By Lasisi Olagunju

Odysseus survived the Trojan War. He experienced “blissful forgetfulness” in the land of the Lotus-Eaters; he was captured by the Cyclops Polyphemus; he escaped the Sirens, and sea monsters, Scylla and Charybdis. Then the enchantress Circe turned his men to swine. Odysseus wandered for several years in search of his destiny. He finally found it. If Prince Hal in Shakespeare’s Henry IV; if the Bourbons of France and Charles II of England were Yoruba, they would be Olákùlẹ́hìn. Read their stories of spectacular comebacks.

Book critic and columnist at the New York Times, Ralph Thompson, in March 1936 wrote a penetrative piece on the life and death of England’s King George V: “The death of a British monarch… is something more than the death of a man.” He wrote, paused and added that when a king dies, “something far weightier than a single human life comes to a pause.” The passing, last week, of Olubadan Owolabi Olakulehin and the transition yesterday of the Awujale of Ijebuland, Oba Sikiru Adetona, remind me of that pulsating passage.

As it is in Thompson’s England, so it is in my Yorubaland. The oba is the human placeholder for his people’s everything. It does not matter how great or ordinary, wise or reclusive, strong or feeble the king is, a king’s death is always the fall of an elephant. Take Muhammadu Buhari’s death yesterday. He was ruinously ineffectual in power for eight years, yet his exit rumbled the forest. Now, ask: who inherits his 12 million votes? Who benefits from his death?

Olákùlẹ́hìn is the name of the Olubadan who joined his ancestors last Monday. He became oba at 89 and died at 90. Now, I think the name which that oba bore ruled his star; it shone brightest at his dusk. His reign was remarkable in the resilient agedness of his person and in the shortness of the term. His stubborn heart beat long enough for him to mark the royal register before exiting the palace. His family would be ungrateful if they sulk in sadness. Many wanted to sit on that throne for just one day but death came for them before their day.

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Olákùlẹ́hìn fits in the tapestry of resilient fate. The name, Olá kù lẹ́hìn, deserves a dissection: Olá means not just material wealth; it refers to all-round elevation, destiny-endowed prestige, or noble essence. It means nobility, prestige, royalty, honour and, let me add, greatness. Kù means ‘to remain, to survive, to endure’. The last part, ‘lẹ́hìn’ signifies ‘behind, rear, at the back, in the aftermath’. Cobble the parts together and salute the late oba’s ancestors who prepared the name for his destiny. Olakulehin is more than a personal name; it is a narrative and a prophecy.

There is this passage in Lewis Carroll’s ‘Through the Looking Glass’:

“My name is Alice…”

“… What does it mean? ”

“Must a name mean something?” Alice asked doubtfully. The question on whether a name should naturally have a semantic content can’t be asked in Black Africa without some rebuke. Here, the content and the case are inseparable. You can read more on this in retired professor of Anthropology and Linguistics, Niyi Akinnaso’s ‘The Sociolinguistic Basis of Yoruba Personal Names’ published in October 1980.

In Yoruba sayings and songs, ‘Olákùlẹ́hìn’ is never a stand-alone name. It comes as Orin Òwe (proverbial song); Orin Ọ̀tẹ̀ (song of battle) or Orin Ọpé (song of thanks): Wọ́n ṣe bí olá tán, Ọlá ò tán, Òlá kù l’ẹ́hìn (They thought ola is finished: ola is not finished; ola remains). From that line alone, three names are formed: Wonsebolatan; Olaotan; Olakulehin. There is an additional derivative or variant: Mosebolatan (I thought ola is finished). This one is a name for the grateful, the one who came back victorious after a defeat, the one who rebuilt from personal ruins.

The rhythm of kingship in Yorubaland may pause and bow to the ravages of death, but it never truly stops its sonic breath. In Yoruba royalty, death in one royal house means elevation and joy of enthronement next door. That is why every Ibadan person is called Omo Agbọ́tikúyọ̀ (rejoicers at news of death). When an oba dies, the one who takes the throne is a beneficiary of death’s wicked act. People benefit from others’ death. If Isiaka Adeleke did not die in 2017, would his brother, Demola Adeleke, be governor of Osun State in 2022? The name Kújẹ́mbólà literally means ‘death allows me to meet prosperity’). It was the death of someone else that made the bearer successful and prosperous. Everyone who becomes oba should really answer that name.

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Think of name as destiny. The Yoruba believe that what a child would be is right there in their name. The late Awujale was Olukayode (God has brought happiness). He enjoyed life for 91 years, 65 of those years as a very consequential, respected oba. There was an Aare Ona Kakanfo Kurunmi. The surname (Kurunmi) is extinct because it fulfilled what it promised the bearer: Iku (death) ruined him: all his children perished in a war in which he himself died. A state governor is Lucky Aiyedatiwa. The luck in the man’s ‘Lucky’ needs no analysis but more prescient is the surname, Aiyedatiwa (the world/life has become ours). Death shifted his boss for him to move up and inherit the world. What he does with that inheritance is a different thing altogether.

There are uncanny happenings in other climes which would suggest that some spirits may be living in names. The German name, ‘Drumpf’ crossed to the US and got anglicised to ‘Trump’. Scholars say its roots are in some German term for drumming and drummer. Old French linked it to trumpets or trumpeting. If our popular Trump entertains exceptionally today, he is just keeping family tradition alive. The white man may dismiss this as arrant nonsense.

