By Abasi-maenyin Esebre

1.

For as long as I can remember, no one called me by my name.

Family members aside, this exaggeration held true. In church, where I was my most pliable self, they called me Emmanuel; in primary school, they hailed me as Enu—a meaningless, hollow name bestowed upon me by a charismatic school teacher; in the six secondary schools I attended they, in chronological order, referred to me as:

Esembre: a portmanteau of my surname Esebre and mbre, the Efik word used in this context to mean play. To be fair, I was a restless boy, having my name asterisked on nearly every names-of-noise-makers list in the three JSS1 classes during prep each night.

Abas: this lazy ungodly generic cliché used as an umbrella term for anyone with Abasi in their name.

Abasi: they called me God out of sheer laziness to pronounce the two extra syllables that constitute my complete name.

Merlin: a ghastly pun derived from their revision of Maenyin. Apparently, it rhymed with the BBC show which was trending back when I transferred from QICSSS to AMMHS.

Rattus: (adj. derogatory) for people with two prominent front teeth. In addition, they claimed I looked like Remy from Ratatouille.

Emma /emâ/: not to be intoned in the way one would when referring to Jane Austen’s infamous protagonist.

2.

The universe has gravity and a sense of humor.

In every new secondary school I had to reintroduce myself. As innocent as it seemed, the prospect troubled me. Over time the entire charade, pronouncing my name over and over again, induced an anxiety in me that I couldn’t easily quell. To circumvent this tiresome routine, I either shortened my name on their behalf or ran with whatever variation they crumpled it into.

And because I sought mercy in compliance, I became afraid of my own name.

3.

This ludicrous sentiment persisted up until Uni where everyone I encountered, with my blessing, shortened Abasi to A.B.

When I got admitted into Botany, my second department, at my repeated suggestion, everyone settled—with much protest for an English name and disappointment at my refusal to offer one—on Esebre, my surname. It marked a slight shift. With each new person I met, introductions were no longer casual exchange of names. Esebre, it turns out, stirred curiosity. They begged for its meaning. They were impatient for an interpretation. I tried not to get lost in translation and attention as I began to open up to these new interactions.

For the first time, I became an etymological tour guide in a recurring ritual which I adored, a mystery writer withholding vital information. New to this power, I inflated the translation of Esebre to mean darkness, when, like a verse from a dirge, it translates better as the dawn of dusk or the night is nigh.

‘Darkness’ seemed more ominous, fantastic, impossible even. It drew their incredulity; it sparked a tense conversation. Suddenly we weren’t just strangers getting to know each other but rather a cop and a convict stuck in an interrogation room. This shift in behaviour made sense as it happened during a period where I flaunted a public persona whose speech pattern I seeded with vulgar underpinnings. I shocked others with irreligious quips from philosophy books I’d read, which was fun in the beginning. I enjoyed their rebukes—Nigerians are either very religious or very superstitious; calling yourself darkness invites immediate reprimand—but eventually I, too, grew tired of the theatrics, tired of others seeing my mouth as Pandora’s box.

Bored, I yearned for my name.

4.

Although my first name translates into ‘God is with us’, what made the transition from Esebre to Abasi-maenyin even more difficult was my dislike for the name Emmanuel.

Why in God’s name, I reasoned, should an Oron man bear a Hebrew name? How many Indo-europeans have a name derived from an obscure indeginous tribe in Nigeria? In that regard, I was a brave coward.

After I turned 13, I revoked the name Emmanuel. Yet I wasn’t bold enough to introduce myself as Abasi-maenyin without succumbing to shame. I still resorted to whispers when time for introductions came around. I severed my serif—my beautiful first name—and by renouncing what made me me, I unwittingly immolated my essence.

It took a while—and by that I mean, forever—before I could reclaim my first name.

5.

There are many culprits to blame in this decade-long name skirting, but I can whittle it down to two: my lack of a concrete tribal identity due to a suburban upbringing and the compulsive urge of Nigerians, or humans in general, to reduce people into acronyms.

6.

The first reason traces its origin to my roots.

Although I’m from Oron, I grew up in Calabar. As is the default with non-indigenous people seeking upward mobility in a foreign state, my education mattered more to my parents than anything else. So, mastering certain cardinal aspects of English—reading, writing, spelling, pronunciation, grammar and punctuation—mattered more and was enforced rigorously. Once, under my mother’s supervision, I spent an entire evening practicing how to write the letter k.

I did nothing else in school the next day except cry and scribble the letter k in pages upon pages to the worry and chagrin of Aunty Rebecca, my kindergarten teacher. When it came to efik and örö, my parents were lenient: there was neither an obligation nor proper reinforcement to speak these languages fluently. For this reason, I pronounced my name with an English intonation which, on careful listening and slowed-down repetition, must’ve sounded a tidbit confusing to others.

If I couldn’t pronounce my own name properly, who else would?

7.

Later, I realized the more ‘difficult’ name, the one that tangled everybody’s tongue, was Maenyin.

/may-yin/.

That’s it.

That’s what puzzled everyone. Two syllables. May-yin.

