His name is… Bule?

As my parents were leaving in February, they were given a note by the xylophone players who entertained us that first night. Even after we gave them little goodie bags of tea, sugar, macaroni, and a small amount of cash, they wanted to ask my dad if they would buy them a microphone to enhance their performance. Now though it was a formal note, I’d still consider that begging. Looking back on it now, I should have been firm and just said “no” but of course I began to make excuses. He didn’t understand the note, we have no idea how to buy you a microphone, etc. etc. So the whole thing died down quietly.
Then when Karen came, these xylophone guys played again. We gave them little gifts, but the whole night we were reminded of the microphone that they want my dad to buy for them. Of course, my parents are extremely generous people, and all I would have to do is say the word and they’d donate it. But the problem is it sets a precedent for the future- ask Aminata and you shall receive. I don’t know if my replacement volunteer would like people coming up to her saying, “But Aminata’s father bought us this, why can’t you buy us that?” Donations are great, if I can funnel them through my main purpose- health education projects. Unfortunately, an electronic xylophone extension doesn’t fit that bill at the moment. So again, I brushed off the request.
But my host mom is sneaky. One of the xylophone players’ wife had a baby the night Karen was here. I later found out that it was my host mom’s scheme to tell them to name the baby after my dad. Maybe if he was named after my dad, he would be so honored that he would send money for a microphone and maybe even he would tell me to bring the baby to America with me. So that night they kept asking me, “What’s your dad’s name? We want to name the baby after him.” Knowing it was a trick, I played dumb. My dad’s name is Bill, apparently very hard for my host mother to remember or pronounce.
The next week, when I went to the baby’s baptism, they asked me what the name of the child was. “I don’t know it’s name!” I said.
“Yes you do! You named it after your dad!”
“No I didn’t. You are the parents, you should name your child.”
“We want to name it after your dad. Gneba said it was something like… Bule…?”
Refusing to correct “Bule” to “Bill” I simply told them that that was not my dad’s name. But now, this poor kid’s name is Bule. And I’ve asked them to change it but they haven’t as far as I know. He is Bule, a mutation of the name “Bill”.
As Irene and I were recounting the sequence of events, we had some good laughs about the exotic places our names have come from. She said, “Even my father! He worked at the Grand Hotel in Bamako and some American people came and stayed. I was born and he thought if he named me after one of the American women, maybe she would take me to America!” Then she thought, “Hey! Maybe it was your grandmother!” which just cracked me up. I then told her how my name came from a prostitute’s baby on a soap opera that my mom used to watch in college. So I guess if nothing else comes out of this, no microphone or ticket to the states, at least one day Bule will have a good story to tell about how he got his name.