The Crazy Nigerian

Killing my name softly

As simple as that question 'What's your name?' may seem, it was a tricky one for me. Of course, I knew what my name was, but it was the unexpected reactions to it that really threw me off balance. It wasn't the jeering and pointing in my primary school years in Lagos; it was also the 'I-just-sucked-a-lemon' expression on job interviewers' faces that really pissed me off. It was as if they had a sudden attack of nomatophobia (the fear of names). My name, Tonwapiri, originates from the Ijaw tribe of Bayelsa, a state in the Niger Delta region of Nigeria.

Believe it or not, the only complex thing about my name is that the first 'I' is silent. But I guess I must be missing something because I can tell you first-hand about the three-stage process adopted by third parties who consequently murder my beautiful name:

For those who attempt to read my name from some written document (e.g. an attendance sheet, a registration form, a job application, etc.), they first execute the 'Clint Eastwood-Squint'. Perhaps my name has the cosmic power of being able to shrink in size anytime someone tries to read it. Their good sight suddenly seems to fail as soon as their eyes fall upon my name.

The second action that takes place is the dreaded pronunciation. My name, if pronounced correctly, would take you only two seconds to say. However, most first timers use a whole five seconds: 'Ton . . . waaa . . . priye.' (Seriously?).

After going through the annoying ordeal of hearing what sounds like the utterances of a drunk recovering from a hangover, the third and most irritating stage is the interrogation. I've been put 'on trial' from as early as the tender age of seven on account of the assumed weirdness of my name. I can recount an occasion when one of my primary school teachers was taking the class attendance and came across my name for the first time . . . and murdered it.

'What kind of name is that?' (My classmates giggle in the background).

'It is an Ijaw name, sir.' 'Er-en! Where are your parents from?'

'They are from Rivers State.' (i.e., before Bayelsa was carved out in 1996.)

'So Anthony is your first name?' 'No, sir. My name is Tonwapiri.'

'Uh-huh! And what are your other names?'

'I have no other names, sir.' (Shakes head).

'So what do people call you?'

'Tonwapiri.' (Duh!) 'OK, you can sit down, Anthony.'

At that time, it wasn't a big deal to me if people called me by my surname (though I would have much preferred 'Michael' which was borne by my idol, Michael Jackson). But when I reported the incident to my mum, she insisted that I be called by my first name and nothing else. My dad agreed. I returned to school armed with this new ultimatum, but I was destined for disappointment. The teachers stubbornly called me 'Anthony' and, worse still, my classmates gave me names of their own.

On one occasion, my primary school teacher gave the class a verbal aptitude exercise, which became the catalyst for one of my absurd nicknames. The exercise required putting three sentences in the correct sequence. So for example, if you had the following sentences: 1) She got ready for school; 2) She took her bath; 3) Sally got out of bed, then the correct answer would be three-two-one. My teacher had been pointing at random pupils to give the correct answer to each question. Eventually, the dreaded finger pointed at me. I gave the correct answer to the question, but I wished I hadn't because the whole class burst out laughing when I said, 'two-one-three'. When the teacher asked why everyone was laughing, someone at the back shouted, 'BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE HIS NAME! To my horror even my teacher joined in the hullabaloo and this went on for a couple of minutes.

All the while I was holding back the tears and thinking two things: That my teacher was no longer my favourite, and that I was definitely changing my first name to 'Michael' as soon as I moved out of my parents' house.

'Two-one-three' stuck with me throughout primary school. Junior secondary school wasn't any easier with the likes of 'Tomapri', 'Tomatopiri' and 'Tomapep' (Nigeria's canned tomato puree which went into extinction in the mid-nineties). Senior secondary school, however, got a bit vulgar when my name evolved into 'Touch-My-Pr**k' (though I like to think the joke was really on the daft guys who said it).

During my A-levels, I was ordained 'Mr. Tee', which I actually liked. When I migrated to the UK in 1997 for my university education, my name morphed into 'Tony', which was probably for the best so that I didn't stand out like a sore black thumb. By the time I started working in London in 2002, I was asked for permission (by a series of supervisors) to be called 'Tony' in the workplace, and that permission was grudgingly granted. When I returned to Nigeria in 2007, I decided to murder my own name by cutting it down to just 'Tonwa'.

Now, you may be wondering if any of this is important. Well, it's all part of what lowered my self-esteem when I was a child. My classmates laughing at me whilst my primary school teacher struggled to pronounce my name served as my first ever taste of humiliation. I used to wonder why my parents only gave me one name, and why it had to be this particular name. I even wondered why it had to be so long; my full name is 'Ayebatonwapiri', which means 'God, plan for us' ('us' referring to my parents). I've grown to appreciate how special and unique my name is, even though short name bearers like 'Femi Oni' in the exam hall would have been attempting Question 3 by the time I finished writing my long name at the top of my answer sheet.

Some Nigerians I've interacted with believed that my name would open doors when it came to getting jobs in oil companies. This is due to what I call the Bayelsa factor. Ever since residents of Bayelsa state started seeking compensation from Shell for unprecedented oil spills that have been recurring over the last fifteen years, word got round that anybody of Bayelsa origin would have easy access to free wealth and job opportunities within the oil sector. In other words, most people thought residents of Bayelsa were rolling in 'Shell money'. This absurd idea couldn't be any further from the truth. I used to get teased by colleagues in the Nigerian banking industry about being in the wrong line of work. They thought if any recruiting oil company sighted my state of origin in my CV I would automatically be considered for a well-paid job. I'd like to think that oil companies in Nigeria would require potential employees have credentials, qualifications, and work experience before they could gain employment into their establishments. Personally, I don't see the big deal about being linked to the 'oil-rich' Bayelsa state, which still boasts of only one major tarred road running within its borders . . . just one!

My name, however, has come in handy in the course of conversing with business prospects who sometimes joke about me being an undercover Niger Delta militant intent on kidnapping them for say N2 million. I usually reply by saying they needn't worry . . . because they aren't worth kidnapping anyway. I was naturally shy whilst growing up, but all my name did was to give me unwanted attention. I never had to find the spotlight; the spotlight usually found me. I guess my parents wanted it that way. More importantly, God planned it that way.

So after my name, there was the shame and then the blame. But a little voice kept telling me I was destined for fame (OK, I admit, that rhyme was kind of lame). Moving on!