Names Are Not Labels—They Are Launch Codes

Dr. Leahcim Semaj

Psychologist | Author | Quantum Transformation Facilitator
The Semaj MindSpa — Where Mind, Spirit, and Science Meet

I Created a Name and Gave My Children “A Name”

This Substack is being posted on Kwanzaa Day 2. This is day on which we celebrate Kujichagulia (Self-Determination). We do this by defining, naming, creating for, and speaking for ourself to build personal and collective identity, encouraging people to use their authentic voices, honor their heritage, and shape their own destiny. It involves questions of “Who am I?” and “Am I all I ought to be. This is my personal demonstration of Kujichagulia combined with Sankofa.

In African cosmology, a name is not something you answer to – it is something you grow into. Sankofa, an Adinkra symbol from Ghana, literally means “go back and get it.” It depicts a bird looking backward with an egg in its mouth, reminding us to retrieve the wisdom of the past to guide our future. This symbol encapsulates the Afrocentric approach to naming: reaching back into our ancestral heritage to bestow names rich with meaning on the next generation. In African traditions, a name is not just a label but a vessel of significance – connecting the child to history, community, and hope for what they may become. Naming is thus a sacred act of empowerment and continuity.

The Power in a Name

In African consciousness, a name is not a convenience. It is not a label. It is not something you answer to casually.

In many African philosophies, names carry spiritual weight and generational memory. The Yoruba of Nigeria, for instance, hold that names are “meaningful and powerful” and can shape a child’s character and destinystudylib.net. A Yoruba proverb warns that “a name can make or mar a person,” so parents choose names with deliberate care, often in a special naming ceremony filled with prayer and symbolismstudylib.net. Similarly, in ancient Egyptian thought, one’s Ren (name) was so essential that to preserve a person’s name was to grant them immortalityegypt-museum.com. Names were inscribed on tombs and monuments so that the departed would be remembered and spoken of – a “powerful act” believed to sustain their presence in the worldegypt-museum.com. An African proverb echoes this timeless idea: “As long as you speak my name I shall live forever.”walkwithmeonourjourney.blogspot.com To name someone, therefore, is to invoke life, legacy, and spiritual continuity.

Colonial history also taught us the painful power of names. European domination often attempted to erase African identities by replacing indigenous names with foreign ones. In the South African poem “My Name” by Magoleng wa Selepe, the speaker laments how her beautiful African name was stripped away by a bureaucrat who found it “too meaningful” for his colonial convenience. “He gives me a name / Convenient enough to answer his whim… / I end up being Maria… / I … Nomgqibelo Ncamisile Mnqhibisa.”afrolegends.com These lines dramatize the loss of a “wonderful name of [her] great-great-grandmother”afrolegends.com and the indignity of being renamed, highlighting how reclaiming our true names is an act of resistance and self-respect. As Africans and descendants of Africa, we understand that to carry an authentic name is to carry one’s history proudly.

Reclaiming My Identity through Name

My own journey with naming began with self-naming. Born Michael Anthony James, I grew up bearing a name that was ordinary and colonial in origin. James was identification of the plantation owner that first enslaved my African ancestor once he arrived in the Americas. At 19, inspired by a spiritual awakening and Afrocentric consciousness, I decided to transform my name into one that reflected my true identity and purpose. In an act resonant with what scholar Molefi Kete Asante calls nommo – the generative power of the spoken word to create realityiel.org – I declared a new name for myself. I literally reversed “Michael James” to become Leahcim Semaj, and incorporated the Swahili word Tufani, meaning “storm.” (I was born during a deadly hurricane), In doing so, I named myself Leahcim Tufani Semaj, “the one who came with the storm to turn things around”linkedin.com. This was more than a cosmetic change; it was a personal mission statement. By saying “I AM the one who comes with the storm,” I spoke into existence a vision of myself as a force of changelinkedin.com. My name became my north star – a daily affirmation of the Garveyite philosophy of self-determination and a tribute to the hurricane on the day of my birth that heralded disruption. In Afrocentric thought, naming oneself is a powerful rite of passage. I claimed my name so it would carry my legacy, not the legacy of enslavers or colonizers. This act of renaming was a spiritual rebirth, aligning me with my African heritage and the meaning I chose to live by.

Having created a meaningful name for myself, I was determined to give my children meaningful names of their own. In African culture, to name a child is to cast a prayer into their future. As one Nigerian elder described, “A Name is an edifying emblem given to a child at birth by the parents, or brought from heaven by the child.”studylib.net In other words, a true name carries a spark of divine purpose. The mothers of my children and I approached naming our children with a blend of spirituality, intentionality, and Pan-African pride. Each name we chose reaches into a different corner of the African continent or diaspora, connecting our family line to the rich tapestry of African heritage. We wanted our children to grow up inside their names — to embody the strength and promise those names hold, just as a tree grows into the space provided by its pot.

A Legacy Written in Names

I have been blessed with five children, each bearing a name carefully chosen to ground them in our culture and inspire their path. Over the years, I have watched each of them grow into their name, fulfilling the legacy whispered by those words at their birth. Here I reflect on each of their names and the lives they have crafted:

Naming Was Never Casual

When my children arrived, I did not rush to name them. Each name emerged slowly—drawn from the events preceding their birth, the emotional and spiritual climate surrounding their arrival, and the particular qualities I sensed were being summoned forward through them.

