By Farayi Mungoshi

FOR generations black people have been labelled and called all sorts of degrading names by white people.
‘Kaffir’, ‘darkie’, ‘negro’ and ‘monkey’ are some of the few names we have been called.
Some of us who attended multi-racial schools back in the 1980s might also remember the name ‘Kunta’ was often used by some of the white kids in reference to black people.
The most vivid experience I recall of a time when somebody called me Kunta was as late as 1999 when I was attending the European Film College in Denmark.
I was one of only three black people studying there at that time and one of four in the whole town of Ebeltoft.
On that particular night when this was said, we were celebrating African Culture.
Naïve and passive though I might have been at that time, I was taken aback.
It took every ounce of energy in my body not to retaliate violently, probably because I was not that heavily built, neither was I as big as the young Danish man dating the young German girl who insulted me.
I brushed it off by saying: “You might have me confused with someone else because I was never a slave.”
Lame as it might have sounded, I must say it wounded me a bit and reminded me I was a long way from home.
Later that night, a drunk guy from Chile, whose name I can only now recall as Pablo, knelt before me, kissed my feet and looked up to me and mumbled something about how much he loved black people and that they were the original people.
Of course I didn’t understand what Pablo was going on about, so once again I brushed it aside as just drunken talk.
Who knew that these words would only dawn on me 18 years later after watching the first episode of the remake of Roots?
Let me explain to those that are still trying to figure out what I mean by ‘Kunta’.
Better known as ‘Kunta Kinte’, he is a character from the American television series Roots, which talks about slavery and follows the life of the young boy from his abduction in Juffure in The Gambia, his journey across the sea in chains and his arrival in America where he is sold off to a whiteman named Wallace.
That short synopsis above is nowhere close to the gruesome images painted in the series, neither does it give one an in-depth understanding of my topic today.
Hence, let me explain to you again who Kunta Kinte is in order for me to illustrate the importance of one’s name using Roots and Kunta Kinte as reference.
On the day Kunta is born, his Father Omoro Kinte, a Mandinga warrior, is king.
It was his duty to keep the peace in the city of Juffure and also to protect the people from being abducted by African slave traders, the Koros, and sold off to English slave traders.
Upon returning home from duty and witnessing the birth of his son, Omoro takes the baby boy out into the forest and there, under the beautiful stars of the African night sky, presents the boy to his ancestors.
But before Omoro presents the boy to his ancestors, he first speaks to the baby.
Please note that at this stage Kunta is only but a baby, therefore he could neither understand what his father was saying nor could he reply or ask any questions.
Allow me to quote Omoro’s words to his son:
“You must hear your name first.
You are Kunta Kinte, Son of Omoro Kinte, Son of Kairabha Kunta Kinte and Ayisa.
You must always honour your ancestors, the ones who love you and watch over you.
Your name is your spirit.
Your name is your shield.”
Some years later, on the day Kunta becomes a proud Mandiga warrior just like his father before him, he is abducted by the Koros and sold off into slavery.
He leads the black people on the slave ship in an uprising as they tried to take over the ship but they fail and lots of black folks are killed.
Once in Virginia, US, his slave master’s wife gives him a new name, Toby.
Kunta refuses this name and would not respond to anyone calling him by this name.
When he refuses to respond to the slave master’s wife, all hell breaks loose.
He is whipped to a pulp in a scene reminiscent of the way the Roman soldiers whipped Jesus.
With each stroke, the whip dug into and reaped off the flesh from the young man’s back.
Blood spilt in a puddle on the ground around where he was tied up, yet he would not denounce his name.
The other slaves were forced to watch this cruel act as it was meant to serve as an example of what the master would do should any of them disobey the masters.
Submissively they watched with pain and hurt.
Others even begged him to just agree to being called Toby but the young man would not listen, it was as though he was ready to die for his name.
Young as Kunta was, one wonders whether he knew the implications of denouncing his name and taking up the white man’s name at that time.
I gripped my seat after another lash and shout of: “Your name is Toby,” from the slave master.
I could not help but feel the pain the young man was going through.
And just before the young man finally submits, the director of the television series craftily intercuts the beating scene with a scene from Juffure in which his mother is telling her husband Omoro that she’d just heard Kunta’s voice.
Omoro tells his wife that she was mistaken and that he’d searched everywhere for him but could not find him, “He is not coming back.”
With a blood red back Kunta Kinte finally whispers: “Toby,” in submission.
What touched me more than the beating was the connotation.
Much credit should be given to the director of the series here as he managed to show the spiritual significance of each lash that fell on Kunta’s back.
After having so expertly shown us earlier, the importance and value in a name, the director then shows us how that value and importance was whipped out of the people.
With each lash, blood was spilt, and with each lash, a piece of the blackman’s history was erased, with another lash, his spirituality (remember Omoro’s words quoted above; your name is your spirit) was vanquished.
With the final lash, the blackman’s shield fell; he became vulnerable and helpless and Omoro’s words of exhortation: “Your name is your shield,” were made empty and void.