“What’s in a name?” from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet will not be answered here the way the playwright answered it. Here, we would swear there is so much in a name. Yoruba names are sacred to the Yoruba. That explains why no one would do what the English man does with their child with names that damn. The Ijesa, for instance, can be beautifully descriptive in coining and giving names. Their last oba before the new one was Aromolaran (the one who wraps his child with velvet). He was a power-dresser. The oba before Owa Aromolaran was Agunlejika (the broad-shouldered one). Check his photos, his physique.

‘Good name’ is both literal and metaphor here. All I hear around me are pleasant names. There is Eyitayo (This is enough joy); there is Oladimeji (honour becomes two; honour is doubled); Omopariola (child completes honour/ child epitomizes wealth). Adebayo is the child who arrives to meet joy. Titilayo is forever is joy. Titilola, forever is ola. My mother’s very uncommon name is Orímọ́láwá (Her head brought Ọlá to her). There is my father’s name, Ọlágúnjú. If you bear Ọlágúnjú as I do, just apply all those meanings of Ọlá to ‘gún’ and ‘jú’. Ọlá gún ojú/Ọlá + gún + ‘jú. ‘Gún’ is a verb which, in this tonal context, means ‘to fit’, ‘to be well-formed’, ‘to be properly constructed or shaped’. Ojú, here does not mean ‘eye’, it means ‘face’. Ọlágúnjú thus means “honour fits the face; nobility shapes the countenance.” Now you know.

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But wrongly pronounced Yoruba names can have unintended infelicity effects. One of the most commonly mispronounced Yoruba names is ‘Awosika’ (Awóòsìkà) which means ‘Awo (Ifa oracle) has not been wicked’. I asked a friend who bears that name how he feels each time he hears it mispronounced as Awósìkà (‘Awo has acted wickedly’). He sighed and said he was tired of correcting people. Again, if for instance, Olákùlẹ́hìn is pronounced Olákúléhìn, the meaning is the very opposite of the original. Sometimes, the misspeak is not a symptom of linguistic incompetence but pure mischief. I had a university classmate, Gbenga Fádíyà. For rascally reasons, some of us would routinely put the wrong tonal marks on the three syllables that make up the surname; a bad boy would say Fàdíya. The ‘victim’ would laugh, his naughty friends would laugh. Both sides were aware that the meaning dripped of negativity.

Across the seas, the white man has been historically crazy with names. ‘Stone’ as surname is not strange in English-speaking countries of the West. Lawyers and judges are familiar with the renowned jurist, Sir William Blackstone (1723-1780). He was a scholar famous for his ‘Commentaries on the Laws of England.’ But why would someone proudly answer Blackstone as a name? If ‘Blackstone’ (and even ‘Blackburn’) sound odd to your African understanding of what a name should be, think of ‘Hogsflesh’ and ‘Gotobed.’ The latter (Go-to-bed) is actually proven to be a real surname from Suffolk, England. A Jannik Sinner won the Wimbledon at the weekend. There is ‘Pigg’ and there is ‘Smellie’, both pronounced as spelt. Google says Smellie is a real Scottish surname. Some people’s ancestor also answered Death (pronounced ‘Deeth’).

It didn’t start today. As early as the eleventh century, contempt for someone got them Rump (meaning buttocks) as name. Some people’s surname was (is) Belcher – a testament to their ancestor’s “habit of eructating after a heavy meal.” You will see more of this in Robert M. Rennick’s ‘Obscene Names and Naming in Folk Tradition’ (1968). You will read, in there, allusions from Robert Ferguson’s ‘English Surnames and Their Place in the Teutonic Family’ (1858); you will gape reading what examples are drawn from Henry Barber’s ‘British Family Names, Their Origin and Meaning’ (1903); you will encounter unbelievable origin of names in Elsdon Smith’s ‘The Story of Our Names’ (1950).

A child’s name is not just a label. The Yoruba say name is a force that shapes character and actions. We say Orúko omo ní í ro omo (name influences a child’s behaviour; it determines their life choices; it is their compass). Exactly like Bankole who ends up a bricklayer. That parallel is with apology to Funwontan, Gbenga Adeboye of blessed memory.

But things are fast falling apart. Where we used to have Olusegun, there you find now, not Victor or Victoria, but Victory. Our fathers paid attention to the home environment before assigning names to a child (Ilé l’àá wò k’á tó s’omo l’órúko). They knew that Orúkọ ọmọ ni ìjánu ọmọ (A child’s name is a restraint on the child). The name is the bridle that cautions, guides and points the way.

May the souls of Awujale Adetona, Olubadan Olákùlẹ́hìn and Buhari rest in peace. Just like their very long lives, every outing must come to an end. I wrap this too long piece up with this passage in Rennick’s work cited above: “A popular nineteenth century anecdote recounts the trials of a young lawyer who is setting up his practice by performing the most obvious initial act. He hangs a sign outside his office door with his name: ‘A. Swindler’. His first client can’t help remarking that his sign is bound to deter potential clients, and advises him to write out his first name in full. ‘Oh I couldn’t do that,’ the lawyer answers; ‘as bad as this must seem to be, it would be infinitely worse if I added my full given name – Adam.’” Imagine a lawyer whose full name is Adam Swindler!