Rogue women need to be tamed

A little slap goes a long way to tame a rogue woman.

I would never have thought how true this saying rings for many Kenyans, were it not for an incident last week.  You see, it’s been a while since I came across a gender violence story that shook me up as much as the one of the Nyeri man whose wife hacked his face and left a jigsaw of stitches that bore the evidence too well. So I have been under the impression that gender violence cases had gone down, though my assumption was not backed by any science.

As I write this, someone is probably being clobbered senseless in a spate of violence, whose aftermath may not reach the media unless it is too gory to be ignored. Numbers from the most recent demographic survey remind me that almost half (45%) of all Kenyan women aged 15-49years have experienced physical or sexual violence. Of those who were ever married in the five years before the survey, 47% experienced physical, emotional or sexual violence.  And three percent of women perpetrated violence against their husbands. (KDHS 2008/09)

These figures are too high for my liking, but I still entertain the romantic view that there is a type of man who would never lay his hand on a woman no matter what the circumstances. I imagined the Nairobi governor Dr Evans Kidero as one such man, but appearances do not necessarily make for accurate judgment; because last Friday, our dear governor Dr Kidero, allegedly slapped Nairobi Women Representative, Rachel Shebesh. Shebesh had stormed the governor’s office with a mob to demand for better pay for county workers. It all happened so fast and it is hard to decipher what really transpired, but there is a slap, the shocked cries of Shebesh wondering if she really has been slapped, and the arrogant answer of her assailant, "Yes, kwenda huko!"  Different sides have disputed what happened. Kidero does not recall slapping anybody and I guess we have all moved on from there.

 In the usual Kenyan fashion, there were a lot of jokes to be cracked about the whole scenario, which curiously looked like a scene from one of those Mexican soaps or Nigerian movies. Then there was the debate about whether Shebesh deserved to be slapped after all. One side argued that no matter the circumstances, the slap was not justified. The other side insisted that she brought it upon herself and that it was long overdue – this loud-mouthed and irritating rogue woman ought to have been slapped back to her senses a long time ago; heck, they would do the same if they were in Kidero's shoes. Someone added that he had never heard of anyone dying from a slap, so he couldn’t understand what the hullabaloo was about. Others wondered why there wasn't as much outrage when people like the former first lady allegedly slapped a government official. All in all there was a lot of justification for beating up a woman as illustrated in a storify I compiled titled: It's ok to beat up a woman if...

I found these attitudes, from both men and women who insisted that a 'rogue' woman like Shebesh should be tamed, very disturbing. More so because they were coming from the people I least expected to support violence of any kind – be it a little, harmless slap, or a heavy, senseless clobbering. Those who stood up for violence, were not necessarily the usual culprits I have in mind, every time I read a report on GBV in Kenya. Such reports usually cite culture as one of the reasons violence, especially against women, is still rampant, but I usually associate that with images of uncultured, hardcore traditionalists, who believe that women and children need to be beaten into place, lest they veer off the path of submission. They believe that beating up a woman is the normal African thing to do.

Now, in my mind there is a sharp contrast between them and an educated, urbane and well-exposed man – the latter would never lay a hand on a woman because he cares for good taste, has manners born of sound upbringing and education, or so I thought. After the Kidero-Shebesh incident, I have had to discard that notion because it seems the belief that there is a certain type of woman who deserves to be tamed with slaps and blows that put her firmly back in her place is very alive, deeply-rooted and widespread, even among men and women I wouldn't think would harbour such attitudes.

I do not condone violence against women or men, because I believe as civilised grownups, we should have figured out how to take charge of our emotions and deal with conflict in a mature way – there is no place for emotional outbursts and violence on the table of well-bred adults. And just like the Constitution in Article 28, I believe that every person should be treated with dignity and every person has the right not to be subjected to violence from either public or private (domestic) sources – Article 29(c)

Unfortunately, it seems we still have a long way to go before we get there.



 "Women's forced subordinate status (both economic and social) makes them vulnerable to violence and contributes to an environment that wrongly accepts, excuses and even expects violence against women" – NPCD policy brief 26, SGBV in Kenya: A Call for Action (June 2012)

What happened in Zanzibar?

Zanzibar at last: Part three

Catch up with Zanzibar at last: Part one here

And read part two: Foray into the Zanzibar night here

And then catch up with the final part about what exactly went down in Unguja, from the photos I managed to salvage from the trip, in the slideshow below. Enjoy! (Not visible on blogger for mobile)

This post is un-African

Source: Masterfile.com

 

While I was away someone invented the afronometer and put mostly men in charge of it. And there is one peculiar thing about the afronometer: when it comes to making progress towards treating women with dignity and allowing them to exercise rights that were previously denied, it is rarely ever on the women’s side.

