Every year.
The first day of school.
Teachers spiel.
Syllabus this. Office hours that. Class rules and somesuch.
Then, my favorite part.
Every year, they’d 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.
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 (rarely), middle (barely), and high school (sparely).
Moreso...
It happened in undergrad.
It happened in grad school.
It even happened at work and on zoom and on teams.
So many mispronunciations.
So many “how do you say that”s.
So many “what does it mean”s.
It’s me.
It’s Akin for short.
And no, not like the dictionary one.
Think Ah + keen.
Or Aw + keen.
If you want to know what it means, it’s Yoruba, and it means:
The brave one that will bring honor home.
If you want to know how to say the whole thing:
¯\_(ツ)_/¯