As Mazwi perused over my license and passport, he enthusiastically asked me to show me where my name was. I pointed and his finger pinned mine in his haste, worried he might loose the place. “Rah-chul…” He paused, confused by my middle name. “Lisabeth,” I prompted. “Oh!” his brown eyes lit up in recognition, “Lisabeth. Swe…Swe…Swenson!!” His childhood triumph skittered across his face only momentarily before it was replaced with another look of confusion. “But where is Nomusa? Nomusa is your name too. Where is it?”
How does one explain to a five year old that the name he knows me by wasn’t my name until I came here?