I have met with the afronometer when someone is arguing about the un-'Africanness' of gay rights, which is another debate altogether. Most times the afronometer is thrust forcefully upon me during discourse about why some things about the way women are treated need to change. As soon as I open my mouth to make a case for progress, someone somewhere, usually a man, blurts out: But that is so un-African!

Source: Africanholocaust.com

So I was not surprised to read an article on the Marriage Bill where a lawyer from the East Africa Law Society, no less, was quoted as having said that lawyers needed to advise Members of Parliament against the Bill because it is, wait for it, un-African. Never mind that he did not explain what was so un-African about it, or perhaps the reporter was only too happy to have gotten the perfect quote out of him, that he did not bother to put him to task to explain what about the Bill fails to measure up to the African standard. Other leaders, among them Kakamega senator Bonny Khalwale called on parliament to africanise the Bill.

What is African? How African are the clothes that you wear, the products that you use, your education, your religion,  your gods and so forth? If you were to examine every little thing about your life and culture, how much African would your afronometer find in it, or is 'Africanness' the convenient card we pull out to stand in the way of change that our minds have refused to process? A lot has changed since the origin of the African man.

Source: Superstock.com

We have adopted some cultures and assimilated them into ours, discarded some and retained others, and by so doing we have shown that culture is not a static phenomenon. It is dynamic -- constantly changing with the times. We pick some, drop some and get on our way. That is why our views on marriage and the place of men and women in it are being reviewed to be in sync with the realities of this time. In any case, I would say that the Marriage Bill has recognised  what some men would call African culture fully, by officially embracing polygamy. But the clause that would have men’s boxers in a twist is probably the part where they have to get the consent of their first and other wives before bringing in new wives, and other such ‘un-African’ measures, whereas before they could do whatever they pleased without seeking anyone’s consent. The only men who should be running scared about the Marriage Bill are those whose treat women without decency, respect and dignity. Those who have been treating women with dignity, know that the Bill is just a physical reminder of what they have known to be right all along. 

And for those whose argument against the Bill is its 'Africanness' or lack of it: to say that something is un-African is a fallacy. If anyone has a problem with a law, a custom or anything else, he should state why that thing is a problem and argue out his case instead of hiding behind 'Africanness' only when it suits him.

Read a copy of the Marriage Bill, 2013 here, so that you can make an informed and objective contribution to the Legal and Justice Affairs parliamentary committee as it holds it's public hearings on the Bill around the country, this August: http://goo.gl/E6WKGZ

 

Isn't it about time we did away with diplomatic immunity?

Diplomatic impunity: Getting away with murder

I do not mingle with diplomats so I have no idea if they are as delightful to be around as a dictionary would have me believe. The Free Dictionary, for one, conjures up images of a diplomat as a person with an acute sensitivity to what is proper and appropriate in dealing with others; a person who has an aptitude for speaking and acting without offending others. Simply put, diplomats are supposed to be synonymous with tact and sensitivity, thoughtfulness and finesse. This is understandable bearing in mind that they operate in foreign countries, where they are supposed to be the official negotiators for their governments, as well as promoters of mutual trade, economic, political, social and other interests. Obviously, they need goodwill on their side to be able to accomplish their missions.

A diplomat who behaves so delectably would hardly ever need to invoke diplomatic immunity except in cases where he is genuinely being persecuted. However, my interactions with diplomats, usually when they are behaving badly on our roads, makes me think that the reason diplomats need immunity is to use it as a licence to misbehave freely without being subjected to cumbersome and obstructive laws. What I gather about diplomats, from observing their red-plated diplomatic cars on our roads, is that a diplomat is a person who has no regard for other people.  You will probably catch a glimpse of his white SUV, bulldozing it’s way to the front of the queue of vehicles restrained by the traffic lights or jam, whizzing past a traffic cop who dares not flag it down because it bears the red mark of legally-sanctioned impunity, and speeding off to God-knows-where, presumably to attend to urgent matters of international importance.

