughout my life.  Which meant that no one could bloody well pronounce my name correctly.  Going by Kyakuhaire for the first 10 or so years of my life, all was well for the two months we would visit Uganda.  But for the rest of the time, I was alternately referred to as Kyaku, Kyaks, Jaqoo (God bless the Swiss), Little One, Kanyindo (a nickname that has stuck to this day) and fondly, by my Dad, as Templeton, in reference to a rat in my favourite children’s book who had a serious appetite.  Not unlike my own.

Time for boarding school in England, and Kyaku was done away with.  The much-more-easily pronounced Siima became my moniker of choice.  And here we are. The frustration was going shopping with my friends and not being able to find a mug, sticker, pen or pencil with ‘Siima’ on it.  My wonderful friends compromised, baptizing me with nicknames like Sim, Simeon, and Simitie.  Yes, I did find some artifacts bearing those names.  But it just wasn’t the same.

So imagine my joy when my parents (how I love them) bought my siblings and I individually hand-crafted mugs bearing our names.  Those they had so lovingly bestowed on us when we were born.

What’s in a name?  A whole lot.  I am precious.  I am a gem.  And they are thankful.