Adétutù (2021 AWA Winner) by Adedoyin Adetutu, Nigeria

The day you were born the rain fell. It was the beginning of a new week and they hoped like the rain had done, good things will accompany you too. So, after your father named you – they decided to also call you Abósèdé. They were willing great things to unravel in your path as you grew.

When your mother tells the tale of your birth, her eyes beam as she describes how peaceful it was; how your entrance into the world had been too easy. You wondered if it was the reason you always found a way to ease people’s struggles – to fix broken people even when no one asked. Often time, you are hoping the way you came is the way you’d go – peaceful like the sea after a long night of raging storms.

It took you a while to learn the power of your name. Even the Yoruba classes on ‘Orúko Amutorunwa’ didn’t teach you the soothing power that your name possesses. Instead, you learnt of another circumstance surrounding your birth – the one which your mother barely mentioned – that the cord which sustained you was wrapped around your neck as if daring life to be good to you or it would yank you back in.
As if telling life – “this one must not be beaten”.  They looked at you – curled up in the hands of a nurse as though scared to burden her arms with your weight – and called you Àìná. You were one to be treated with care.

Now you sit here and link all the letters of each name to mean;
“Handle with care.”
You’ve listened over the years as people called you names too foreign to accept. So, your system throws them out like bile emptying you of the abominations they call jokes. It’s not that you were uptight – the uncertainty about what it meant and why they would name you after the weather angered you. ‘Was it because it had been raining?’

It’s the reason you’re still not accepting of nicknames.
“People shouldn’t call people what they are not,” you muttered one evening after a stranger had looked at you amused, and called you “yellow pawpaw”. You weren’t yellow; you were brown- like a diluted version of melanin. It felt as though you were made from remains of the ones God had been intentional about creating.

When people asked about your name, you looked around the room as if you needed someone to remind you of what you’re called. Each introduction ended with a silly joke you found irritating to your skin
“Ah! ‘Tutù. Cold! That means you are cold orrrr are you hot?” They cackle and for a second or two you wish for them to choke on their saliva. Your father, too worried to offend his guests, if present, lets out a nervous laugh and adds “2-2”

You fix your lips in a tight smile, willing your eyes not to betray your calmness. You’re cold… like water, you make people feel better. The voice of the boy from your class echoes in your head
“Omi tutu” and you’re angry again. You should have done more than throw stones at him. You should have made him eat sand like the other one before the teacher came to flog the both of you.

You’re cold… like water. So, they spit you out because you make their teeth hurt. You don’t think they’re rotten; something tells you, you are the problem. You heat yourself up and wait till you’re lukewarm. It doesn’t last though because you’re cold… the crown will always be cold against the crown of your head.

The significance of your birth is one you’ll learn to attach to your unwillingness to be here.
The story of how you refused to announce your arrival with ear-piercing screams was a revolution; you knew before you came that you’d question everything; your creator, friendships and the need for marriage, or children. When your mother talks about how months later (or was it weeks? Your memory fails you), you wouldn’t stop crying – inconveniencing everyone on your path that they offered your mother free rides to get the child away. You thought in your heart that you’d need to pay for that. So, there’s something about inconveniencing people that gets you edgy.
She says you only stopped crying after a stranger suggested pawpaw leaves and water or something related. You wanted to hold her hands and say you’re still crying. You want to say you’ve only gotten better at hiding it; also that the silent ones in the shower break your heart the most.

For someone so timid, your spirit is strong – to think the meaning of your name came to you from a Facebook post you made. “The crown is soothing”. It was then the power of name began to manifest. You walked differently and talked different, even though sometimes you forgot to pick your crown. There’s something about inconveniencing people that gets you agitated. It’s why you never mentioned that you were full. It’s why when your mother discovered the decaying moulds of food you said you finished behind the freezer on a Saturday that you first felt pity before the fear of being punished.

When your mother hails you for your independence and strength, you don’t mention that being strong sucks more when it seems like no shoulder is strong enough to be leaned on.
You don’t mention your fears or the drowning sensation you get in the shower; that water reminds you of home. Maybe it’s why the prophet the other time insinuated you were a mamiwata.  It was why when you were sick your mother instructed everyone who knew to stop calling you Àìná. Life had threatened to pull you back – “this one must not be beaten”.
You return more fragile than ever and your aunt worries that your name is making your spirit cold. So, she and your mother discuss it and they want to pick one of your other names.

You don’t talk about the mornings when you wake and it feels like a clock in your head is ticking – as if to say your time is near. You don’t mention the aches you get in your chest when you’re heartbroken that keeps you glued to a corner in your room for minutes till it releases you. Adétutù, you don’t talk about how you make homes out of motels and get angry when the owners chase you out.  You don’t talk about how you hide your body under oversized clothes. And when you’re not overthinking people’s comments about your body, you actually love yourself.
“This body you’ve chosen is good for you”.
You chuckle as you write because you know it. You’re lying, but you’re telling the truth.

You’re no longer envious of your sister. So, you cringe when you remember how you hit her because of a pair of wooden slippers she didn’t hand to you when you wanted. You remember only the green bulb in the passage before your room and how you hit her repeatedly.
“You don’t know more than shoes,” you yelled.
You take in how you were always so angry as though you’d rather be someplace else. You always took it out on her. You were just the chubby one people told to be careful not to break the chairs. It’s how you started to starve yourself. Later, you’d hang her dress as a motivation for the weight loss. You’d later grin when someone shows concern about the weight loss.
“Thank you for the compliment. It is what I have always wanted”.
You notice the confused looks, but you don’t mind them.

“The crown is soothing”, you would rush to say when someone is about to assume your name means “cold crown”. It is what you had called yourself.
Your head raised and your shoulders straight, you don’t talk about the scars or pains – you don’t talk about the sadness that runs through you like cold shivers. It doesn’t care where you are; it starts with a numbing inside of you and then it rushes through you. You want to run somewhere to hide and cry.

“The crown is soothing…it is gentle”. You think of your grandma; she was soothing. Too many times you’ve pressed reset, but you’re still going. Sadness and joy take turns with you: Adétutù, you’re cold… like water from the orange water bottle in Primary school out of which you gave your friends.

It’s the soothing power that your name possesses that you tap from when anger boils on your inside like a volcano. It’s what makes you wonder what it was about you that pointed that you were made for suffering when someone wrongs you. Your name is a panegyric befitting of your character; a prophecy of whom you’d continue to be.

“One handles peace with care, Adétutù”

You’re cold… like water, but you’re more.

Adétutù is the winner of the 2021 African Writers Award for Creative Non-Fiction

Read the winning entry for Poetry

Click to see the full list of the winners