You’ve probably cursed and muttered expletives under your breath when a diplomat’s car almost ran you out of the road: Sure, you’ve got places to go too and you are running super late, but unlike the busy diplomat with so much to do and so little time, you have to wait your turn or the traffic cop will milk the last coin out of your impatience.  Moreover, unlike the busy diplomat, aren’t you just another idler with more time on your hands than you know what to do with? Then again, the diplomat gets his way and no one ever gets hurt, so it’s kinda ok. You’d probably do the same if you had powers like his. It’s all good. And then someone dies.

On July 11^th, a busy US diplomat with so much to do and so little time, so much so that he could not afford to wait in the endless and meaningless Nairobi traffic  jam sped on the wrong side of Ngecha road. It was nothing unusual; this is what diplomats do – they have right of way even if it means flouting traffic and any other ‘obstructive’ laws and endangering other people’s lives. And to my knowledge, nobody ever gets hurt, at least not until July 11^th. The recklessness of this particular diplomat led to an accident that claimed one life and left nine others nursing injuries after his car collided with the matatu they were traveling in.

The story first appeared on social media, on a mum's Facebook group, as a question from a concerned mother: seeing as the diplomat had impunity (aka diplomatic immunity) on his side to protect him from facing up to his actions in a legal suit, would the widow of the man who died in the accident be compensated?

A few days later, a local daily, The Star, picked up the story, reporting on the police’s frustration at not being able to charge the diplomat. He had recorded a statement, but the best they could do was to investigate and hand over a report to his embassy. A man was dead here, others had survived with varying degrees of injury; where I come from, this is murder, but on the other hand, this is a diplomat. He can kill and get away with it. It is called diplomatic impunity immunity.  A few days later, the international media picked up the story. This time, a bit of outrage seeped onto Twitter. What would happen to the culprit? Couldn’t the government have him repatriated to face up to his crime? What about justice? Can a diplomat get away with murder just because of immunity?

Mr Joshua Walde, the man who was exercising his god-given diplomatic impunity that claimed a life, was long gone. He could not be prosecuted under Kenyan law, and only God knows if the US government will take any action on him. If anything, according to the AP story, a US government official noted that "Embassy employees are typically evacuated for medical evaluations after traumatic events but are also flown out of the country to avoid any possible retribution or attack from others involved in the accident."

Maybe it is good riddance that Mr Walde, and his reckless driving ways, is off our soil, so we won’t have to worry about other fatal accidents from him in future, but what about the rest of the diplomatic corps who continue to drive recklessly on our roads?  But in line with our national motto: Accept and move on, we have accepted this behaviour as part of diplomatic impunity (immunity).  

I get the purpose of diplomatic immunity. Politics is dirty and without immunity, diplomats may be needlessly persecuted by host governments making it difficult to perform their duties, but surely this shouldn’t be a licence to flout the laws of the host countries with abandon. But it is; those who abuse diplomatic immunity have nothing to fear. The most a diplomat can expect to get for his lawlessness is a slap on the wrist, and even that is rare.

I don’t expect anything to happen to Mr Walde. He has moved on from his ‘honest’ mistake which was committed while he was attending to urgent matters of international importance, and so should we. In fact, the rest of us have probably moved on from our initial outrage. Shit happens, it is awful, but what much can we do? March to the US embassy? Demand for him to be brought back to face the law? The government can take it up, pursue the case through diplomatic channels and possibly have Mr Walde’s immunity revoked so that he can be charged. It happened in the US when the second in command at the Republic of Georgia’s embassy in the US hit and killed a 16-year-old girl in 1997.

He was driving while drunk when he crashed and hit the teenager, and initially nothing was done to him because he was a diplomat. He had immunity and could not be prosecuted, but that was before the story got to the media and attracted national outrage. The US government asked for a waiver of immunity from Georgia, it was granted and the man was tried and convicted of involuntary manslaughter and aggravated assault. 

So far Mr Walde has been lucky because I have not heard of any concrete plans by the Kenyan government to get him to face justice. And the most the US embassy has done is to offer an apology to the widow of the dead man, but an apology means nothing for justice. The police did say they would be asking the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to liaise with the American embassy for action, but whether anything concrete will be done remains to be seen. At the end of the day the only person who will have to live with this painful memory is the widow – a victim of injustice, shortchanged by the law of diplomatic impunity.

If the accident by Mr Walde had happened in his home country, America, he would not have been allowed to get away with reckless driving that results in death. Why should he be allowed to do that here or anywhere else, under the guise of diplomatic immunity? And Walde is not alone in using immunity to get out of legally sticky situations. The Shelter Afrique boss's case  after he allegedly assaulted the agency's financial director has not been resolved - he flashed the immunity card to bar authorities from prosecuting him last year. The Nigeria ambassador to Kenya also got off an alleged wife-battering conundrum after flashing the immunity card. And there are other cases to illustrate the abuse of diplomatic immunity, some of which are not reported in the media.

