What’s in a Name

Stories behind the names of certain places in West Nile

Dear Reader,

There are certain things that one does on a daily basis that cause no stir in them; mundane things like tying shoe laces, or saying the name of a place when giving directions. One time, as I went about my day mindlessly in Arua, I stumbled upon new information about an ordinary trading centre. It wasn’t a ‘Wow! Fascinating!’ type of discovery, more like a ‘Hmm’. But it made me wonder about the names of other places in Arua. Did they have any stories linked to them? Do you ever wonder? Well, I found some. And I have shared them here.

Luluwiri.

If you google the place Luluwiri, the information that comes up is of a recent tragedy that happened there. 12 people perished because of drinking cheap liquor in that place, a tiny trading centre in Pajulu sub-county, Arua district. The article I read does not describe the people that perished kindly. It states the name and for occupation, I suppose, it states ‘peasant’, then goes on to list age and some other information the author thought was relevant. When you pass by the place, it is an ordinary trading centre — dukas of the Indian style lining up along the road, quietly. The name loosely translates to ‘place of weeping’ or as my dramatic Lugbara askari would put it, “they will beat you and you will cry.” It was a place where Belgians from across the border in DRC had their slave market. I am told that place used to be very violent. ‘People were always dying there.’

There’s another place called Ombaderuko. Omba means fighting. The full name translates to ‘fighting hasn’t yet ended’. I am not familiar with this place, but I can imagine what kind of stories it has.

Arua.

Aru’a. Aru means prison. So, aru’a means ‘on the way to the prison’. It turns out there was a prison for the colonial government on Arua Hill. Currently, there is a large water tank there, a reservoir for the neighbouring areas. To describe where you were going you would say, ‘Ma mu aru’a’: I’m going in the general direction of the prison.

Odia.

Unfortunately, we are still on the theme of places with a gruelling history:

There was a murder in this place. A Belgian. Probably from across the border. Back then there were no concrete laws defining how people should conduct themselves: it was just common courtesy or communal customs that people would adhere to. Foreigners- and people with twitchy eyes and suspicious looks- generally ended up dead. On this particular incident, the foreigner, our Belgian protagonist for this bit, as he was being killed kept saying, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’. The people did not understand him and thought it was his name. The place ended up becoming called Odia nyadri for ‘Odia’s grave’ though it has since been shortened to Odia.

Leju.

The area that is Leju now used to be thickly forested with very thick trees that leopards would climb. The people that settled on Mt. Wati (a range of hills in Terego district, former Arua) an area near Leju, had challenges because of these animals. So, they would approach the trees, with the leopard lying on the branches at the tops saying, “This one requires a spear” [to get rid of], hence the name Leju from ‘Le aju’. Le means ‘requires/needs’, aju means ‘spear.’

Metu.

The Acholis were constantly attacking the Madis. Madis, in turn, would get help from the Aringas, their neighbours to the West. As a defence strategy, I suppose, the Aringas would tell the Madi, ‘Me tu’ which means, ‘you squat’. (In Lugbara ti, it is ‘Mi a tu’).

Laropi.

This is at the ferry crossing. The place got its name from the constant conflict between the Acholi and the Madi. The Acholis used to batter the Madis badly so, the Madi started poisoning the tips of their arrows. But, if you rushed and threw yourself in the water, it was believed it would dilute the poison making it completely ineffective. When they were hit, they Acholis would say, ‘Laro pi’, laro means ‘hurry’, pi means ‘water’, so once one got shot, one needed to ‘hurry to the water’.

Adjumani.

Still on the theme of wars between our people:

When the Aringa were asked to go and reinforce the Madi against the Acholi, the Acholi commander was speared — this was a ruthless fighter who the Madi had failed to kill for so long, but when the Aringas joined, they killed him, so, the Madi were asking, “Who has killed this man who we have failed to kill over a long period of time?” To which the Aringa commander replied, “Aju mani” Aju means ‘spear’, mani means ‘mine’ — “That spear [on that dead body] is mine.”

Like a boss.

Maracha

When the colonial administration was enforcing tax and getting rid of idlers, they would reach there and find people weaving their granaries. When asked, “What are you doing here?”, the man would answer “ma ma era cha”. Era is ‘granary’ so ma ma era cha is ‘I am weaving my granary’. The muzungu ended up concluding, ‘Those ones are always maeracha people’, and that’s how we ended up with the name Maracha.

And finally,

Terego.

This comes from the Acholi word ‘Tergot’. It means ‘mountain’. The ancestor of Terego ‘Banaale migrated from Kitgum side where he was living in the mountains. He crossed and came to live in Mt Wati, the range of hills. When people were trying to understand who it was that had settled there, they would say, “It’s the man from the mountain.” Tergot. (Probably how he got his wife, Ofunaru. I shall tell this story at the end of the piece). There is no Lugbara word that ends in a consonant. So, tergot became tergo, and is now Terego.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”

I don’t know, William. Maybe not?

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On the Lugbara’s great great great grandparents:

Legend has it that the first grand father was a man named ‘Banaale. He was an Acholi man, from the mountains in Kitgum side. When everyone would go to dig in the fields, this man would always find an excuse. Today he was sick, tomorrow there was some issue, and he just had to stay behind! One time, he stayed behind and a boy was sent to check on him. When after some hours, the boy didn’t return someone, an uncle, went to check on them. Come to think of it, children were missing lately… On reaching ‘Banaale’s house, the uncle found him seriously chewing a human limb. An alarm was made and ‘Banaale was banished. That’s how he got his name: ‘Ba naale — child eater.

He moved to Mt Wati (the hills), in Terego district with just his cow. One day, he was cooking his food and a lady appeared. When he asked how she found him, she said she saw the smoke and followed it. Her name was Ofunaru (one who has leprosy). They settled down, two outcasts and a cow and began their family: a people who would later be called the Lugbara.

Isn’t that romantic?

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Credit: Thank you to everyone that contributed with their stories; several avid conversationalists from Terego and Madi, my beloved Simon Anguma, professor of physics and astronomy and the contributors that sent in their stories from the internet.