Every year.
First day of school.
Teachers spiel.
Syllabus this. Office hours that. Class rules somesuch.
Then, my favorite part.
They look down at the attendance sheet,
look up at the class,
look down at the sheet again, and say,
“If I butcher your name, I’m sorry.”
Every year.
I knew something no one else did.
Sometimes, I’d wait it out; other times, not.
It’s funny when you’re the only one in on a secret.
And it always stopped teachers in their tracks.
My middle name would’ve knocked them off their feet.
My middle name would’ve knocked them off their feet.
They would always look down and see this staring back at them,
Akinkolade Abode.
They wouldn’t know where to start.
They wouldn’t know where to finish.
They wouldn’t know how to spell it even though it was spelled out for them.
And every year, I’d raise my hand and say,
“That’s me.”
It happened in elementary, middle, and high.
In undergrad.
Grad.
Even happened at work and zoom and teams.
So many mispronunciations.
So many “how do you say that”s.
So many “what does it mean”s.
It’s me.
And no, not like the one in the dictionary.
Think Ah・keen.
| äkēn |
Or Aw・keen.
| ôkēn |
If you want to know what it means, it’s Yoruba, and it means:
The brave one that will bring honor home...
or something.
If you want to know how to say the whole thing:
¯\_(ツ)_/¯