 Isn’t it about time we reviewed this impunity that hides behind the pretexts of diplomatic immunity? Immunity may have been based on good intentions, but if someone has obviously broken the law, they should face up to their actions, and not be allowed to abuse the immunity clause to get away with their crimes. In fact, there should be a clear clause in the Vienna Convention on diplomatic relations stating that any diplomat who commits an internationally recognised crime cannot get off on diplomatic immunity. It cannot be that people jeopardise the lives and rights of others and get away with it, legally, on our watch. Immunity must be reconciled with the requirements of justice.

Let diplomats live up to their name of thoughtfulness, tact and decorum while dealing with others or face the full force of the law. But this can only happen if the Vienna Convention is amended to allow for this, or if the home governments of criminals masquerading as diplomats refuse to stand in the way of justice, and allow the law to take its course.

 

 A bit on diplomatic immunity
Certain foreign government officials are not subject to the jurisdiction of local courts and other authorities. As such, they may not be arrested or detained, compelled to be witnesses in legal cases or prosecuted. They are also protected from search warrants.

The level of immunity may differ depending on the rank of the official:

• Diplomatic agents and members of their immediate families are immune from all criminal prosecutions and most civil law suits.
• Administrative and technical staff members of embassies, and consular officers  have a lower level of immunity. They are only immune for acts performed as part of their official duties.

Immunity may be waived by the home country and immunity does not exempt a diplomat from the jurisdiction of his home country. The host country can declare any member of foreign diplomatic staff persona non grata and the home country of the diplomat would have to recall the person or terminate his contract with the mission.

Source: Ediplomat.com http://goo.gl/G7mJoU

Diplomatic code of misconduct

If you think that it is only in Kenya (or Africa) where diplomats behave badly and get away with it, then you have probably not travelled widely enough. Top on the diplomatic code of misconduct are traffic offences, sexual offences, and refusing to pay rent or other fees and other crimes under the guise of diplomatic impunity.

Below are examples and commentary on diplomatic immunity reported in various media.

1. The untouchables: Is diplomatic immunity going too far? (Readers Digest) http://goo.gl/lWBDHB
2. Diplomatic immunity or diplomatic impunity? (The Standard) http://goo.gl/GWWKC8
3. The 6 most ridiculous abuses of diplomatic immunity (Cracked.com) http://goo.gl/m9uBt

Additional view from a legal perspective http://goo.gl/IfDcxO

 

Foray into the Zanzibar night

Zanzibar at last: Part 2

Read part one here

The best time to experience Zanzibar, at least during Ramadhan, is in the evening. The days may be dull, humid and dreary, but the island comes alive at night, more so at Forodhani. I discovered this three hours after setting foot on the island; by then I had parted ways with my German companions, found my host, Ahmed and cruised around the island in his car; met Muumin, a local tour guide who would be showing me around during my stay, gone to my room, freshened up and napped and was now ready to get a proper taste of the island.

 My initial impression on arrival was that, Unguja looked nothing close to what I had dreamt. I had always imagined that it looked somewhat like Lamu, with narrow sandy streets and buildings that took one back in time to the days of the sultans. What I saw instead were streets that could have been anywhere – the exotic feel I had expected was going to be a mirage, but I could live with that. What I did like about it was the hospitality and friendly brotherliness of everyone I met - it all made me feel at home. I also liked that my room had a balcony and window overlooking a neglected building – not much of a view, but the few palm trees towering over it and the houses surrounding it built in the traditional coastal design gave me a sense of being on an island.

  Muumin came to get me at 7pm after iftar (breaking the fast). We would be walking to Forodhani Gardens, the nightly centre of attraction, through the city centre and the labyrinth of narrow roads through Stone Town and into the food market at Forodhani. Earlier, that evening as we docked at the harbour, there had not been much activity going on at the gardens, but after sunset, the area came alive with a bustle of activity from food vendors, tourists and locals swarming the gardens to get a piece of the action. The warm orange light from the gas lanterns and sizzling sounds off the grills added to the lively atmosphere that interspersed beautifully with a breeze from the sea. Muumin and I shuffled around the stalls, he making small talk with the food vendors, while I sampled what I would have for dinner. I settled on a Zanzibar pizza, freshly-squeezed sugarcane juice and a bunch of deliciously red Shokishoki –an indigenous fruit from the lychee family, with a tasty white pulp, for dessert.

