Once, someone cared enough to name you

Naming conventions are huge. Your name is your destiny in many ways. People name their children after success, education, wisdom, luck. They name them for love, for feelings and emotions. People invest their own hopes and dreams for their progeny in the names they imbue them with.

Names have power and glory.

Then you get nicknames. I am not convinced these have quite the same purpose as given names.

Sure, they have power, and they can shape our destinies, but their provenance is simply not the same as the traditional names we are given at birth. Nicknames tend to emanate out of some of the most prosaic incidents in human endeavour. But still, we sometimes carry them for life.

I’ve been known as Hargie, Hanger, Klein Kak, Cosmic and some other shockers.

Is it just me, or does it seem that men end up with the bulk of the nicknames? Again, their provenance is seldom anything to be proud of, but they can stick just as hard as a formal name.

Take my acquaintance Acorn, named during his early teen years for the unique design of his genitals. I believe he now runs a marketing company in the Eastern Cape, and he usually goes by his ID-book name. But as I sit here typing, I could not tell you what that name is. When we bump into each other in the parking lot at the West Pier in Port Alfred, it’s “Acorn, bru! How you doing!”

Likewise, my other mate Waxy, as well as his brother Wax Comb and their sister Waxine. I once knew a guy who introduced himself as Wors. There’s a very successful Tollie. My mate Dooz had difficulty pronouncing his own given name of Darren, and thus assumed his current moniker for life.

Smiler smiles a lot. But his nickname has far more impact when he becomes grumpy and it’s just a massive irony. “I’m here to see Patient Smith. Smiler Smith.”

There is a lady in Port Elizabeth named MaJamani because she apparently resembles a German person.

A barista I know in Cape Town came to be named Cappuccino Charles, because it just made sense.

Nicknames also evolve. My favourite example of this was Steve Moerdyk, a friend of mine who had a propensity to become depressed, and would be a bit miff. Hence, he was Miff Moerdyk. That became Miftus, which became Miftus Maroent, for some reason. That evolved into Hehr Roent, and from there to Harold, obviously, and from there to Hank. So his nicknames had nicknames.

He later launched a modelling career, where the professional handle he chose was Hank Ronson. Most of us just call him Hank. Or Ronald. Ronnie.

And that, I imagine, is the point. It is our friends and family who name us. We are indeed who we are through other people, as the African proverb asserts. We are given our names by those who know us.

Sometimes the names stick first time, sometimes they evolve and sometimes they need a bit of a rethink to more accurately reflect the person we are. Those names can be somewhat embarrassing, odd, difficult, complicated, hilarious … but we get used to that, and we carry them with us through life.

Our names reflect our culture, and the culture of those around us. The culture of those who came before us. It can be inconvenient to have to repeat our names, or to explain how we came to carry them.

“No, I had an Achilles injury, so I walked funny for a while, so they called me Twinkle Toes, and it just got shortened from there. Call me Toes.”

We seldom get to choose our own names. They are given to us by others. Whatever our feelings about them, it’s worth remembering that names are privilege, a badge of honour.

Whatever they are, our names tell us that once, long ago, someone loved us enough, cared enough, to give us one.

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