A New Namesake: Harriet...err...Ariel Flomo

At long last, I finally arrived back to Voinjama last week. On the ride up from Monrovia, I had a million plans in my head. People to see and check up on, errands to run. So when I woke up Saturday morning, I got dressed and prepared myself for a full day of visiting all the friends and coworkers I hadn’t seen since before the riots engulfed Voinjama last month. Just as I was about to step out the door, however, my phone rang. It was my friend and IRC guard Moibah. “AMINATA!” he cried into the phone. “Aminata, I got baby! I got baby!” (Aminata is my Malian name.) Not having had any idea that Moibah’s wife was pregnant (not to mention that Moibah was even old enough to be married – he looks about 17), I was nevertheless very excited to know that he was now a proud, first-time parent. I hurried out of the house and off we went, Moibah all the while shouting the news to neighbors and regaling me with stories of how he had always known it would be a girl.

Upon arriving at Moibah’s in-laws, I was greeted with a flurry of excitement. As it turned out, Moibah’s wife was the younger sister of Sylvester, another IRC guard that I have befriended and who I lend my computer to daily so that he can practice his typing. Like Moibah, he’s earnest and hopeful despite having lived through some terrible times. When he tells me about the things he’s been through (the killing of his siblings, surviving for months in the bush, escaping to Guinea), I try to listen and respond in a way that helps him, but never having experienced a war, I usually find myself overwhelmed and at a loss for words. What do you say to someone who has witnessed so much suffering?

After being greeted by Sylvester's family, they ushered me into the room where his sister sat with the baby. The room was chock full of female friends and relatives, all cooing over the new baby and congratulating the parents. People came and went, but having had so few opportunities to feel part of a family here in Liberia, I stayed on, chatting and acting as official event photographer. As the morning wore on, the conversation turned to the baby’s name. Seemingly without a moment's hesitation, Moibah made the announcement. “She will be named Aminata. Aminata Flomo.”

Not having seen this coming at all, I have to say that my initial reaction was to say no. I mean, Moibah’s wife had never even met me until today. Sure, I may be friends with her husband and siblings, but that doesn’t mean she should have to name her child after me—and her first child at that. “Don’t you think you two should talk this over?” I tried asking Moibah. “Maybe Beatrice has a name in mind?” At this, I tried to give Moibah’s wife my best ‘Please don’t feel like you need to name your baby after a complete stranger, I promise not to be offended’ smile. But the family was having none of it. Between Moibah and the half dozen in-laws present, the child was going to be named Aminata. And that was that.

Still feeling pretty uncomfortable with the whole thing, I nevertheless accepted the honor and decided the best thing to do in the situation was to befriend Beatrice, the baby’s mother. Maybe then she would decide it wasn’t so bad to have her baby named after me, and I would feel less guilty about the fact that a child she might have liked to name after her mother or aunt (or anyone she had known for more than an hour) was now named after a random white girl she'd never even seen before today.

After a while of hanging out, I began to notice something. Beatrice was calling the baby Harriet. Oh, I thought! She wanted to name the baby Harriet, and so now she is calling her that even though her husband has said that the child’s official name is Aminata. Relieved, I decided to show my support for the decision by calling the baby Harriet too.

I guess I should backtrack at this point in the story to say that earlier on, Moibah had called me outside to record the particulars of the new baby’s birth for her birth certificate. Remembering that my real name is not actually Aminata, he insisted that I tell him my American name and that I write this on the paper along with the name Aminata. Following this, he decided that for the baby to truly be my namesake, she needed to be called Ariel rather than Aminata.

As it turns out, Moibah had explained this all to his wife and the rest of the family. Hence, unbeknownst to me, everyone had started calling the baby Ariel. But since Ariel is not exactly the most common name here in Liberia, nobody really understood how to pronounce it. Some said Carius; some said Awel. And Beatrice, of course, said Harriet.

Apparently then, this was an instance of my insecurities getting the better of me. Beatrice was not, it turned out, secretly hating me for usurping her child’s name. Rather, she seemed to like the novelty of it and giggled each time her friends or relatives butchered its pronunciation. And while I can’t say that by the end of the day everyone was able to say Ariel correctly, I can tell you that Beatrice no longer seems to be calling her baby Harriet.

The rest of the weekend was spent celebrating. We borrowed an old school boom box and played Hip Life music until late in the day. Per usual, I got schooled in dancing by five year-olds. (Indeed, it brought me back to that fateful day in Mali when my female friends threw up their hands in despair and said “Eh, Aminata, why did you never tell us you can’t dance???) And the palm wine flowed like…well…like wine.

Looking back, I know I can’t compare the naming of Moibah’s daughter after me with my friend Koumba’s decision to give her child my name in Mali. While Moibah and I are good friends, and I know he appreciates me taking the time to get to know him and his family while most other expats hang out only with each other, what Koumba and I went through together (the death of one child, Koumba's own near death, and the eventual birth of my namesake there in Mali) connected us on a much deeper level. Nevertheless, the naming of baby Ariel has created a tie between myself and the Flomo family—and that in turn ties me more to Liberia. Eight months in, it’s starting to feel a little like home.