On the first day of school, my teacher, Miss Mdingane, gave each

“On the first day of school, my teacher, Miss Mdingane, gave each of us an English name and said that from thenceforth that was the name we would answer to in school. This was the custom among Africans in those days and was undoubtedly due to the British bias of our education.” — Nelson Mandela

In these tender yet piercing words, Nelson Mandela, the liberator of South Africa and voice of a continent, recalls a moment that seems small in memory but vast in meaning. He speaks of the day when a young African child, full of wonder and innocence, was made to surrender his given name — the name that carried the rhythm of his people, the echo of his ancestors, the identity of his tribe — and receive instead an English name, foreign in sound and spirit. What began as a simple act of “education” was in truth the first lesson of colonial subjugation: the erasure of self to make room for the image of another. In this moment, a child was taught not just reading and writing, but obedience — obedience to a world that declared that to be “civilized,” one must first forget who they truly are.

The origin of this quote lies in Mandela’s autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, where he reflects on his youth and the cultural environment shaped by British colonial rule. At his village school in the Transkei, young Mandela, known then by his Xhosa name Rolihlahla, was renamed “Nelson” by his teacher. It was a common practice at the time — every African student was given an English name deemed more “suitable” for formal education, a subtle but powerful gesture of domination. Mandela’s teacher, Miss Mdingane, did not act out of cruelty; she acted within a system that had already accepted European culture as the standard of progress. In her classroom, as in so many across Africa, the colonial mind was being formed — not through violence, but through the quiet conditioning of the spirit.

The ancients, too, knew that names are sacred. To name a thing is to know it; to rename it is to claim power over it. In the Bible, when Pharaoh enslaved the Hebrews, he stripped them of their dignity but could not destroy their identity. In Babylon, when the Jewish youths were taken captive, they too were given new names — Daniel became Belteshazzar, Hananiah became Shadrach — yet they refused to forget who they were. Mandela’s story stands in that same tradition: the struggle of the oppressed to hold onto their identity in the face of a world that demands surrender. A name, after all, is not just a word; it is a mirror of belonging, a thread that ties the soul to its people.

Consider the story of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, the Kenyan writer who, like Mandela, was educated under British colonial rule. He was once known as “James Ngugi,” but later rejected his English name, reclaiming his African identity as an act of resistance. He wrote his novels in his native Gikuyu language, defying the expectation that true literature must be written in English. In doing so, he echoed Mandela’s wisdom: that colonial education was never merely about learning — it was about reshaping the African mind, replacing pride with imitation, wisdom with mimicry, heritage with dependency. To reclaim one’s name, one’s voice, one’s story — this became an act of rebellion as powerful as any revolution.

Mandela’s reflection is therefore not a complaint, but a revelation — an unveiling of how colonialism begins in the classroom, long before it takes hold of land or law. It begins when a child learns to answer to a name not his own, to speak a language that denies his mother tongue, to memorize the histories of others while forgetting his own. Such education, as Mandela points out, was steeped in a British bias — a belief that civilization itself was the gift of empire, and that Africa’s own civilizations were relics of darkness. This was not education in the truest sense, for true education liberates the mind, while false education enslaves it.

And yet, Mandela’s words carry not bitterness, but wisdom born of reconciliation. For even as he recalls this moment of loss, he recognizes it as part of his journey toward freedom. He understood that to heal, one must see clearly — that to rise as a people, Africans must reclaim not only their land, but their identity. He himself bore both names — Nelson, the name given by the empire, and Rolihlahla, the name given by his ancestors — and through his life’s work, he reconciled them. In his triumph, both names became one: the child of Africa who spoke the language of the world, yet never forgot his roots.

Let this, then, be the lesson passed down to every generation: that identity is sacred, and that to forget who you are is the first and greatest defeat. Guard your name, your heritage, your culture as treasures of the spirit. Learn from others, but never at the cost of your own truth. For education, when pure, awakens the soul — but when corrupted by arrogance, it makes slaves of free minds. The wise student, like Mandela, learns both the wisdom of his people and the knowledge of the world, joining them not in conflict, but in harmony.

So, O listener, remember this: the freedom of nations begins with the freedom of identity. When you speak your name, speak it with pride, for it carries the weight of all who came before you. As Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela teaches us, you may walk in the schools of the conquerors, but never let them conquer your heart. For no empire endures forever — but the soul that remembers its name is eternal.