I don’t know if any English-speaking American is capable of pronouncing my name the right way. It’s not the fault of the Americans though, as the majority have not been regularly exposed to west African culture.
My name is Eze Ihenetu by the way, pronounced as (eh-zee) (i-hen-eh-too), meaning the first letter (e) in my forename is short and the second portion(ze) is long. The first letter (i) in my surname is short, the (hen) portion sounds identical to that of the female domestic fowl. The (hen) sound is followed by the(eh)sound, and the (tu) sounds identical to that of the (too). Put it all together and you get my name, Eze Ihenetu.
So now there is no excuse for anyone who reads this essay to garble the pronunciation of my name.
Growing up, the unintentional butchering of my given appellation did not bother me so much, as I preferred to think that people pronounced it incorrectly because it was a very unique name. Teachers — bless their hearts — were especially sensitive about getting the pronunciation wrong, for fear that they’d offend me with the error.
“Did I say your name right?” asked a teacher.
“It’s Eh-zee,” I said.
This teacher placed a hand on top of her chest and apologized: “Forgive me. Your name is so interesting. Where does it come from?
I sighed and said, “That’s okay. Most people get it wrong the first time. Oh, and it’s a Nigerian name.”
“Oh wow,” said the teacher. “That is so cool.”
When some of my classmates got to know me better during the school year, they offered nicknames to facilitate familiarity, comfort, and endearment. Rap and hip hop became the dominant culture that kids subscribed to in the late eighties and nineties, so young hip hop connoisseurs searched for ways to fuse my appellation with the culture. And since I was desperate for connection and friends, I went along with it.
“We should call him Easy-E,” said Deshaun, a fellow freshman at George Washington High school. “Like the rapper.” He raised his fist into the air. “We want Easy!”
Another kid smiled. “Yeah, that’s what we’re gonna call you! We’re going to call you Easy-E.”
“As in easy going, maybe?” I said. “Easy-E is a guy who likes to chill. I’m a laid back kind of dude.”
“Give me some Easy-E,” said Deshaun. I offered him my palm. Deshaun brought his hand down on top of mine. Whap. My palm was ablaze from the impact exacted by Devon’s considerable-sized hand. I felt the urge to shake my hand, let the currents brush against the areas of my palm that were burning. But I was loath to let Devon think I was a wimp, so I just put my hand underneath the desk and let out a grin.
I secured a spot on the varsity high school basketball during my junior year in high school. I shared the position of power forward with a kid named Jermaine, who I’d known since first grade. One evening, after a particularly strenuous practice session, Jermaine and I pulled out a bleacher for us to sit on.
“Good practice today E-Double,” said Jermaine.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes. “Thank you?”
“It’s all good, E.”
E-Double?”, I said, flummoxed. “What are you saying?”
“That’s you,” replied Jermaine. E-Double. Your name is spelled E-z-e, right? That’s two E’s, so E-Double.”
I emitted an awkward giggle. “Ah, I get it now. So we use my name to practice math and I get another nickname. So I’m Easy-E and E-Double now.”
Jermaine pressed a hand against my shoulder, causing me to tip over. “You’re E-Double from now on,” he said.
I responded with a push against his shoulder and said, “Okay fine.”
***
Thirty years later, I’d just rather people pronounce my name the right way.
***
Recently, I sat in on a Zoom call with some colleagues. When we reached the point at which we were allowed to put forth questions, I announced my presence on the line: “Hello, it Eze,” I said.
“Oh, hi Izzy,” said Mandy, the director of the laboratory.
My jaw flexed as I ground my teeth together. Really? She has known of me for six years and she still can’t get my first name right? It’s only two fracking syllables. I even took the time to announce the correct pronunciation before I asked my question. But Mandy, after too many years of becoming accustomed to the wrong pronunciation, completely ignored me.
Seconds later I sighed as realization became a cudgel, pounding me on top of my head. Mandy’s butchering of my first name was partly my fault too. I should have taken the opportunity to correct her years before that phone call took place. Knowing this, I dialed down my temperature. Mandy had internalized referring to me as Izzy, and if I were to correct her now, she might become anxious.
Izzy, I thought as I snorted. It is a nickname, representative of names with European — Hebrew, Greek, Spanish, Portuguese — origins. Izzy is short for Israel, Elizabeth, Isaac, Isabella and others. Perhaps this is another part of the reason why Mandy, who is white, continues to refer to me with a European sounding nickname.
I’m starting to hate her pronunciation though.
Because Eze is short for Ezebere(Eh-zee-beh-reh). I was named after my deceased father, whose given name is also Eze, short for Ezeala. Eze is not short for Israel, Isaac, or any other European moniker.
During my childhood I lived under the assumption that my Dad and I were one of a few people in the world with our name. But after performing research on the etiology of my name, I came to understand that it is more common than I originally thought. All you need to do is initiate a blanket search for the names on google. You’ll find many mentions of my first and last name.
This is so exciting for me because after my dad died in 2013, I thought I was only one of a handful in the entire world, a representative of a rare species of people, this impression causing my nerves to spike-like porcupine quills. But upon further study of, and immersion into, Igbo culture, I’ve come to realize that I am one of many more.
“Do you know what your name means?” asked a cousin in California.
“I was told by my dad that it means warrior,” I said.
“Eze,” he said. “You are a king. That is what your name means.”
I thought he was joking, cutting me down with sarcasm. For I am an American man who lives at home with his mother. Actually, I should say that my mother — she is retired — lives with me. How can a man who lives with his mother be regarded as a king? I thought. However, I searched for the meaning of my first name on google and there it was: Eze is an Igbo — language of southeastern Nigerians — name for King.
There is a show on Netflix that I’ve become addicted to. It’s called The Last Kingdom, and it is based on a set of books set in medieval England. The show chronicles the life of Uhtred Ragnarson, a blood-thirsty warrior who becomes famous for his exploits during war. Uhtred fights at the behest of King Alfred of Wessex(Anglo Saxon Kingdom in southern Great Briton)for a significant portion of his life. When Alfred dies he is succeeded by his son, Edward of Wessex. Edward enlists Uhtred to help him fight the Danes, fearsome Vikings who lived in northern and eastern England. Though he is a king, Edward continues to live in the sample palace as his mother.
In fact, I’ve read many books and watched many television shows/movies that discuss kings who live in the same domicile as their mothers. So, the meaning of my name should be ascertained as appropriate by objective observers. I deserve respect.
There are hundreds of people living with the Ihenetu surname, with the majority of them living in Nigeria. Still, many have established roots in the United States of America too, and in states like Massachusetts, Texas, New Jersey, and Maryland. People with Ihenetu as a surname occupy a variety of occupations, are involved in community events, and we procreate. As the years pass, we will grow in number and influence, becoming more common citizens of the world than we already are. We are not outliers.
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