I listened carefully to:

• What was happening in the world
• What was happening in my own development
• What challenges and questions life was placing before our family

Only then did a name begin to form. But choosing the name was not the final act.

The Naming Ceremonies

Each child was welcomed through an African Naming Ceremony. Not symbolic. Not decorative. Sacred.

There was music—drums, chants, ancestral rhythms. There were symbols—water, earth, light, cloth, color.
There were elders, family, friends, and community gathered as witnesses.

At the center of each ceremony, the name was spoken first to the child. Then offered to the ancestors.
Then presented to the elders. Then released to the community. We made a conscious decision: we did not want toys, money, or material gifts.

The only gifts we desired were blessings. Spoken blessings. Sung blessings. Prayed blessings. Because blessings shape a life longer than possessions ever could.

Njeri Neema Semaj – Njeri, my first child, was born during a season when questions of justice, language, and power were alive in my thinking. Her name reflects that moment. At her naming ceremony, the elders spoke of balance: strength without hardness, courage softened by compassion. She grew into exactly that.

Njeri is a Kikuyu name meaning “daughter of a warrior” or “traveler,” carrying connotations of strength and resiliencewisdomlib.org. Neema means “grace” in Swahili – a blessing, a favor. True to her name, Njeri has become a warrior for knowledge and justice, armed with grace. She is a Spanish teacher and curriculum developer dedicated to decolonizing education – redesigning how language and culture are taught so that students of all backgrounds feel empowered. As an immersion program director, Njeri leads with courage and compassion, exemplifying the warrior spirit tempered by benevolence that her name foretold. In her classroom and community, she lives the Kiswahili proverb “Elimu ni ujenzi” (education is building): constructing bridges beyond colonial barriers, guided by the legacy in her name. She did not stumble into her work. She was introduced to it.

Naita Akua Semaj – Naita arrived during a period of moral reckoning—when questions of law, responsibility, and consequence felt unavoidable.

Akua is an Akan name for a girl born on Wednesday, anchoring her in Ghanaian tradition. We paired it with Naita, a name whose very cadence felt strong and wise (and which we later learned has roots in East Africa). Naita Akua has indeed grown into a woman of wisdom and authority. She now serves as a Justice of the Supreme Court of New York, carrying the mantle of justice on her shoulders. In her courtroom, the legacy of her name echoes: Akua, born under the Akan god of war and truth, and Naita, evoking the promise of an African sunrise. As a Black woman judge in a major U.S. jurisdiction, she stands for fairness and integrity, bending the arc of the moral universe toward justice. Naita’s very presence in the halls of justice is spiritual – an answer to the prayers of ancestors who could only dream of such progress. Her name reminds her that she was born for a purpose, and she fulfills it with regal bearing and resolve. The courtroom did not create her authority. It simply recognized what had already been spoken.

Isis Nailah Semaj – Isis was born into a season of deep engagement with language, culture, and resistance. Her name was inevitable.

We named our third daughter Isis after the revered ancient Egyptian goddess – the deity of motherhood, magic, and creativity – and Nailah, meaning “one who succeeds” or “attainer”sheknows.com. Isis Nailah has blossomed into exactly that: a creative force of nature who channels words into magic. She is a writer, editor, educator, and cultural analyst, known affectionately as “the Riddim Writer.” By day she is a professor of Caribbean literature and popular culture at the University of the West Indies, Mona, and by night she pens decolonial feminist critiques that pulse with dub rhythm and clarity. Isis co-founded PREE: Caribbean Writing (an online literary magazine), runs a thought-provoking blog “write pon di riddim,” and even hosts a podcast called “For Posterity.” In all she does, she honors the spirit of her name: like the goddess Isis, she uses healing words and sound power to transform minds, and like Nailah, she strives until she attains her vision. Her research into Caribbean identities, gender construction, and Maroon resistance carries the torch of our African ancestors forward. Listening to her speak, you hear the nommo – the vibrant word-magic – in action. Isis Nailah’s name set the stage for her to be a successful creator, and she has truly lived up to that birthright. She did not find her voice. She was named into it.

Mandela Garai Semaj – Mandela, my first son, arrived when leadership, freedom, and responsibility were central questions in my own life.

My son came into the world on July 18, the same month and day one of Africa’s greatest freedom fighters, Nelson Mandela. We chose Mandela to honor that legacy of leadership, courage, and sacrifice. His middle name Garai is Shona (Zimbabwean) for “settled” or calm, tempering the revolutionary fire with wisdom. Today, Mandela Garai has forged his own path as an entrepreneur and business systems strategist, helping service-based companies scale up through remote teams, automation, and digital marketing. In a sense, he carries Mandela’s torch into the arena of economic empowerment – turning obstacles into opportunities for others. As founder of his own consulting enterprise, he exhibits quiet fortitude and vision. He often speaks of building systems that liberate business owners from drudgery, which to me echoes the spirit of liberation in his name. The balance of his names is reflected in his character: bold in ambition yet calm in execution. By carrying the name Mandela, he was challenged to think big and lead; with Garai, he was reminded to remain grounded. He embodies both, guiding others to freedom in the modern landscape of commerce. Liberation does not always roar. Sometimes it organizes.

