I bear a Yoruba name. Yewande, iya wa mi de, means ‘mother has come to look for me’. My name is common in Nigeria and obscure in South Africa. Being from many places has a way of tempering all experiences. I have been beautiful in some cities, ugly in others; in a way it’s healthy – at least for the ego – to grow up understanding the balancing powers of context.
A new friend in Jo’burg, a Nigerian, invited me to a picnic. He was going to be late but said the host, a Kenyan woman, knew me and that it would be fine to turn up before him. He mentioned the host’s name and I felt embarrassed at my poor memory, but hoped the minute I saw her face recognition would surface. When I arrived, the host stared perplexed at me, then we smiled as we both got it at the same time – she’d mistaken me for a different Yewande, whom I would go on to meet.
