Yesterday there was an article in the NY Times about child labor in Zambia. You can read it here and from there you can click on a narrated slide show about a boy named Alone. The photographs are excellent.
I loved the names in Zambia. It is an Anglophone country, meaning the official language is English but dozens of tribal languages are spoken and most people speak at least two. I worked with a woman named Tebby who had a son called King. Other co-workers were named Boniface, John, Moses, Steven, Friday and Chabala. A hotel clerk in Zimbabwe wore his name badge on his chest; it read Telephone. Motomoke was a consultant. Timbu cleaned the office.
I went to a dinner party at the home of some American Embassy types. The name of the man who served the food was Tuesday. A woman asked the hostess "Tuesday is fabulous! Where did you get him? Can I have him when you move?" I left right after dessert.
I don't know very much about what happened with the people I knew in Zambia. I get an occasional e-mail. I know Hellen, a village girl who married a Peace Corps Volunteer, now lives with him and their three beautiful children in Massachusetts. I heard Moses and John both died of AIDS. Moto returned to Zaire. Boniface got fired for stealing $10. Chabala's daughter, Mofya, is a medical student in Pennsylvania.

Several years later, we had a son and we named him Raymond for two grandfathers, for my sister, Alicia Rae and my brother, Carlos Ray. But Ray and I like the Spanish translation, Reymundo, which to us means king of the world. I suspect Tebby was thinking the same thing about her son when she named him King.
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