 I watched as the vendor rolled out the dough, put it on the grill and made the pocket-size pizza. Then I sat on the edge of the sea wall overlooking the waterfront and savoured my meal of choice. This sure had to be a people-watcher's paradise, I thought, as I took in the splishing and splashing of the young men and boys diving and swimming in the cool waters below. Muumin explained that in keeping with abstaining from worldly pleasures during the holy month of Ramadhan, people could only take a dip at night. He suggested that I also cool off in the sea and made as if to give me a mock push over the edge and into the waters below, as I squealed in frightened laughter. 

After dinner, and as we made our way through Stone Town again Muumin regaled me with tales of Zanzibar and why the young men were fed up and wanted independence from Tanganyika. He left me after making sure that I was safely inside my room, and tired I curled right into bed and drifted to sleep. Muumin would be back in the morning to take me sight-seeing around the main Island.

Part 3 coming soon.

 

Zanzibar at last: Part one

I hadn't planned to go to Zanzibar last year. I knew it was one of the places I wanted to check off my bucket list in the shortest time possible, but I had thought that would happen months later. However, life is spontaneous and when the idea sneaked into my mind I jumped on and sailed with it.

I went to Zanzibar, at the worst time - during Ramadhan. At that time everything is closed down in the predominantly Muslim island as most prefer to show their piety by keeping life as simple and as entertainment-free as they can. It is all about holiness and fasting.

I was in Dar all this time trying to pick out the best day to travel, and then suddenly my host's friend - a German volunteer worker in Tanzania - came for dinner with her family and they quipped that they were headed to Unguja (Zanzibar's main island) the next day. My host subtly tugged at my knee and whispered that I should tag along with them as it would be more fun than traveling alone, and I thought, why not? The Germans equally welcomed the idea and we agreed to meet at their hotel in the morning, and leave for the harbour together. My host had warned me against taking any other ferry save for MV Kilimanjaro, as it was the most modern, and with fresh memory of a ferry that had capsized just a few weeks before, I was wary to heed her advice to the letter to avoid a similar fate. However, that was easier said than done because as soon as we got to the harbour, we were ambushed by touts, who tugged at our luggage at every side and yelled that they would help us buy ferry tickets. Since Niki - the volunteer, had been to Zanzibar before and was technically a Dar resident, she told me she could handle it and went ahead to talk to a man whom she claimed to have consulted during her previous trips. The man insisted that his was the last ferry to Zanzibar that day and booked VIP tickets for us at a cost of Tsh27000. We made our way to the waiting area, with a view of the ocean and I was shocked to see an MV Kilimanjaro docked at the harbour; I realised we had been duped.

Our waiting area was a basic, unlit and overcrowded, warehouse with concrete benches and non-nondescript walls; on the opposite side the Kilimanjaro waiting area was well lit, with painted walls, nice lounge seats and uniformed attendants. I cursed under my breath, knowing that I had paid much more to travel in a ram-shackled ferry that could come apart and sink with my dreams of Zanzibar any minute. I swallowed hard as I boarded the creaky and rusted ferry and though we had paid for VIP seats, there was no such thing. We went atop the ferry and were welcomed by hawkers selling all sorts of wares. I bought cashew nuts and bottled water. There was no sinking back into the wooden benches so I plopped my bag and butt on the wood, before shuffling to the edge of the vessel to stare into the sea.  For the next three hours I drifted between drowsiness, staring, chit-chat with my German companions and a conversation with a prying stranger; but before I could complain of boredom, we docked at the island.

It was four O'clock and the last ferries back to Dar were just about to depart. I took a pic of my German friends against the background of the ferry and bid them goodbye as they headed to their hotel in the Old Town; and I called my host and waited for him to pick me up just outside the harbour. Despite all my earlier disappointments, I was happy to be at Zanzibar at last.

Zanzibar at last:Part two

The struggle to find a fitting name

                               f -e-l-e-p-i-p-h-a-n-y

I would never marry a man who couldn't get my name right. Instead, I'd dump him in the box of people who contort straightforward names and insist on adding letters to a name that is already complete. Mine is one of those clear-cut names, but like any other, it is often subjected to unnecessary distortion.

I once wanted to change my name. Not to anything simpler, but to something that would get me into heaven.

