Theresa Lola
Her Name Is Her House
Her Name Is Her House
“Ilé l’à ńwò k’á tó sọ ‘mọ l’órúkọ.”
“You do not name a child unless you know the condition of the home into which they are born.”
-Yoruba proverb
In a secondary school in Bromley my Yoruba name
pronounced Foon-mi is bent into Fun-mi,
and the door inside my name is turned
into a speaker playing a looped-laughing track.
In a different school a girl calls me fanny,
claims they sound
similar. I don’t resist, and the bed inside my name folds
so tight it becomes a tyre. In another school
I remove the ‘n’ in the spelling of my name, mistake
what is subtle for what is silent. Go by Fumi instead of Funmi.
Then I remember what the letter N means to my skin folk,
the weapon-shaped-word it carries
So I grab the N back, and feel
the roof inside my name reposition itself.
At university I switch
to my middle name. But graduation reveals our full names,
makes sure our true selves are awarded. On this day
my full name Olu-foon-mi-lola, meaning
God has given me wealth, is twisted into Olu-funny-ola
by a lecturer. The staircase
inside my name flatten into a trampoline
where prayers fall as sudden as they rise. Every time
someone mispronounces my name they disrupt
its foundations
Replace things. Break things.
I’m now left with no choice but to build spiked gates
around my name, position armed guards. Brave my name.
