By Farooq A. Kperogi I’ve lost count of the number of times Americans have asked me why the Nigerian president has a common Western fi...
By Farooq A. Kperogi
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 and current Minister of Youth Development 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, etc.
But the concept of “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, etc. 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 former Vice President
Atiku Abubakar by his first name, “Atiku,” instead of “Abubakar,” his last
name. This is also because, like Muhammed, Abubakar is so common in Muslim majority
societies 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. 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. This
is particularly awkward for women who risk being called male names because in
all other cultures people call people by the names they write first.
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.
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 last week.
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 both their professional achievement and their marital
status, not to talk of our obsession with titles, this rule will never be
obeyed.
Abuse
and Misuse of Titles
Our “big” men and women have adopted
the habit of taking on Western titles whose histories and sociological content
they have not a scintilla of awareness of. The most abused Western titles in Nigeria
are “Sir” and “Dame.” (I will write a full column on the origins and uses of
“dame” in the coming weeks). In British culture, a “Sir” is a man who is
honored by the Queen or King of England for chivalry or other personal merit. A
“Dame” is the female equivalent of a “Sir.” But there is a certain famous
“Dame” we all know in Nigeria who is only just now learning to shed her Okrika
rusticity, who murders the English language with a ferocious glee, and who
couldn’t possibly have been knighted by the Queen of England, the symbolic
custodian of the English language. But she swanks her “Dameness” nonetheless.
Other popular British titles are
“Lord,” “Lady,” and “the Hon.” (short for Honorable). Lord and Lady are used
with the first name for the sons and daughters of dukes and marquesses: e.g.
Lord John; Lady Elizabeth. But they are used with the last name elsewhere.
Similarly, “the Hon.” is used with the first name for the children of
viscounts, barons, and life peers and peeresses, and for the younger sons of
earls. E.g. The Hon. William Adams.
In Nigeria, however, “the Hon.”
title has been hijacked by vain politicians and is now prefixed to the names of
members of the Federal House of Representatives, ministers, commissioners,
chairmen of local governments, and councilors of wards. Not wanting to be
outdone, members of the Nigerian Senate have invented a hitherto non-existent
title that they call “Distinguished Senator.” These days, people just call them
“Distinguished,” as if the word “distinguished” were a noun!
It is also now fashionable to
ignorantly prefix the adjective “executive” to every position in Nigeria. But “executive”
is prefixed to a post only when it is necessary to differentiate it from a
“ceremonial” post. For instance, during Nigeria’s First Republic, there was a
“ceremonial president” in the person of Nnamdi Azikiwe who had no substantive
powers. Substantive powers resided with the Prime Minister.
So when Nigeria adopted the American
presidential system in the Second Republic, it became necessary to prefix
“executive” to the name of the president to show that, unlike in the First
Republic when the president had no executive powers, the elected president had
executive powers. It is totally pointless to prefix “executive” to the names of
governors, chairmen, etc. since we never had or have ceremonial governors or
chairmen in the past or at present. This also applies to such titles as
“executive director,” “executive editor,” etc. The “executive” is called for
only if a company has non-voting directors or if a newspaper has an editor who
exercises no real editorial decision-making powers.
“Excellency” (often preceded by
“Your,” “His” or “Her” is another title of honor that is used uniquely in
Nigeria. In most countries, it used only for presidents, vice presidents, state
governors, ambassadors, viceroys, Roman Catholic bishops and
archbishops, English colonial governors, and the Governor General of Canada
(who is still symbolically an English colonial governor because he is the
representative of the Queen of England in Canada. In Nigeria, it is also used
for wives of presidents and state governors.
Although America’s first president
used “His Excellency” as part of his titles of honor, it has now fallen into
disuse.I have never heard any American president addressed as “His Excellency.”
Out of America’s 50 states, only about 13 officially call their governors
“His/Her Excellency.” The American First Lady is never called “Her Excellency.”
Americans also don’t use “His/Her Excellency” for their ambassadors; the use
“the honorable.”
I also find it curious that our
attitude to Western titles is as influenced by our own local traditions as our
local traditions are influenced by our understanding of Western titles. In the
north, for instance, “Alhaji” and “Malam” are always prefixed to people’s first
names alone—or with their first and last names combined but never with their
last names alone, unlike in the West where courtesy titles are prefixed to the
last names of adults.
However, our journalists now
habitually mix and confuse the Western naming convention with the Nigerian
naming practice, so that it is usual to see a “Musa Labo” addressed as “Alhaji
Labo” on second reference in news reports. But it is “Musa” who went to Mecca
and earned the title of “Alhaji” for himself, not his dad or granddad, “Labo,” who
is probably not an “Alhaji” himself. Same applies to the title “Chief” and its
many local variants in southern Nigeria.
This is particularly awkward for
women because their earned titles are attached to their husband’s family names
on second reference. Referring to Hajia Fatima Abdullahi as “Hajia Abdullahi”
or a Chief Stella Okereke as “Chief Okereke” on second and subsequent
references in a news story is downright misleading. It should be Hajia Fatima
and Chief Stella.
In the West, how people are
addressed—i.e., whether or not titles are prefixed to their names—is often
indicative of levels of familiarity or social and power distance. Calling
people by their first names without titles usually indicates that you are on
very familiar, friendly terms with them and that the power distance between you
and them is very short or non-existent. Calling them by their titles and full
names or their titles and last names indicates that there is a wide social and
power distance between you and them, the kind of social and power distance that
exists, say, between teachers and students or between total strangers on
opposite ends of the social scale.