I must have been about six years old or so, and I had just read one of those doomsday booklets. From the message in that pamphlet, one thing stuck and terrorised my naive brain no end: those whose names were not in the Book of Life were thrown into the flaming fire, and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I already knew that fire was not something you wanted to be immersed in for eternity; and I thought my mum had deliberately set me on the path to hell by choosing to give me a name that was not in the Book of Life (which I assumed was the Bible). Why did my siblings and everyone else in the family, except me, have a name that was in the Book of Life? I had to do something fast before Jesus came back, as then it would be too late to get my name in and I would be thrown into never-ending fiery torment, complete with an ever-present horned devil turning up the coals with his fire fork to keep the heat at its peak.

The knowledge that Jesus was "coming soon", made me even more desperate. However, I couldn't ask my mother for a new name, nor could I change my name behind her back, because as anyone who grew up during my time as a child can attest, an African mother's decision was final and the thought of questioning it was enough to make the contents of my ready-to-leak bladder stream down my trembling legs into an unwelcome puddle.I just had to wait it out, and hope that Jesus delayed the Second Coming, until after I had succeeded in getting myself a name like Mary. Thankfully, age intervened and I discovered that the Bible was not the book in which my name had to be for me to be let through the Pearly Gates.

Nevertheless, even after I figured out that the Book of Life was something other than the Holy Bible, I still flirted with the idea that I could have had a better-sounding, sexier, more glamorous name. But with billions of possible forenames to choose from, I suffered from the paralysis of unlimited choice and I let it go. I have since come to terms with my name and even began to love it.

Going back to my roots

I am a woman of many names - originally named after my aunt and my great aunt before her. Traditionally (among the Kikuyu), children are named after their ancestors according to a laid-down naming system, with little or no alteration. Most of those who had been on earth before me and my peers, and whom we were named after, had unexciting forenames like Loise, Esther, Mary, Naomi, Priscilla, Anne ... but by the time I popped out, my mother's generation was already experimenting with more exotic names like Yvonne (this sounds very plain now), so I did not take my great aunt's full name as was the norm, but it was still mine to have and the really old folks refer to me by her first name, Loise. It was the name on my birth notification, before my mother was hit by a wave of inspiration and found a better name - the name I struggled to love and accept for a better part of my life. I have always loved my middle name, though; I'm convinced that no other name would make a sweeter-sounding replacement. My love for my middle name had my heart racing when I toyed with the idea of dropping my English name so that I could be true to my roots and be fully "African".

I also went through a phase of matching up the names of the guys I was interested in or dating, with mine, to see if they rhymed or went well together when put together. I also checked if the men's names would sound awesome when appended to the names I had in mind for my future children. Then in defiance of tradition, I decided that I did not have to adopt the name of the man I married. If he was too fussy, I would hyphenate it to include his while maintaining my original name in a double barrel that almost worked for everyone. This is also the time when I questioned why men couldn't take their wives' name instead.

I have flirted with changing my name on many occasions, but I didn't and now I'm kinda stuck with it, unless something really drastic happens and I have to change my entire identity. What surprises me is that almost every American celebrity you read or hear about has had their name changed at least once. This is especially true for those in the arts. Most times it is usually because their given names could supposedly not work in the world of the arts where image matters. They needed a more salable name.

I would not trade my name for anything now. I have become accustomed to it, and even like the sound of it, and if a man can't get my simply simple name right, I would probably marry him, but only if there was something funny about the way he couldn't get it right.

One last thing:

Before I was baptised at around age five, I took baptism classes as was the tradition before the all-important Anglican (Christian) ritual could be performed. On the eve of the ceremony, at the rehearsal, a lay leader took us, the baptism candidates, through D-day's programme and demonstrated what would be expected of us. We did some role-playing just to get it right: the lay leader acted as the priest while we responded to his prompts in our capacities as baptism candidates. And so it went:
  
Lay leader:  Mũtungatĩri akoria, "wĩtagwo atĩa?" Nawe ũgacokia [na rĩtwa rĩaku]: "Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri." 
(The priest will ask your name and you will answer e.g. My name is Josephat Karuri, and the minister will proceed to baptise you with that name that you have proclaimed.)

Having listened carefully, I was picked to go first.

Lay leader: Wĩtagwo atĩa? (What is your name?)

Me: Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri?
(My name is Josephat Karuri! [said with enthusiasm to an audience which immediately burst into roaring laughter]

Thankfully, I got my name right during the actual baptism, otherwise Josephat Karũri would be part of my already long name.