I’m listening to “i” by Kendrick Lamar for the first time, on his third studio album To Pimp a Butterfly. And the difference between “i” on the album, and its single, is that the album version is a live recording of Lamar performing the song, during which he stops in the middle to educate the audience on the status of black people in 2015 as a people under attack. I’m concentrated on his speech about the country, his culture—my culture, our culture—when he spits:
Well, this is my explanation straight from Ethiopia
N-E-G-U-S definition: royalty; king, royalty—wait, listen
N-E-G-U-S description: black emperor, king, ruler, now let me finish
I pause the song. That’s my name. I rewind it, wondering why no one told me that Kendrick Lamar was rapping about my name, wondering if anyone got excited to hear the roots of my name being explained as a motive to overcome oppression and reclaim a word and a world that refuses to let us be.
Of course, no one did. Because no one knows that’s the root of my name, because how do you get Queen (Nigiste Negestatt) from King (Negusa Nagast), how does man become woman without the loss of a rib and a sacrifice of power? But Lamar has revealed a black inheritance in an era when young black women had started calling each other “Queen” and black men “Kings,” and black hair was once again being celebrated in its natural state. The word “Negus” began appearing next to people’s names on Twitter and in their Instagram bios with crown and brown fist emojis. Kendrick Lamar inspired that, a kid from Compton—that’s power.
To Lamar, “Negus” is a homophone for “niggas.” Breaking it down phonetically as /nigūs/ or “nih-gus,” and he raps: The homies don’t recognize we been using it wrong, proclaiming a second reclamation of the word “nigger.” A consistent progression from “nigger” to “nigga” to “Negus,” so we can rightfully assume a throne crafted by ancestral black hands, by African hands. I applaud Lamar for his producing a cultural self-love anthem with “i,” for To Pimp a Butterfly existing as a black empowerment album, but I do have my reservations. Like what about the time a white boy and his friend giggled before confessing to me that my name sounded like “nigger” and that was how they remembered how to pronounce it wrong, getting the first syllable and the hard g right, but the second and third syllables wrong. What to do about the time that someone associated my name with a slur, my royal name, with its century-old Ethiopian roots? And I don’t mean like Becky. Because Becky is easy to pronounce and conjures up an image of a smiling white face, because no one laughs, stutters, or pauses before calling Becky’s name during roll call.
My name, so rooted in blackness that people are always disappointed to find out that I am not from Ethiopia or anywhere in Africa, but simply a black girl from Ohio, whose parents were born in the United States. A black girl who can’t trace back her roots because of a surname.
Which name is the white surname adopted from the slave owner, the name that migrated its way through generations? Which name belonged to him? Which name was modified to taste like freedom? Is it Gaines from my father or Dameron from my mother? It could be neither. My name is neither. I want to know where I am from, to understand my roots, to map my way across the diaspora, to know the name carved onto the side of the boat that carried my ancestors, shackled and crowded like livestock, across the Atlantic.
I’m lost, missing. They ask me where I’m from and roll their eyes. They ask me where my parents are from, which parent is Ethiopian. They ask me where my name comes from—not meaning its origin or etymology, but how did I, a black girl, get an African name if I am not African?
In a patriarchy, you get your name from your father. The United States is built on patriarchy and grafted of European traditions. In the United States, names are important. Names are how one cements a place for oneself. Names are recognition, status.
How do you destroy a person’s humanity? Strip him of his name.
How do you reclaim your humanity? Choose or create a name.
How do you own another person? Give her your name.
The barista at the local Starbucks calls me “Roxy,” because I offered my middle name as the name to put on the cup. Sometimes people burst into renditions of songs that have the name “Roxanne” in them. At the club, men hitting on my friends will nod at my name and politely smile. I don’t enjoy telling random strangers my name, slowly repeating its proper pronunciation as they lean in closer, their ears near my mouth. They will repeat it incorrectly, and I shrug. Chances are, I will never see this human again in my life. Sometimes, they will ask me to repeat my name over and over until they finally get it. If they repeat it correctly, I am taken aback, shocked that they didn’t say it wrong.
When I went to college, my sister asked me if I would tell people how to say my name correctly.
For years, I’d pronounced my own name wrong because it was easier, it fit into other people’s mouths better.
My mom wants me to embody my name. “I gave you a strong name,” she says.
There was only one woman crowned in Ethiopia’s monarchy: Zewditu. In 1917, Zewditu became the first and only empress of Ethiopia. They created her title from the king’s, and she was the “Queen of Kings.” She was never actually allowed to rule on her own during her thirteen-year reign, instead forced to have her male cousin (and later, her successor) around to exercise her power. Zewditu wanted to preserve the Ethiopia that was, rather than work to build the modern Ethiopia that could be. She folded into her values and religion, allowing her cousin to be in charge of the political decisions. The church loved their queen, and the queen loved her god, all the way to the end—
Does the name make the person strong or vice versa?
I am not the queen of anyone. I rule only over my own domain. I do not own a crown or have many expensive things. But I believe I am stronger than many expect me to be, and I know my mother is proud. So, when you pronounce my name, imagine that all the Es are Is. The G is hard. You’ve almost got it. Perfect.
Negesti Kaudo is an essayist, educator and pop culture enthusiast from Columbus, Ohio. She is the youngest recipient of the Ohioana Library Association's Walter Rumsey Marvin Grant (2015) and earned her MFA in Creative Writing-Nonfiction at Columbia College Chicago. She is an alumna of the Ragdale Residency (2019) and Winter Tangerine Workshop (2018 & 2019). Her work is forthcoming or published in Fourth Genre, Storm Cellar, Seneca Review, Best American Experimental 2020, Wear Your Voice Magazine, NewCity, Nailed Magazine, Mosaic Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. She writes e-tail copy and teaches writing at Columbus College of Art & Design.
Photo by kassy.miller on Foter.com / CC BY