Some call it a sign of the times, others a provocation, and still others a return to one’s roots. For if today a Kikuyu man takes his mother’s name, many cry out that the patriarchal family is in crisis, whilst Europeans might see it as a form of genuine, direct respect – far removed from our unbalanced do-goodism and political correctness, which are unnatural: the sort where benefits are granted and gender equality is discussed, yet femicides on the rise. But the history and mythology of Kenya’s largest ethnic group tell a far more complex truth.

Let us start, however, with one observation: in Kenya, the surname – as we understand it in Italy – practically does not exist. There are no family names handed down through generations, no ‘Rossi’ or ‘Bianchi’ spanning the centuries. The last name almost always identifies the father: it is his first name that becomes that of his son. A sort of modern patronymic that forms part of every citizen’s identity.
This is why the decision – increasingly common, particularly amongst the Kikuyu – to give children their mother’s name rather than their father’s is causing debate. It is not merely a bureaucratic matter. It is a cultural transformation that affects the way a society tells its own story.
The reasons are often very practical. The number of single-parent families is rising, as are cases of absent fathers or those who do not recognise their children, whilst it is the mothers – and often the grandmothers – who provide financial and emotional support for entire families. Thus, some children are given their mother’s name from birth; other men even decide, as adults, to officially replace their patronymic with their mother’s name, as a gesture of gratitude towards those who raised them. For some, it is an act of justice. For others, it is almost a political statement.
Naturally, not everyone sees it the same way. In Kenyan society, which remains strongly patriarchal, there are those who regard a man taking his mother’s surname as a source of embarrassment, almost a diminishment of his masculinity. Several public figures have spoken of being mocked from childhood for having a ‘woman’s name’, whilst conservative commentators argue that this trend ultimately weakens the male role within the family. Yet the paradox is that, amongst the Kikuyu in particular, this new development could represent, at least symbolically, a return to their roots.
According to tradition, the Kikuyu people are descended from Gikuyu and Mumbi, the mythological couple from whom ten daughters were born, regarded as the ancestors of the main clans. Even today, the Kikuyu are often referred to as ‘the House of Mumbi’, an expression that attributes a central role in defining their identity to the founding mother. This was also the case for the Giriama, another Bantu tribe, for whom society was governed by women until the prophetess Mepoho foretold a world of wars and oppression, leading to the decision that the defensive power of their society should pass to men.
More recently, even the great writer Ng?g? wa Thiong’o, who grew up in a polygamous family, recounted in his memoirs that during his childhood he was known as ‘Ng?g? wa Wanjiku’ – that is, Ng?g?, son of Wanjiku, his mother’s name. It was an informal way of distinguishing between the children of a father’s different wives, but it shows how the maternal reference was already deeply rooted in Kikuyu culture.
The difference is that today that reference to the mother is no longer confined to everyday use. It appears in official records, passports and birth certificates.
 
For scholars, this phenomenon primarily reflects a social shift. Increasingly, women are the true economic and family pillars, whilst paternal authority, at least in some urban contexts, is losing the central role it once held. The name thus becomes a reflection of an already existing reality.
Some speak of a crisis in the traditional family – if indeed there ever was one in Kenya where the father was as present as the mother. Others, on the contrary, see it as the recognition of a role that women have always played, even when it was not recorded on official documents.
After all, as is often the case in Africa, traditions do not disappear: they change form. And sometimes, in an attempt to adapt to the present, they even end up rediscovering a past that seemed forgotten.
So what at first glance appears to be a revolution in civil registration could be, at least for the Kikuyu, a curious twist of history: not the decline of patriarchy, but the re-emergence, amidst the folds of modernity and the cracks in common sense, of the ancient House of Mumbi.