What’s in a Name: Rhodes, Statues and Decolonization
A debate as old as the independence of most African countries- what do we do with the names of our oppressors? The debate in South Africa has, however, intensified. Students at the University of Cape Town have taken a strong stance against the statue of Cecil John Rhodes standing on their campus. This in turn put a spot light on Rhodes University and how it might be time to change its name. At the moment, the focus is on race: how racist Cecil John Rhodes was, how the statue and the name of the university exclude certain races from the space that they occupy, #RhodesSoWhite, white privilege…and the list goes on. The issue, however, goes much deeper than race.
Should the legacy of racists and bigots be preserved in public institutions? After all, it is part of our history. While I was a student at Rhodes, I didn’t want the name to be changed because I felt as though I needed the name “Rhodes University” on my parchment in order to be held in high esteem. I believed that having a parchment that said “The University of iRhini” would cheapen my credentials. That’s the honest truth, and I’ve seen many black and white students express the same fears on social media.
I had this debate many times with peers in and outside of the lecture theater. As you walk down the corridors of the Law faculty, you are followed by the glares of Judges past. Needless to say, with the exception of the most recent portraits, the rest are white. I remember a casual discussion with some of my peers about how these men we see everyday were responsible for applying some of the most repugnant, racist laws of South Africa under apartheid. However, our debates seemed to end abruptly with comments such as “well you refer to some of their judgments in all your essays and exams anyway so why are you bothered by their portraits? They are part of our legal history and jurisprudence.” While the law relies on precedent and past jurisprudence, it is also malleable and dynamic. Conversely, names and symbols are designed to be more rigid for a reason.
First of all, one has to understand the historical significance of why settlers and colonialists renamed every part of the land they invaded. Names create a reference point for memories. Names such as Salisbury, Pretoria, Grahamstown, and King Williams Town buried the indigenous memories of the people inhabiting that space. It remade Africa in the image and memory of Europe. At the time, there was a general consensus that there were no people with valid memories and identities on the continent; only free land, resources and barbarians in need of civilization. When you erase memories, amnesia so to speak, you are granted a blank slate onto which you can write almost anything.
The memories that exist in my context are those of white greatness as opposed to African greatness. Cecil John Rhodes was rarely represented as the brutal, racist, misogynist that he was in reality. He was an important part of my history. For most of us, the memories of black greatness, before colonization, simply do not exist. It’s as if our history started with colonization.
One of the most important tools that was used to erase our memories is The School. Cheikh Hamidou Kane put it best in saying, “The cannon compels the body and the school bewitches the soul.” From the time I entered the educational system, a foreign language was used to measure my intellect. I wasn’t even allowed to appropriate the English language and make it my own. I had to master it, speak “the Queen’s English” and my native language was an elective. The colonialists used the school to reinforce white superiority and give us their version of great civilization; many elements of this (if not all) still exist in our educational system today. Of course the name “Rhodes” sounded better to me because it resonates with the memories of greatness (read whiteness) that I was given at school.
It was only after I read Ngugi Wa Thiong’o’s “Something Torn and New: The African Renaissance” that I truly understood the extent of colonization. Physical colonization was a short-term objective, but colonizing the mind, that was the real goal. Decolonizing the mind is the battle that my generation has inherited from our liberation fighters. Mental colonization is so subtle, nuanced, but most importantly, reinforced by the names and the symbolic statues around us.
While Africa cannot be un-colonized, and people like Rhodes are part of our history, their legacy should no longer be part of our memory-making process, especially not at schools. If Rhodes University, for example, has moved so far away from Cecil John Rhodes’ vision of an all white, male institution, how do you reconcile this “transformation” with its name? How do you insist that Cecil Rhodes must remain the reference point of the institution’s greatness? I am not suggesting that we must forget the legacy that he left in Africa. His statue can be preserved in a museum and that museum can have his name. But for us to even start the process of decolonizing our minds, we need to create spaces that don’t suppress the memories of African greatness.










