Crafted beauty #1: Naming me.

On names and taking up space

You wonder why I look away, 
Minutes after my faded smile, 
As you ask me more questions
About where I’m from and what I do, 
But we’re stuck already, 
At the foundation, the very start. 
This thing is doomed to fail. 

You can’t even say my name
It comes out half-damaged when you utter it, 
Stumbling from your laughing lips, 
Because surely there must be a joke somewhere, 
Trapped between the syllables you can’t manage,
Or in the awkward way you move your mouth, 
Contortions that aren’t needed for this.

You ask me to repeat it like a neat trick, 
And soon after, you let it go, 
Content with the new one you’ve given me,
Close enough to do the job. 
And I’m required to answer when you call, 
Call be my someone else’s name. 

It becomes a discomfort you can’t bear —
The first thing I ever owned.
The label of my place in this world. 
The emblem to show how I was wanted,
What I meant to the people who brought me forth,
And you trip over it, flopping as you try to spit it out, 

If you can’t even get it right, 
Then please, please, please,
Keep my name out of your mouth. 

---

Growing up, it was easy to believe I was special, not only because I was the only daughter amongst many sons, but for another fact which preceded that— the first fact I learned about myself, my name. Ehaikaiye. Life is luck. But for everyone, and at all times, Ehae. As simple as taking two breaths. Ehh. High. That is perhaps one of the earliest instances of dissonance I have experienced — how something so evident, obvious, true, for me, and for those closest to me, could confound so many others. My name was a puzzle to foreigners and to Nigerians alike.

As a shy girl in my youth, I found it hard that my name never let me go unnoticed. There was usually a conversation about how to say it, what it meant, where it came from. In short, there were times my name felt too big for me. Its four letters, combined in this novel way, took up too much space. Throughout primary school in Lagos, people stumbled over its vowels. My catechism teacher called me “Elea”. Some, already frustrated and convinced they couldn’t learn it, searched for a shortcut, asking me for my middle name, and sighing in relief once they heard it. 

At the start of secondary school in Lagos, I decided to go by Elizabeth. I was tired of the attention. Of having to correct people. Of having to answer to many different versions of my name. My middle name was as far from Ehae on the spectrum of uniqueness as possible. The name of the Queen (in fact, two Queens), of the country that colonised my own. Longer in letters, but requiring no effort to remember, to think of how to say, for the mere fact that it was so familiar. In fact, there was another person in my school year with the same name, and so, to most people, I became “Longe”.

When I was 16 and heading off to boarding school in England, I decided that I wanted to be unique again. I was still shy, yes, but prouder still. And how sad it would be for me as a Nigerian to turn up there bearing the most English of names. In class, during roll call, I would raise my hand, and say “present” before the syllables were even attempted. I would always know when it was my turn — Once I noticed the furrowed eyebrows of the teacher, the different shapes the mouth would make, before any sounds were uttered. I began to see my name as a tool — an entry point into conversation, an icebreaker of sorts. A topic I was comfortable to start with, that I knew intimately. Myself.

I have carried this name ever since. It is a shame that there are some years I heard it less. But it has always been home to me. Hearing my loved ones say it, and say it well, has always affirmed me. Has always served as a reminder that I am known to them. That I am special. With them, I am worth the space my name takes up. This is how I feel when I watch the video above. For me, my name has always meant a lot, but also, how someone attempts my name has been an early indicator of how things will go. Of what people are like and how they see me. Perhaps it is too much to conclude, but I’ve always been the type to read into things. Do they ask me how to say it, or do they just attempt it without checking? With a sense of entitlement to something that isn’t theirs? With a lack of cultural sensitivity? Do they get it right intuitively, eventually, or not at all? One time at Starbucks, the barista read my name off the plastic cup that held my coffee Frappuccino. His timbered voice released those two syllables into the air. And they sounded right. And I felt so seen.  

 In the many work contexts I have been in, people have always struggled with my name, and they still do. It is funny how many different ways there are to say it. In early interactions with these people, I would repeat it, correct them, smile and shake my head. But as time went on, I began to answer to all these different versions of my name. I didn’t want to take up too much space, slow down meetings, make them feel uncomfortable. It was like an unspoken game of chicken. They had won. Just like what happens in Paris when I try to speak to someone in French, and they’d rather practise their English. Who will move out of the way? It usually ends up being me. So used to being accommodating. Well, I’m tired of moving. I’m tired of being afraid to take up space. I’m going to stand right here.  At this point in my life, I understand that people take me as I present myself. Well, this is how I present myself. Ehae. The first fact I ever learned. Two easy breaths. Rounded, full, special. Now, you say it.   

Prompt:

What does your name mean to you? Write a piece about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page!