yongo

There's something very important about names in African culture. People don't necessarily go through their lives with just the one name they're given at birth; depending on events and circumstances, their title can change. I remember how, in Zambia, women were renamed with the prefix Nyaka once they grew old. You knew, just from hearing their name, that they were mature and respected.

Here in Liberia, I've had many names. Not many of my patients seem to be able to stop at Ali, choosing instead the more Liberian Alice. The small ones call me Auntie Alice as they cling to my legs while I try to go about my work on the wards. My other favorite moniker is Alaji, a name from a song that often plays on taxi radios as we bounce through the streets of Monrovia.

This weekend, the mother of one of my small boys beckoned me over to their bed in the corner of the ward.

Alice, when you learn Liberian?
I have been here ever since. Seven months. That why I can speak small small.
I tell you Alice, you can speak clear! I t'ink you are Liberian.

She went on to tell me that, since I'm officially West African now, I need a name from her tribal language, Kpelle.

You will be called 'Yongo'

It's nothing special, this new name of mine. It means Tall One, which makes a lot of sense to anyone who's ever stood next to me. But to me, it means so much more than that. Having a name says that I belong here; it gives me a place. When I walk into the ward to shouts of Yongo! I know that I've been invited to stay and take part in these people's lives.

Which is all that I can ask for.