Thank you for my name, my purpose - Letter to my father

Dear...,

I don't know what to call you. I never had to. Others called you Daktari, some Dr. Toweett. But in your presence, you simply were. And that was enough.

There is something I never got to tell you. Something I say whenever I introduce myself, but you never heard. Yet you remain part of every introduction I make.

I always say, "I am Kenyan," which makes people pause, since they've asked for my name. Then I add: "But my name is Naijeria Toweett." Smiles, murmurs, laughter follow. A perfect icebreaker in true Toweett fashion.

On November 12th, 1974, I arrived in Nakuru, Kenya, feet first. A breech birth, six months premature. Breech births could kill the mother. I barely looked fully human (I googled). Too small, too fragile, too early. No wonder Mum couldn't name me. She told me years later she wasn't sure I would survive. Across the continent, in Lagos, Nigeria, you received a phone call. Your wife had delivered a baby girl. You didn't hesitate: "Call her Naijeria." Then, as a linguist who understood that a single letter carries entire worlds of meaning, you spelled it out carefully. G carries masculine energy. As in Nigeria, the country. J carries feminine energy. "She is a girl. Her name is Naijeria." You called me into existence with language before you even knew if I would live.

On one of my birthdays, you sat me down and told me the story yourself, making sure I understood what you meant when you named me. I've carried that story ever since.

But you never told me why. Why Nigeria specifically, why that moment. Nigeria in 1974 stood at the centre of a Pan-African moment, preparing to host FESTAC, the Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture, the largest celebration of African identity and genius of the 20th century. You were there. In the middle of it all. When your phone rang. I believe you named me after a moment. A Pan-African moment. One that said: after everything, we are still here. We are whole. We are one. I didn't understand that as a teenager. But I know it now. And it changes everything.

You were Dr. Taaitta Toweett. Scholar, linguist, politician, storyteller. A man with five degrees. Your signature was your rungu, a book always in hand, spectacles on your forehead. You were direct, charismatic, a stickler for timekeeping. You believed that respecting people meant not wasting their time.

You participated in the Second Lancaster House Conference in 1962, where Kenyan leaders negotiated with British authorities for seven weeks to craft the constitutional framework ending 70 years of colonial rule. You served as Secretary. You also wrote *Unsung Heroes of Lancaster*, about the people who built Kenya's democracy whose names history forgot. Your newspaper column, "Call a Spade a Spade," never dressed up the truth.

You always came home every couple of weeks, I looked forward to it. When you arrived, you had time for me. You asked about school and you listened, really listened. The way only truly present people can. Once you brought me a workbook to help me write better. A quiet gift from a linguist father to his daughter. It sparked my interest in calligraphy, which led somewhere. Everything you gave me led somewhere.

In my final year of high school, I registered for eleven subjects. Most students struggled with nine. My headmistress sent me home and told me to drop one. I refused. Mum called you. You came home, listened to why I wanted both French and Art, then wrote a letter to my headmistress. You told her: if Naijeria wants to do fifteen subjects, let her. If money is the issue, I will pay. But you will not limit my daughter. I have lived inside that letter ever since.

You passed away on October 8th, 2007. Two months before the elections. As all Kenyans know, 2007 was a turning point. Every election since feels like it's still trying to heal a wound that never quite closed. You helped build the structures of free, democratic Kenya. You spent your life saying exactly what needed to be said. In Parliament, in Lancaster House, in your column - call a spade a spade. Then you were gone. Before you could see what was coming. Before you could cast your vote.

1. 2007: Institutions collapsed. People were killed. Hundreds of thousands displaced. An Electoral Commission chairman declared a winner, then admitted days later he didn't know who actually won. Kofi Annan flew in to mediate a standoff edging toward civil war.
2. 2013: A new constitution, a new system, KIEMS. The election was calmer. Trust? Still fragile.
3. 2017: The Supreme Court nullified a presidential election result. A first in African history. The judiciary worked, but dozens died in the chaos.
4. 2022: The most technically advanced election yet. Lowest turnout in 15 years. Only 26% of Kenyans trusted the electoral commission.

Every election improved technologically. Trust in the process didn't. Technology alone doesn't rebuild broken trust. But transparent, citizen-verifiable technology might be different.

I didn't go into politics. But I'm politicking in my own way. I started in performing arts, using theatre for constitutional reform, HIV advocacy, gender justice. Then digital media, community building. In 2020, I flew to Barcelona for a coding bootcamp. Weeks in, Covid hit. I finished remotely, back in Kenya, in the middle of a global pandemic. I kept going. Product management. Technical consulting. Fractional CTO. FemTech. GovTech.

Every transition looked different from outside. From inside, it was always the same. Give visibility and voice, especially to the marginalised. That's what you taught me. That's what I've always done.

Now I'm bringing it here, to elections, to the question of trust. A few years ago, I wrote about blockchain and Kenya's elections on Medium. Through the Women in GovTech Challenge and the World Bank Civic Residency, I've returned to that question with new tools and new urgency. What would it mean to build something real? Using GovStack frameworks, OpenFn tools, and participatory democracy models like Liquio. Give every citizen a safe space to speak. Let them vote on issues, not personalities. Build trust and make every vote count. 2027 is coming. I want to build something. Not just write about it.

The other day, working on an app, I wrote: "Pan-African tech." I paused when I read it back. Then I thought of you. In Lagos. In 1974. In the middle of a continent dreaming itself into a new future. A phone call. A name. I didn't find my calling that day. I finally read the label on something I've been carrying my whole life. You named me into a Pan-African moment. Fifty years later, here I am. Building Pan-African tech, working on the digital infrastructure of the continent you served, doing it in a world you never saw. Zoom calls. Open source code. Digital public infrastructure.

You were a man who walked between worlds. The rungu and the book, tradition and modernity, Lancaster House and the Kenyan parliament. You showed me I never had to choose. I could carry them all. And I do. I am because you were. And I'm only beginning to understand what that means. I don't know what you'd say reading this. But I know you would listen. Really listen. The way you always did.

The work continues. I'm getting to work.

Lovingly,

Naijeria.