A child deserving of care.
“Say your name loud with your head high” Baba always said this. I did not like Baba. The old, strict man with a full grey head, his thin glasses and walking stick always sitting in front of his house facing the compound. we would greet him quickly while walking away so as not to be called to account. Baba had too many opinions and I just wanted an English name.
Everyone had one. My father always said he did not know any deep enough to explain his heart at my birth. The day Baba died; I did not cry. I stood there in a corner looking at everyone in our large compound wailing. My mother’s tears, a disguise for her weary heart thinking Baba’s children will hike the rent as Baba never let us pay the full rent. I stood by his grave, just staring. Then they lowered the casket and I burst into loud tears. I never liked Baba and may never will, but something dropped with him in that casket.
An entire life, memories, achievements packed into a wooden box never to be seen again. When someone asked me my name the next day, I tried to say “Joy”, but it would not come out. I kept hearing Baba, “Say your name, they will learn it”. Then I will say my name and every day, my voice got louder. People will say “That’s unique”, “I've never heard that”. Slowly it became my bragging rights. “You’ve never heard it” I’d say loudly. That was my name. My identity.
No English word really could have explained my father’s heart. To look at me and say, “One who deserves to be cared for”. Somedays, it blurs. I feel unworthy or too demanding. I want to put myself in a box so bad. Limit my abilities, cut my wings and maybe, I will be more likeable. Only realizing last year that I was not receptive of love. I shy away from being loved even though my heart craves it. The older I get, the more I understand why baba wanted me to keep my name, why my father gave me thirteen names, and none could explain his heart in English. I understand them.
I had a nightmare because I really did not like Baba. He always had something to say. He would tell me to sit like a girl, stop playing like the boys, go help my mum in the kitchen, stop dragging my legs. He bothered me so much when he was outside that wooden box. Now that he is there, more than ten years after, he still bothers me in my dreams sometimes.
I see baba, he shouts at me when I say, “I’m Joy”. Then I see that wooden box being lowered into the ground. Last night, he was in my dream. I was curled up into a ball, trying hard to fight tears and wondering why I was created this way. Too many opinions, needs and unwavering heart to settle. I was staring into the dark and wondering if I would ever be loved the way I deserve. If somewhere in this wide universe, there was someone who actually would be receptive of my excesses.
I saw baba sitting in front of his two Storey, facing our play area in the compound and humming Yoruba hymns. I moved closer to greet him and I could hear the tune better. He was singing one of my favourite hymns, iwo to fe wa. It buttresses how God loves us. Names are identities. Baba taught me that. Identities in this realm and in other realms we never see. My mother says names are prophesies over our lives and I hate to say this, but Baba was right.
Joy alone would never fit me. If I said my name loud enough, with my head high and demand they get it right, they did eventually. I was watering down my identity, the exact same way I try to water down my personality. The crazy thing is, even the Holy spirit called me Eniobanke. “One that is cared for by a king (God)”. The one thing about this names was the word “Care”. My constant reminder that I do not only deserve to be loved but I am loved.
When I passed by Baba’s house, no one shouted “Ọmọ́tókẹ́ mi” (My child who deserves to be cared for). Then I will stare at baba’s sit that never left that spot till the day we packed our lives into a truck and left that compound. I believe we are fragments of where we’ve been and who we’ve met. “Say your name loud with your head high”. It was beyond my literal name ‘Ọmọ́tókẹ́’, It was my want to change to be loved. That really was the journey to myself.
“Bob Marley isn’t my name. I don’t even know my name yet.”
― Bob Marley
P.s: Don’t forget to clap 50 times if you like it.
