…what people mean when they say I have a beautiful name.
I’ve heard it, said it, spelt it, read it and mispronounced it
so many times, I have taken it entirely for granted.
Mostly though, I wonder
how one can claim to find the beauty in a name
they know neither meaning nor pronunciation of.
Does one just find it beautifully written?
Yétúndé
Short for Yèyétúndé, mother has returned,
in the Yorùbá language.
Meaning that a mother, grandmother, great-grandmother
died and came back as a new-born.
Reincarnated.
In my case, beloved great-grandma, mother of my maternal grandpa.
As opposed to a father, grandfather, great-grandfather:
Babátúndé, father has returned
Or a child or loved one that was previously lost:
Ayọ̀túndé, joy has returned
As a child, I wondered why you would ever
give anyone the burden of such a name. It felt heavy.
Like I had to live up to someone.
Later on, I thought it was probably nice
to be named after someone who was so loved
that she is still fondly spoken of.
It could have been worse.
Now I think Yétúndé it is a touching name.
But beautiful?
I do have a name that I consider beautiful.
Backtrack.
I have several names, I consider one of them beautiful.
Backtrack.
Nigerians are named in grand ceremonies,
7 or 8 days after birth, where
anyone present and willing can give a child a name
reflecting what the child means to them.
Also, Nigerians are named in full, storytelling,
grammatically complete sentences.
My sister: Olúwaṣeun, (We) thank God,
the first words uttered by my mother
after a long and difficult birth.
My brother: Olúwadámiláre, God has vindicated me,
when his paternal origin was questioned
up until his birth.
(insert scandal here, end with ‘Dad left’, erase scandal)
I assume that firstborn children receive the most names,
while the enthusiasm is still great.
Also, babies who leave their parents waiting on God
or exploring science.
I got four names. Nothing wild, I guess.
My second name, which is already too long
to fit into my passport,
Olúwafúnmilayọ̀, means God has given me joy
and is probably my most embodied name.
I consider myself a good child.
Consciously and subconsciously, I have tried
not to bring my loved ones sorrow. By default,
I assume that I have brought them some level or form of joy.
Let’s not ask anyone for confirmation though.
My third name,
Àjọkẹ́, means born to be pampered by all.
I’m not complaining.
This is my eulogy name, for singing me
Oríkì, praise poetry,
to the accompaniment of a talking drum.
I can tell you that I have had Oríkì
sung of me. If this doesn’t make you
feel like a warrior, nothing else will.
Here’s an example of a christian Oríkì
I personally think my beautiful name is
Zainat
Yorùbá form: Sínátù
which coincidentally means
beauty or adornment in Arabic and
was given to me by my paternal grandfather.
So I’m a reincarnated, joy-bringing beaut to be pampered by all.
I’m feeling quite good about myself
right about now, this would be a good place
to end my musings. But
as with many things Nigerian,
there is often a side story.
Side story one
(because yes, there is also a second side story):
When your Muslim father
allows your maternal grandmother to raise you
in the catholic church, and the stars align
in the most ridiculous Nollywood way on
a random Sunday morning in boarding school, so that
the visiting priest suddenly has the right,
without warning mind,
to get you baptised, give you holy communion and get you confirmed
all on the same day… you might find yourself
scrambling to find 2 additional names
in the space of minutes.
*rolls eyes*
In retrospect, this whimsical decision
of the Vatican, to reduce three
apparently massive events to a
fleeting nothingness, that wasn’t even recorded
and therefore didn’t really happen,
might have contributed to my equally fleeting
conversion to Islam a year later. But
that’s another story entirely.
Let’s just say, I will not
be adding my three catholic names
to this list.
But,
side story two:
you could still get mighty surprised when
said diligent maternal grandmother, who
records every minute detail in
beautiful cursive school-script font,
writes you a love letter at age 20,
in which she states your
other three (!) names
that everyone else forgot to call you.
Revision:
Apparently, even after deleting three names,
I now have seven.
Let’s be honest though,
I am a firm believer that your names
help shape your personality and these
came a tad too late.
But just for the record:
Modúpẹ́ọlá: I am grateful for wealth
Ọpẹ́mipọ̀: my gratitude is abundant
Adébankẹ́: Crown/royalty protects
Absolute strangers to me, all three.
Unlike
Yétúndé Olúwafúnmilayọ̀ Àjọkẹ́ Sínátù
And in this context,
when I roll my names off
in my mother tongue, like a song,
like an Oríkì,
I do catch a glimpse of the beauty in
Yétúndé
Yéwandé, Yébọ̀dé, Yésìdé, Yétúnjí, Yéjídé, Ìyábọ́
Yèyé tún dé
Yèyé mi tún dé
Because when my diligent, catholic,
maternal grandma, now 94 years old and
still writing in beautiful cursive school-script,
inevitably leaves me, I’d
absolutely love the idea
of her coming back
to me
Yèyé mi padà wá bámi