Being Lamine in North Carolina

On a family outing during the 2026 World Cup, my 16-year-old son placed his order at a local eatery, and when the cashier asked for a name, he shyly said, “Lamine.” The cashier looked up and said, “Hey! Like Lamine Yamal!” My son’s face lit up, and he screamed: “He knows my name!”

As immigrants from Senegal, sharing our names in public in North Carolina has always brought a tinge of anxiety, driven by the fear they would be mispronounced, ridiculed, or both. At doctors’ offices, nurses either mispronounce our names or would not venture to pronounce them. At school, teachers and classmates have called my son Lomein, Lemon, Lamont, among many other iterations. Those who genuinely try either pronounce the first two letters like the French le (as in LeBron), or drag the “a” and “i,” making his name sound like la mine—French for “the mine,” an abyss into which his entire identity, carried by his name, vanishes.

In Senegal, Lamine is as common as John is in America. Yet, until Lamine Yamal arrived in American soccer culture, my son silently accepted these botched pronunciations. Once, an older white man at a youth program for black children told him his name was too hard to pronounce and that he was just going to stick to calling him “Lemon.” When I protested that he should try, my son shook his head and said, “It’s ok, mommy.” This resignation did not mean he was fine with the violence done to his name; he figured that there was no use teaching someone who had already predetermined that his name was not worth the effort.

In Senegal, it is common for kids to take up the names of international soccer players. There were many Maradonas and Platinis in our neighborhood; my own brother was Pele. However, to share the same first or middle name with a famous player is extraordinary—and even more so when you live in Eastern North Carolina as a Black boy from an immigrant African Muslim family. When I read about how Lamine Yamal got his two names from two people who were kind to his parents, I felt deeply connected to his story.

In Senegal, children are named after family and friends to honor deep bonds with the living and the departed. It is believed that when you name your child after someone, the child will inherit seven personality traits from their namesake. My son was named after his father’s brother, who tragically died in a motorcycle crash. His father chose the name because he admired his brother and was deeply affected by his death. Naming our son after his brother is a way to immortalize a loved one who died too soon. Like his namesake, my son is a social butterfly, among other attributes his father’s brother was known for. Every time his name is called, his father’s brother is remembered in the echoes of the syllables. To mispronounce his name breaks the continuum of this memory.

Before Lamine Yamal, my son did not follow soccer news. I am the soccer aficionado of the family. In middle school, my math teacher once caught me using my notebook to record the results of the European championships. He mockingly read it to the class to embarrass me; instead, it earned me the respect of boys who were in awe that a girl could be so obsessed with soccer.

Because soccer is largely invisible on American TV and in popular culture, I silently follow soccer news online, sharing soccer culture with my kids only during AFCON and the World Cup when Senegal is playing. Little did I know that for the past two years, my son was also silently following European soccer news—not out of an interest in the game itself, but because of Lamine Yamal. When I discovered Lamine Yamal, I was eager to share it with my son. When I said to him: “There is a young soccer player in Spain...” before I could finish, he interrupted me and said: “You’re talking about Lamine Yamal; I know, he has my name!” He had learned about Yamal when we spent a year in Senegal and suddenly felt like he was no longer alone with his name. Now that I reflect on it, I wonder if it is because he wanted to identify further with Lamine Yamal that he was eager to get braces.

During the World Cup final, while the rest of the family watched upstairs, my son isolated himself in the basement. I thought he was playing video games, but when Spain scored, his screams made the house vibrate. He ran upstairs, bellowing from the depths of his lungs, “Lamine Yamal! Lamine Yamal! Lamine Yamal!” His blue braces sparkled against the living-room lights. He hugged me. We twirled together in celebration of the teenager from Spain who, at that moment, was giving another Lamine in Greenville, North Carolina, hope that people would finally know how to pronounce his name.