“What’s your English name?”
As though my mother tongue
was only a rough draft
waiting to become acceptable.
Nobody asks Grace
for her Igbo name.
Nobody asks William
what his Urhobo name is.
You can learn to wrap your tongue around
Tchaikovsky,
Schwarzenegger,
and Daenerys Targaryen.
So tell me
why does my name
become too difficult
the moment it sounds like home?
We sit in classrooms
learning that colonel
sounds nothing like it’s spelled,
that English itself
is a language stitched together
with borrowed tongues.
Nobody complains.
Nobody asks English
to become easier.
When I was younger,
I answered with my English name
before anyone had the chance to ask.
I wanted names like
Melody.
Sapphire.
Pretty names.
Then I grew up.
And I found myself
envying names
that carried the weight of history.
Names like Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o.
Not because they were easy.
But because they were never made
to be easy.
They were made
to belong.
So if you ask me my name,
I will tell you once.
Not because I am unwilling
to help you learn it,
but because I am no longer willing
to replace it.
My name
does not need
an English version.
It needs patience.
It needs respect.
It needs the same effort
you would give
to every other name
you believe is worth learning.
Because my name
is not an inconvenience.
It is my first inheritance.
And I have spent
far too many years
introducing myself
with someone else’s.
From now on,
I will answer
with the name
that was always mine.
Because a name
isn’t just something you’re called.
It is ancestry.
Memory.
Language.
Of people
who survived long enough
to place those syllables
into your mouth.
So from this day onward,
my name
will not arrive
with an apology.
Neither will it come
with a translated version
or an easier alternative.
My name
is the one that speaks for me.
The one my ancestors
would recognize.
The one whose meaning
is richer
than being compared
to a precious stone.
And if you can learn
Massachusetts,
you can learn me.
