By Derick Matsengarwodzi WHAT really constitutes a name? This is a question I think about often. I guess with mine the more diffi...
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By Derick Matsengarwodzi
WHAT really
constitutes a name? This is a question I think about often. I guess with mine
the more difficult and rare the better.
“What is
your name? Matsenga … what? What does that mean?” is the
normal response to mine. “That’s the longest surname I have ever set my eyes on.” And so the
identification abuse continues.
“How do you
pronounce it? Let me try.” The tirade resumes. Of course, they all stammer,
stutter and stray. Until I lead them along the long road to get it all well and
clear. “I am Derick, Derick Matsengarwodzi, but call me Mr Long, Mr Long Name
that is. That will help avoid getting your tongue in a knot.”
That’s how I
have become Mr Long to many. Probably it is because of the absence of the
letter “R” in some languages that causes the scare – like we are starved of
“L”, “X” and “Q” in my native language. Any words comprising these alien
figures are somehow destined for an expressional default.
My
accomplice, Sbusiso, a local, prefers to call me Matse ... etc. He says
it makes more grammatical sense to shorten it. It sounds more sophisticated and
friendlier, he adds. Once a guy asked: “Are you African or something?” For once
I wished I was someone else. I wished I could scream loud: “I am very African
and a proud one too. What do you take me for, a would-be drug peddler yielding
a fake identity?”
It becomes
an offence when someone approaches me and declares: “I bet I can pronounce your
name correctly.” I ponder: was it incorrect before? Anyway, he gets my humble
blessing to proceed. “What do I get if I get it right?” he asks. “Oh my fallen
forefathers,” I groan. How dare one seek a fortune with my name?.
Then a
clique of sympathisers always crops up. “What about your kids, can they
pronounce the word? What about in school?” This degenerates into a war and it
requires graphical illustrations. I resume: “My daughter is named Zvikomborero
Matsengarwodzi,” scribbling it on paper. “And wait before you shout an
obscenity. At three, she learnt how to construct, fit and squeeze her identity
into any given limited space, especially at school.” There you have it. I have
passed it on to the next generation — already.
I declare
with authority that if ever you meet a guy out there with this very name he is
a blood relative. You will interact with someone with a shorter version of my
name: Matsenga or Rwodzi but those evolved elsewhere. Its jaw-breaking
possibilities make it a rare species, jealously guarded by us as a family.
Often I have encountered identification crisis with other people’s names in my
line of work. A phone call to an office will get the response: “We have four
people with that name, which one are you referring to?” Then it’s back to the
drawing board.
And perusing
a directory is always a challenge. There are surnames so common that you will
be forgiven for assuming that these people own publishing rights to the
telephone directory. I’ll happily take the abuse I get instead — the abuse to
be me. So long — from Mr Long.
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