What's in a Name?

“I jamun diima?”  This question was yelled out to me by nearly every person I have passed during my first few days in site.  It means “What is your sweet last name” in Malinke.  We are asked this because knowing a person’s last name is essential in order to properly greet that person.   Now, they call out my last name, “Tigana, Tigana, Tigana!”  The correct response is to say the person’s last name in return before starting the rest of the greeting process (and repeatedly throughout the greeting), which is tricky since there are 6000 people in my town, all of whom remember our last names and expect us to remember all of theirs.  There is a significantly smaller variety of last names in Senegal than in the states, and I’m trying to decide whether this makes it easier or harder to remember.  It seems as though about half of the population is either Cissokho or Danfakha (or Sakhiliba or Damba, respectively, which are the unofficial female versions of these surnames), so one of those names can sometimes be a safe guess if someone has told me his or her last name repeatedly and I’m expected to know it.  If someone does not know my name but knows who my host family is, they will often shout out Sakhiliba, since our host family is a Cissokho family, so I am presumed to be a child of the family.  Senegalese women do not take their husbands last names (although I wish they did just so that I could memorize the last names of entire households instead of individual people), but all the kids take the father’s last name.  Actually, my first day of volunteer visit, I was named Sadio Sakhiliba because I was a child of the Cissokho family, but then they thought that was weird since Pat and I were married, so they changed my last name to Tigana.

When people learn that my name is Sadio Tigana, they know, or assume to know, a lot more about me than just my name.  They correctly assumed that I am named after the real Sadio Tigana and understand the special relationship that I have with her as my toxoma, or my namesake.  I am just starting to understand the depth of the toxoma relationship and am looking forward to appreciating it more as my time in site continues.  Sadio lights up every time she sees me and chants, “Ntoxoma, ntoxoma, ntoxoma.”  She takes special care of me and takes pride in me, particularly if I do something that she considers to be a Malinke thing to do, such as dance crazy at a wedding, wear Senegalese clothing, help cook food, or successfully express myself in her language.  As I have assumed Sadio’s name, I am also presumed to assume all of her relationships.  For example, her daughter Diunkunda, simply addresses me as “nnaa”, or “my mother”, and her grandkids call me grandma.  I guess it’s kind of helpful in figuring out who is who, since everyone in the extended family lives together in the family compound. 

Sadio is married to Ibrahima Cissokho, so people think it is hilarious when they learn that I am married to Pat, whose Senegalese name is Iburahima Cissokho.  The community thinks it’s really funny to have two sets of Sadios and Ibrahima, the originals and the mini, toubab Sadio and Iburahima.  I’ve actually heard myself referred to in the family compound as “Sadio wulema”.  This translates to “red Sadio” (as opposed to black Sadio), which is an interesting juxtaposition to Western designations of skin color.

Being married to a Cissokho also means that men with the last name of Cissokho tell me that they are my husband, which I’m not sure how to react to.  It’s all just part of the Senegalese humor that goes along with names.  I mentioned in one of my first posts how different ethnic groups are joking cousins, but there are joking cousin relationships between different last names.  Tigana has this relationship with several last names, which is why it was completely appropriate for me to tell the chief that he is a big bean eater when I greeted him yesterday, since he is a Danfakha after all.  The Tures and the Cissokhos are joking cousins, so it is not uncommon for Pat to be told by a Ture that he is no good.  I’m still trying to learn the correct responses to these jokes—at this point I mostly just turn it around and say the same thing back, “No, you eat all the beans”.   The past few days, a group of old men has repeatedly told me that my toxoma is pregnant (she is at least sixty).  When I asked her about this, she explained it was a joking cousin thing, and the best response was to tell the ringleader that his first wife was pregnant.  I did this, and they about died laughing.  Different senses of humor I guess.

People also have been asking me if I farm peanuts.  Maybe this has to do with the resemblance of the Malinke word for peanut (tigo) and the name Tigana, or maybe it’s just because rainy season (aka peanut farming season) is just around the corner. 

The caste system in Senegal , which is something I still don’t really understand, corresponds to occupation and last name.  The Tiganas are traditionally metal workers, so people often make jokes about my metal working skills.  One cast is called the “griots”, who are the story tellers.  A griot offered to tell me the story of the Tiganas for a little money, but I think I’ll wait until my language skills are improved to the point where I can appreciate it. For now, my toxoma is pleased enough that I have learned to say “Tigana Marena”.  Marena is the extension of the last name Tigana that the griots use when talking about the Tiganas.  Each last name has its own special griot addition, and so far I’ve only learned two.  It’s hard enough to keep everyone’s original last name straight!

My first week in site I went to a naming ceremony.  This is the Muslim baptism, which takes place a week after the baby’s birth.  Somehow my toxoma was designated to name the baby.  I’m not exactly sure if I’m understanding all of this correctly, but I think that the men in the baby’s family picked the name, it was just her job to present the name to the baby himself and then announce it to the women present at the ceremony.  They shaved the baby’s head, washed him (soap is a common gift at a baptism), and Sadio made a trilling noise into each of his ears, after which she whispered his name to him.  She then held him high and announced his name to the group.

 Needless to say, names mean a lot, and I have a feeling that I’ve just scratched the surface.