On other occasions, addressing
people with their title and last name (such as Mr. Smith) when you are their
social equal or their social superior can indicate cold detachment, even
hostility. And calling people by their first names when they are older than
you, are your social superiors, are not sufficiently known to you, or have not
explicitly permitted you to do so, is considered rude.
But this is not the case in Nigeria.
Very close friends write letters to each other and sign off as “Mr. Somebody”
or “Dr. Somebody Someone,” or “Professor Big man.” In the West, signing off a
letter with your title and last name to a friend would indicate hostility,
arrogance, or social awkwardness. That’s the basis of the Western expression
“we are on first-name terms,” which basically means “we are so familiar with
each other that we call each by our first names, not last names and pompous
titles.”
There are exceptions to this
convention in America, though. In the American south, for instance, it is
customary for children to prefix “Mr.,” “Mrs.,” “Miss” or “Ms.” to people’s
first names to indicate both familiarity and courtesy: the mention of the first
name indicates familiarity and warmth, while the affixation of the title
indicates courtesy. This is now becoming a national tradition that even adults
use jocularly. This practice has been around in Nigeria, for a different
reason, for as long as I’ve been alive.
Finally, in the West, it is
considered bad form to introduce yourself to people with your titles. For
instance, it is socially awkward or pompous to introduce yourself to a new
person by saying, “I’m Professor John Danfulani.” But this is common practice
in Nigeria. For me, this attitude is justified only on occasions when women
have a need to tell a male stranger that they are married. So “I am Mrs. Fatima
Isa” tells the male stranger what boundaries not to cross.
What of False Titles?
A related phenomenon is “false
titles,” that is, creating titles out of professional callings. Nigerian
lawyers prefix the title “Barrister” to their names. Architects prefix “Arc.”
to their names. Pharmacists prefix “Pharm.” to theirs. Engineers prefix “Engr”
to their names. Which profession have I left out? Many, I know. Nigerian
journalists seem to be the only people left out in this craze for false titles.
But “Journ” would be a nice title for journalists!
But, seriously, in the West,
only medical doctors, Ph.Ds, and (serving) ambassadors prefix professional
titles to their names. Every other person contends with Mr., Mrs., Miss, or Ms.
In Britain, the range of titles is, of course, wider because the Queen knights
people for personal merit.
In Europe, except Britain, it is
usual for university teachers who have a Ph.D. and attained the rank of “Professor”
to refer to themselves as “Professor Dr. John Smith” This sounds utterly clumsy
and superfluous to Britons and Americans—and to Nigerians. But it is intended to
showcase both academic and professional achievement. “Professor” indicates
professional achievement and “Dr.” indicates academic achievement. Since it is
possible to become a professor without a Ph.D. and have a Ph.D. without
attaining the rank of professor, Western Europeans (except Britons) think it is
fitting to honor people who both have a PhD and attained the rank of professor,
thus the vain, clumsy “Professor Dr.” title.
It is noteworthy that what
grammarians call “false titles” didn’t start with Nigerians. It was actually
started by Time magazine and is now
the stuff of journalese (i.e., English distinctive to journalistic writing). In
native English societies, false titles are defined as prefixing the name of a
professional activity to the name of a person, e.g. “footballer Nwankwo Kanu
has retired from the national team.” In the preceding sentence, “footballer” is
a false title.
False titles are useful for
journalists because they save space. But all journalistic writing conventions
in Britain and America insist that the first letters of false titles should not
be capitalized (e.g. it is wrong to write “Footballer Nkwankwo Kanu”) since
they’re not “real” titles. They should also not be separated by a comma (e.g.,
it’s wrong to write, “Famous footballer, Nwanko Kanu, has landed a big gig in
Spain”) from the name they precede. But this is precisely what Nigerians have
perfected: the first letters of false titles are not only routinely capitalized;
they have also been mainstreamed as “real” titles.
The titles “Barrister,” “Engr,”
“Arc.,” “Surveyor,” “Pharm,” etc. are classic examples of false titles that
have been elevated to the status of real titles in Nigeria.
All this wouldn’t matter if we only
related to each other in Nigeria. But the reality of globalization has forced
us to relate with people in other parts of the world more frequently than was
the case in the past. I know that many Westerners are often confused by our
naming conventions, especially because such conventions are often poor imitations
of their ways. So it helps to know that there is grammatical logic to naming
and titles.
Related Articles:
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2. Why is "Sentiment" Such a Bad Word in Nigeria?
3. Ambassador Aminchi's Impossible Grammatical Logic
4. 10 Most Annoying Nigerian Media English Expressions
5. Sambawa and "Peasant Attitude to Governance"
6. Adverbial and Adjectival Abuse in Nigerian English
7. In Defense of "Flashing" and Other Nigerianisms
8. Weird Words We're Wedded to in Nigerian English
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2. Why is "Sentiment" Such a Bad Word in Nigeria?
3. Ambassador Aminchi's Impossible Grammatical Logic
4. 10 Most Annoying Nigerian Media English Expressions
5. Sambawa and "Peasant Attitude to Governance"
6. Adverbial and Adjectival Abuse in Nigerian English
7. In Defense of "Flashing" and Other Nigerianisms
8. Weird Words We're Wedded to in Nigerian English
9. American English or British English?
10. Hypercorrection in Nigerian English
11. Nigerianisms, Americanisms, Briticisms and Communication Breakdown
12. Top 10 Irritating Errors in American English
13. Nigerian Editors Killing Macebuh Twice with Bad Grammar
14. On "Metaphors" and "Puns" in Nigerian English
15. Common Errors of Pluralization in Nigerian English
16. Q & A About Common Grammatical Problems
17. Semantic Change and the Politics of English Pronunciation
Nice one.
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