Say no to a go for broke name


I’m paranoid. And no it’s not because I ran a huge bill at Tomboville. Yes I know how one can be scared of even your own dog the morning after a binge at the Single Quarters. 

But I haven’t been there ever since my cousin snitched on me. Won’t lie, I was tempted to drop by, just to checkout my folks, until I woke up to the shocker – Amy Winehouse Is No More – the headline read. 

No more what? No more guzzling, so she sold out? No more going to rehab? That’s old news, she even wrote a song about that, so no more what? No more playing wifey to that abusive, nincompoop of a husband?

I pondered the headline for a few seconds but the truth was staring me straight in the face, in the exact same way that some scribe nailed it on the pages in flipping London were the sun doesn’t shine. Amy Winehouse is dead, stupid! 

She was found dead in her London home.  Bad things always happen in the dark. And now it’s a dark day in music and I’m wondering what’s going to happen next. Just the other day I returned from doing a remix of her song, You know I’m No Good, which was a soundtrack to the movie, Life as you Know It, and a week later the life story of my partner in crime has faded to black.

 I should have known because I received this newspaper from my bad news uncle, yes we all have those.  This is the fellows whose phone calls you don’t want to take while you’re at your favourite watering hole because the only time he calls you is when there’s a death in the family. Malume swung by with a newspaper and now I’m depressed.  

I don’t even know what sequence of events to take. Whether to pee on Rembrandt Richelieu’s grave and then break my friendship with Jack Daniels or vice versa before dragging Amy’s parents to the toilets for giving her a name like Winehouse. 

Honestly, this is tantamount to naming your child ‘Tombo,’ and expecting the kid to grow up as anything more than a boozer. Winery, Wine house, Wine barrel and 27 years later we are sitting with a death situation.

Okay, Okay maybe I’m becoming a bit melodramatic here because my name is Jeremiah and as it has become common knowledge – thanks to my cousin’s big mouth – I am not quite the saint. But seriously, there is a link between a person’s name and their character. 

Hip hop Musician Ol’Dirty Bastard did not come across as anything close to clean and I’m still trying to figure out what rapper 50 Cent did to spin his cents into millions. 

Yes, because the middle name of a good friend of mine, also a scribe who made more news than he wrote, is Sixpence and not surprisingly the two of us were always on the broke side of things. Sixpence? I say this is good enough a reason to sue one’s parents for bad karma. 

Not surprising, every second Zimbo brother who has made a serious killing out of spinning cockroach killers or hustling airtime was named Fortune or Richman by his parents. 

Here, at The Villager, Confidence is packing more confidence than he can carry around and many are still in awe about how Wonder does what he does. 

Knowledge Katti wouldn’t be using boerewors as a skipping rope if his name was anything close to stupid and there’s a reason why Lazarus’ surname is Jacobs. Biblically, Jacob was a wealthy blessed man.  Believe you me; I’m not seeing Laz relying on a name like Lazarus . . . we all know about the story of Lazarus and the rich man.  Bottom line is; big names make sense.  Superior names like Hifikepunye and Shafishuna. Not Sixpence damn it, and certainly not Winehouse, God rest her soul. 

Maybe, these are names given to you by those imperialist missionaries, who couldn’t pronounce African names like Shasimana and Tirivangani, but these folks have since returned to their motherlands and the remaining few are attending Oshiwambo classes at Polytechnic.  

So the next time you name your children keep in mind that their name defines their brand. And if you name them Brandy, Rocky or Randy you might as well cut down on the diapers and stock up on brandy and condoms.

Stop hating on me today, and let’s launch an onslaught on some of our go for broke names while we can.  

I am not ready to tell you what my cousin’s name is.


Jeremiah  is an award-winning Namibian journalist.