FIYIN ADESINA
‘Okay - so I’m going to call the roll now. Let me know if you’re here.’
*...silence...light huffing...*
‘Ahhh sorry, if I get any names wrong. Okay - ummm so, Add-e-see-nah?’
*...silence...*
‘Add-e-see-nah?’
With a last name starting with *A*, then *D*, I was always at the very top of every roll call sheet while I was in school; and each year, teachers appeared to utter the same words - and have the same issue.
‘Do you mean, Fiyinfoluwa?’, I would reply.
‘Adesina is my last name. Fiyinfoluwa - or Fiyin, the first five letters - is my first name.’
I’d seen the roll call sheet - it always listed last names, followed by a comma, then first names.
Wondering why teachers always went for my last name, first? I know. It’s because it seemed to be the ‘easier-to-pronounce’ name. Thanks to the power of reflection, I understand this now as being a microaggression - and it infuriates me, even more so now than it did then.
To me, changing a person’s name is one of the quickest ways to change their identity.
Growing up, there was a constant tension with my name - between how it should be pronounced, and how it was (or wasn’t) pronounced.
My struggle had always lived at the intersection of being the child of immigrants - with my parents initially leaving Nigeria for Canada, and ultimately settling in Australia in 1991.
Not only was it a struggle being told things like ‘can you Anglicise that?’ throughout my life, when advising people on how to pronounce my name - there were other things.
Things like the struggle of being one of two sisters who were the only Black girls at a conservative Christian primary school in Sydney’s predominantly white Sutherland Shire, a place which had little diversity in background and thought - most especially in the early 90s.
Things like the struggle of being in Year 3 and getting called the N-word by a classmate - and having the teacher tell me to shrug it off.
Also, struggles like being on the receiving end of patronising and pathologising comments like ‘well, aren’t you lucky you escaped the famine? The war? The drought?’ at our local shopping centre (none of which applied to me, or to any Yoruba or Nigerian really).
These stories aren’t new. These stories aren’t unique. What these stories are, however, is unfortunate, ignorant, narrow-minded - and frankly, racist.
My name - Fiyinfoluwa - means ‘give praise to God’. It was a deliberate choice made by my parents, and celebrates not only my Yoruba-ness, but my parents’ faith - and ultimately mine. The correct way of pronouncing my name is the Yoruba way (of which there are actually two pronunciations), and this is my preference.
“MY NAME - FIYINFOLUWA - MEANS ‘GIVE PRAISE TO GOD’. IT WAS A DELIBERATE CHOICE MADE BY MY PARENTS…”
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried to educate most people I’ve met about my Yoruba heritage. While I’ve made a concerted effort to address how Nigeria, as a nation, is actually a colonial construct made up of over 500 languages and ethnicities - intertwined with a history of being one of the countries where enslaved peoples would originate - I never quite mustered the courage to correct people’s mispronunciations of my name.
On one of my last days of high school, I had a watershed moment - where there was an unveiling of my understanding of my identity, culture, and ethnicity.
In preparation for my Year 12 Graduation Ceremony, our Deputy Principal had requested for each student to inform him of how our names should be said.
In front of almost 150 girls in our grade, I found the courage to finally say:
‘Actually, Mr. M* - it’s Fiyinfoluwa. Fiyin has two syllables, and it’s fol-u-wa, not flower.’
I remember a close friend, stunned at this revelation, piped up and said:
‘What?! So we’ve been saying your name wrong this whole time?! Why didn’t you say anything?’.
I paused - then responded calmly, but resolutely:
‘Because...I told you guys in Year 7, but you kept getting it wrong - so after a while, I just gave up.’
Thankfully - in time, not only has my pride in being a Yoruba-Australian woman grown, so has the knowledge of my culture. I can now appreciate what a privilege it was to have been brought up in a home where being Yoruba was celebrated, spoken and taught - and where Jesus remained at the centre. My understanding of who I am has also been encouraged by regular calls with my grandparents - who lived in Ijebu-Igbo and Ibadan, a couple of family trips to Nigeria, and the growing exposure that Yorubas, and Nigerians, are receiving around the world.
Along with this, I’ve gotten much better at responding to people who ask what ‘tribe’ I’m from. I now take it upon myself to call out that the word ‘tribe’ connotes primitiveness and backwardness. I also make sure that by the end of our conversation, the person who asked me is no longer oblivious to the fact that Yorubas are an ethnicity of around 50 million people - far from a tribe (also, drawing their attention to the idea that they wouldn’t ask a European person what tribe they’re from - and getting them to think about this).
In spite of the racial and social unrest, living in America over the last few years has amplified my consciousness, identity and personal development - as I now find solace and belonging in what was once regrettably seen as an imperfection.
My journey has meant that I have, and continue to, shed the layers of self-doubt, internalised prejudices and subconscious desire to assimilate. I have now cast aside my initial resistance to my parents’ insistence that I introduce myself correctly.
Now, I stand tall, in all my Yoruba glory - as societal discourse revolves around Blackness, Black Lives Matter and racial justice.
Now, I tell everyone:
‘It’s not Pheeeeeeee-yan, it’s Fiyin. Phonetically it is two syllables - *Fi* then *yin*. The *i* in *Fi* is short and *i* in *yin* is a nasalised vowel, and thus makes the *n* nearly, but not quite, silent.’
Practice and you’ll get it, it’s straightforward.
WHAT WE EAT IS MEANINGFUL
Although we Nigerians like to claim jollof rice as our own, it’s actually very popular across the geographic region of West Africa and there has been decades-long, light-hearted banter among many of us about who cooks it best. I’ve always considered jollof rice to be my favourite food, and used to bring leftovers to school for lunch any chance I got!
DISH OF OUR HERITAGE
NIGERIAN JOLLOF RICE