Learning to Spell My Name

I have always loved my names, except for the middle one, Frances. I’m convinced it was picked last minute. My father looked at a wall and went, oh let’s use that! This is the only explanation I will accept. What is it about our names that 30 years after, (speaking for myself, of course) we’re still defining our lives by living up to it?

Outside my given name, I was always searching for a nickname that fit and I went through a bunch. I guess identity has always been my thing. The nicknames that stuck were Obidara, because Dara in Yoruba is the same translation as Amaka in Igbo. Then there was Ire. My friend, Oladele thought that one up in Secondary school and it followed me.  Obidextrous died a natural death, there’s no need to mention how it started, as did Obiwon, barf! I still get called Obs till date.  When it comes to nicknames, I will abide by most things, but if you must use a variant of my actual name, you either come correct or don’t come at all.

In primary school, the formal practice was for your teacher to call you by your surname. Ifejika this, Ifejika that. I liked it. I have never been a fan of those don’t call me my father’s name people. I hate all those people. In fact, I was Ifejika at the University too.  I just love my actual name and the identity it gives me and who it connects me to. God-willing I’d never have to hyphen it.  I don’t even take pride in it; I just love it. Okay maybe a little pride. I mean, there aren’t any world changing accomplishments that my name/surname is connected to or anything of that nature. This is more me finding a sense of belonging in my identity.

Anyway, all this talk about names. It’s because, recently, I found myself remembering how I learnt to spell my name and I don’t know why. It was a Sunday; I remember because we had rice and stew. My fingers were still turkey flavoured because I sucked on my forefinger when I wasn’t sure of the number of A’s in my name. When my Father laughed, I buried my face in a pillow and groaned in annoyance. I remember the pillow, it smelled like Old Spice. I was on my parents’ bed and they were both enjoying the entertainment that was me spelling my name in caps because I tried to hide my ugly scrawl of a handwriting. I remember it was all-caps because I wrote from one end of the envelope to the other. I remember it was an envelope because my father double checked to be sure it wasn’t one of those destined for his epistles to people who cared to read them.

I also remember the laughter too, even though I was also embarrassed by the experience. I laughed a lot because my mother was laughing. I remember all these little things that led up to the actual spelling but somehow, I don’t remember the exact feeling of spelling it out finally. It appears my success wasn’t quite as thrilling as the journey that got me there. O-B-I-A-M-A-K-A, Obiamaka, it means, your heart is beautiful.

What does your name mean, or what random thing do you remember from childhood?