Hasani Kamau Chinua Semaj – Hasani arrived during a season when land, sustainability, and rootedness had returned to the center of my consciousness.

Our youngest carries three names of African origin, a deliberate constellation of virtues. Hasani (Swahili via Arabic) means “handsome” or more broadly “good/noble.” Kamau is Kikuyu for “quiet warrior”ancestry.com, symbolizing stealth and resilient strength. Chinua is Igbo, commonly interpreted as “God’s own blessing” or “God fights on my behalf.” True to this powerful lineage, Hasani Kamau Chinua is a dynamic young man with an entrepreneurial spirit and a deep connection to the earth. He wears many hats: entrepreneur, event promoter, and farmer. In each role, the threads of his names shine through. As a promoter of community events, he brings people together with charm and positive energy – the Hasani in him radiating good will. As a farmer, tilling the soil with patience and care, he embodies the quiet warrior Kamau, fighting silently to cultivate life and sustenance from the land. And in his entrepreneurial ventures, every hurdle he overcomes feels like an affirmation that a higher power fights alongside him – the blessing of Chinua. He has taken on the challenge of multiple names and merged them into a singular purpose: to uplift himself and his community with hard work, creativity, and faith. Each time I see him tending crops or organizing a cultural event, I sense the presence of our ancestors in his midst, nodding in approval as he lives out the mosaic of his identity. Some warriors shout. Some grow.

Each of my children’s names spans a different part of the African world – from Kenya to Ghana, Egypt to Jamaica, South Africa to Nigeria – reflecting the Pan-African vision that grounds our family. Their names are living testaments to Afrocentric pride and spiritual intent. We did not choose names just because they sounded pretty; we chose names that mean something, that carry stories, that honor ancestors and heroes, that offer prayers and blessings. And in turn, these names have helped shape my children into the remarkable adults they are. As the Swahili saying goes, “Jina jema ni azizi kuliko mali” – a good name is more precious than riches. I look at my children and see that wealth manifest: their good names have become the cornerstone of their character.

What Naming Truly Does

Naming does not imprison a child. It introduces them to themselves. A consciously given name becomes:

• A compass in confusion
• A mirror in moments of doubt
• A reminder when the world tries to rename you

Colonization erased names. Conscious naming restores identity.

Reflections on Naming as Legacy

Looking back, the act of naming my children was an act of faith and a gifting of legacy. I often think of the proverb, “Children are the reward of life,” and I feel this deeply – my children have been my greatest reward. By giving them African names, I gave them identity anchors in a world that often tries to unmoor those of African descent. Their names were like sturdy roots planted in fertile soil, so that no matter how far they journey, they remain grounded in who they are. In turn, they have validated that choice a thousandfold. Each time Njeri stands before her students, each time Naita issues a righteous verdict, each time Isis publishes an illuminating piece, each time Mandela mentors a client, each time Hasani harvests a crop or hosts a festival – I witness the power of names in action.

On a spiritual level, I feel our ancestors smile when these names are spoken. Through these children, we have brought old souls forward, ensuring that African wisdom and strength continue to flow through the generations. Naming is legacy. It is a way of saying to those who came before us, “We remember you,” and to those who come after us, “Don’t forget who you are.” It is both an inheritance and a charge for the future. I created a name for myself to redefine my destiny, and I gave my children “a name” so they would always know the destiny that awaits them.

In the end, a name – if chosen with love and purpose – becomes a light on the path. My children walk forward bearing their names like torches, illuminating not only their own way but also inspiring others. And when I hear their names resound in the world – in classrooms and courtrooms, in articles and accolades, in villages and ventures – I am filled with humble gratitude. Their successes affirm that the African philosophies were right all along: Orúkọ loníró ni – “Names affect behavior”, and indeed destinystudylib.net.

May we all remember to speak the names of our loved ones with honor. In doing so, we give life to their spirit and longevity to their legacy. As long as my children’s names are spoken, the work I began in giving them those names continues, and our family’s story lives on. A good name never dies, and through my children, I have sown names that will echo through time – a legacy of identity, culture, and empowerment.

“For we are our names, as much as we are our dreams. In naming lies the seed of becoming.” – African wisdom

Sources:

• Yoruba beliefs on naming and proverb of name’s influencestudylib.net
• Ancient Egyptian concept of the name (Ren) and immortalityegypt-museum.com
• African proverb on the immortality of a namewalkwithmeonourjourney.blogspot.com
• Magoleng wa Selepe, “My Name” (poem excerpt)afrolegends.com
• Leahcim T. Semaj name origin and meaning (Tufani – “comes with the storm”)linkedin.com
• Afrocentric concept of nommo (power of the word)iel.org
• Meaning of the name Njeri (Kikuyu, “daughter of a warrior”)wisdomlib.org
• Meaning of the name Kamau (Kikuyu, “quiet warrior”)ancestry.com