‘Uh-bee-nuh.’ It’s a Ghanaian name meaning “girl born on Tuesday.” Every Akan, a member of Ghana’s most popular ethnic group, who is born on a Tuesday is called Abena if female, or Kwabena if male. I’m named after my grandmother, so my full first name is actually Maame-Abena, which means “mother.” Wait, who’s asking?
If you have an American accent, yeah, ‘uh-bee-nuh’ is fine. You don’t have an American accent? Ok, so then how would you pronounce it? That’s fine too.
Ah, you have an African accent. Okay, then I’ll give you the real pronunciation: ‘ah-bih-nah.’ However, my Cameroonian-American friends in Maryland pronounce my name ‘ah-beh-nuh.’ I’m not entirely sure how that pronunciation came to be—they met me at a time in my life when my name was ‘uh-bay-nuh.’ They’re the only people who say my name that way, so the pronunciation feels personal, almost like a nickname that only certain people are allowed to use.
But honestly, the answer to this question has changed over the years. From the ages of 1-6, I lived in Ghana with my maternal grandparents while my parents were in grad school. When I moved back to the U.S., with my Ghanaian accent, I was really adamant on my name being ‘ah-bay-nuh,’ for some reason. But after my first school closed down and I had to switch schools again, my new teacher didn’t really ask how to pronounce my name; she just said, “‘uh-bee-nuh,’ right?” and I never corrected her. I don’t remember why I stayed quiet. Maybe it was because I had moved from a Ghanaian school to an all-black school, and now to a predominantly white school, and I was too scared to speak up for myself in this foreign environment. Maybe it was because this happened while I was shadowing at the school, I was already late, and when I walked in, a room of twenty-something kids all turned to face me, so I felt put on the spot. Or maybe because the teacher didn’t ask in a rude way—her voice was as sweet as you’d expect from a 4th-grade teacher. Yet, she didn’t raise the pitch of her voice when saying “right?” like you normally do when asking a question; she stated it matter-of-factly, so maybe I felt out of place correcting her.
It didn’t become problematic until I actually started attending this school in fifth grade, and some friends from my old school joined the new one. Back then, my frequently asked question was “Wait, is it ‘uh-bee-nuh,’ or ‘ah-bay-nuh’?” I always managed to strategically evade this question—whether with a causal shrug coupled with an awkward smile, the occasional “it doesn’t really matter,” a swift subject change, being saved by the bell, or even keeping friend groups separate to avoid confusion. I even tried telling a few friends the authentic Ghanaian pronunciation, but their American accents, try as they might, could not do it justice, so that ended quickly. These tactics didn’t really work long-term, mostly because my school was too small to keep up with two separate pronunciations. By 8th grade, my friends from my new school outnumbered those from my old school, so ‘uh-bee-nuh’ eventually stuck.
Why do I gatekeep the real pronunciation of my name? I’m not ashamed of my culture or anything; it’s just that Americans cannot accurately pronounce my name. I don’t expect them to pronounce it correctly either—they don’t have a Ghanaian accent, so it’s not their fault if they can’t pronounce a Ghanaian name. That’s like someone getting visibly upset when I don’t pronounce ‘croissant’ or ‘tortilla’ in the authentic way, despite having no French or Spanish ties.
My experience is common among other first-generation Ghanian-Americans, and probably also among those with ethnic names. When I first met my cousin Kojo, I could see the wires in his brain short-circuiting as he decided which pronunciation to use. He paused, his eyebrows furrowed, and he squinted ever so slightly. We’re both ethnically Ghanian, we were literally in Ghana, yet we spoke like Americans, so, he went with the American version. When I was a freshman in high school, there was a senior named Akousa. From the start, there was this unspoken understanding between us on which pronunciation to use. She also went with the American one.
For me, this form of code-switching isn’t all that serious. I wish I could say the proper pronunciation of my name is deeply rooted in my identity, and that it’s important for others to get it right, but I genuinely don’t care. I actually find it more cringey when those without an African accent desperately try to pronounce my name as ‘ah-bih-nah,’ because it sounds weird coming from them. I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but I find that going by ‘uh-bee-nuh’ is a lot easier for everyone, myself included. Changing the pronunciation of my name isn’t something I find emotionally daunting, just something that I unconsciously feel the need to do.
A few weeks ago, I was walking back from a Business Expo with my friend, and we ran into KK, a girl whom my friend happened to know. I introduced myself with the American version, and she immediately burst out into laughter. Her entire disposition, even her accent, changed, and suddenly, it was like we were old friends catching up: “Ay! ‘uh-bee-nuh’? My friend, ‘ah-bih-nah’” (imagine that but in a Ghanian accent). In that moment, it felt nice not to have to perform and to have someone genuinely relate to me. I had just met her, but her tone of voice reminded me of my grandmother, and it made me feel at home. This interaction hasn’t changed the pronunciation I go by—I still introduce myself as ‘uh-bee-nuh’ to strangers—but it has made that once-unconscious code-switch something I’m now aware of. It reminded me that my name means more than just “girl born on Tuesday;” it connects me back to my roots and to those of my culture, who know the true pronunciation.