Difficult?

For people who knew the month of May and had probably heard about yin, if not from Avatar The Last Airbender when they were kids, then definitely in some random Alan Watts video on their YouTube or IG feed as they aged?

Each time I searched for a better excuse to exonerate them, I found myself infuriated by their collective laziness and pretend incompetence. However, me being me, I searched further and further until I found something, something logical, an excuse that doubled as a reason.

8.

The second reason: acronyms are inevitable.

Everything gets shortened. Ampersand becomes and. In basketball, the commentator often shortens the players names to their initials; hence, Micheal Jordan becomes M.J and Kevin Durant, K.D. Also, the names of certain institutions and task forces suffer the same fate: the Central Bank of Nigeria is referred to as CBN and the Independent National Electoral Commission is called INEC. We deal titles with a similar hand: more people prefer using CEO to Chief Executive Officer. In the first paragraph, I wrote QICSSS instead of Qua Iboe Church Senior Science School and AMMHS instead of Aunty Margaret Memorial High School.

Acronyms are inevitable. We love them, too, too much. If this is merely human nature, is my complaint irrelevant? No, a thousand times, no.

9.

In those instances, the acronyms serve no derogatory function. They aren’t tools for ridicule. There is consensus of some sorts, an agreement between the users of the acronyms and the people or institutions they refer to. Bad blood is nonexistent. Respect reigns supreme.

Whereas, in personal cases, from the myriad names (often demeaning or dismissive in nature), it is evident that there’s antagonism present. There is blatant disregard for a person’s humanity.

In my experience, when a Nigerian shortens a person’s name—without their consent or after they’ve shown displeasure for the acronym—it is to diminish them. They understand that the first step in silencing someone is renaming them. They do this to infuriate and make the other inferior.

To trample upon a simple request for what I deem respectful is to insist on immediate estrangement on my part, which I will enact. In the company of two, democracy is a myth. There is no majority or minority. In friendships, there are no systems of government, only constant negotiations, seasonal updates on the terms and conditions of engagement, and a dual commitment towards love and respect. And I will always impeach those who butcher my name from a place of dismissal.

10.

As will soon be evident, my name is a sentence with a profound meaning, not a word with empty morphemes which you can mindlessly omit. When it comes to my name, less is no. Less means go. Shoo. Vamoose—depart hurriedly. My name is neither cheesecake nor a long nail on a guitarist’s finger—so, don’t cut it.

11.

To be less standoffish, I’ll offer an open secret: most African names are prophetic, an oral fossil of the events surrounding the child’s birth.

12.

I was born in the face of death.

In the hours that led up to my mother’s delivery, the doctor barged out of the operating room to obtain my father’s signature. My mother had to undergo a C-section.

After my dad signed, in the middle of the night, halfway into the surgery, the power went out. Chaos. The head surgeon yelled for someone to put on the generator. A nurse held a flashlight for five minutes while another doctor tinkered outside with the generator. It was almost 11 p.m. before the light came back on. My father paced the corridor, his heart on edge. Mouth awash with prayers, he clung on to hope.

A few long minutes later, the surgeon emerged.

—What church do you attend? I have never delivered a baby like that before under such circumstances. It was a miracle. You owe God thanks. He was unresponsive for almost fifteen minutes. Yes, it’s a boy. What will you name him? The doctor asked.

—Abasi-maenyin. My dad replied, grateful beyond measure.

13.

He didn’t call me Abas or Abasi or A.B or Merlin or Rattus or Emma.

He called me according to the tornado I had braved.

He called me by the circumstances I’d conquered.

He named me in his mother’s tongue.

He named me after my first victory.

He called me by my name.

14.

Abasi-maenyin: God is with us.

15.

Hosanna calls me Mae, a variation I endorse because the way she mouths it is beautiful; the name is delicate on her tongue.

Doris, my birthday mate, calls me Abbychan; anyone who watches anime can trace the origin.

Vera calls me Neon Prince: one of my many, many nicknames.

Mmeso calls me Emma Chocolate—it never fails to make me laugh.

Sometimes my mother jovially refers to me as A.B. Snr.

Larry sometimes calls me Zalunx Chief and I respond by calling him Mr. Moon.

16.

These versions of my names lack venom.

These people, too, are precious. In the absence of a chest, my heart would find a foster home in their hands. They know my name by heart: how to spell it and how to pronounce it. If any day I come to them in confidence and confess discomfort to any of those names, they’ll revert instantly to Abasi-maenyin—except Mmesoma, who has earned such a privilege. Because after my sister died, Mmesoma was the first person whose reaction to a story made me believe I could become a writer.

17.

If you love me, call me by my name.

Anything less is no. Especially if I don’t know you. Respect comes before trust comes before privileges. Come correct or come and be going.

18.

If you love me, call me by my name.

19.

Abasi-maenyin Etim Esebre.

Abasi-maenyin Esebre is a storyteller who centers Calabar in his writings. His short stories have been shortlisted by Gratia Magazine and ALITFEST in separate competitions. The only thing he enjoys more than writing is research.

- All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.

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