Postcard on Names

Own your name…

As a child, I hated my name. It sounded too long and boyish. It just wasn’t cute enough for me. I remember having a classmate in primary school named Chinecherem (God cares for me). We often called her Neche, and I would have done anything to have that name. It was everything I thought mine wasn’t: cute, girly, fun.

My name is Odinakachi (it’s in God’s hands), and I sometimes wish I could fall on my knees and apologize for the gross ways I violated it as a child and even as an adult. Growing into my name has been a long, chaotic journey.

When I entered senior secondary school, I decided I needed a new name. Since my parents only gave me one, I thought an English name would make up for what I considered a grave injustice to my identity. I went to my mum for suggestions, and she called me Victoria. I remember scrunching my face in disgust. What sort of 1960s name was that? I shook my head and walked away, realizing it was my fault for going to her in the first place. How could I expect someone who, with her husband, decided that “Odinakachi” was the best they could do, to come up with a better English name? Arrgh!

Eventually, I chose Vivian. Vivian felt close to Victoria. I didn’t want to be one of those people we gossiped about in class who chose flashy English names and discarded what their parents called them. There was a girl named Swantha in my class who my friends and I had decided was one of those people. I wanted authenticity, so I went with Vivian. (It’s okay for you to judge me.😭)

I went to uni with Vivian as my English name but occasionally introduced myself as Odinakachi. Vivian wasn’t on any of my documents, so most people just called me what they saw. I didn’t mind, and if I did, I can’t remember showing it. It was enough that I had an English name to fall back on when Odinakachi became too much of a burden.

After uni, I got a job as a radio presenter and completely discarded Odinakachi. I was 22, old enough to know better but didn’t do better. I introduced myself as Vivian, and everyone called me that. It didn’t feel great or anything; it just felt okay, and I was fine with that.

I can’t say exactly when the shift happened, but I remember deciding, on my second paid gig as a screenwriter in 2020, to go with Odinakachi. I felt deeply that I needed to embrace that name, and I did—even if I started with a “sister in Christ” ish side hug.

Here’s what I know: that would not have happened without a story my mother has told a million times (I wish I were exaggerating). It’s the story of how she lost two sons before me and how after I was conceived, she decided I was in God’s hands. In her words, it didn’t matter to her if she made it out of the labor room or not; as long as I survived, I would be called Odinakachi. It didn’t also matter what gender I turned out to be. Hmmm! Like I said, this story has been told and retold, and what I just shared here is the simplistic, short version. But the point is, slowly but surely, her stories did the job of fixing my relationship with my name.

Just like stories, names matter. They do! What you call yourself and what you allow others call you matters deeply. A few years ago, as I now do routinely, I sat back and took stock of all the things that seemed big enough to kill me—and how they tried and failed. I know that my name, even though I haven’t always been kind to it, has played a role in my protection. Names matter! If you read the scriptures, you’ll see how much emphasis God places on names. I’m in awe of how many times He calls people by their names. Names matter!

This writing was prompted by what my sister said to me recently: “I’m always favoured.” I smiled and said, “Your name is Munachimso (I walk with my God). Of course, you are favoured.” The ease with which I said that almost knocked me out. Emotions bubbled up and spilled over. I’ve grown so much. I now know that names are more than just decorative labels. They are revelations and prophecies.

What’s your name? What do you call yourself? What do you let people call you?

Thankfully, I now see my name for what it is: a treasure. A priceless one! I continually bask in the fullness of it: Odinakachi. Yes! I am in God’s hands, and as long as the earth remains, He will continue to carry me in His hands. I am God’s own. I belong to Him, and my name confirms it. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Please, if we ever meet, call me Odinakachi—and take care to sound out the syllables correctly, because just one tilt and we have a question instead of a declaration. It’s Odinakachi! Not Odinakachi? I’m not asking, so don’t ask me. I know, as surely as I know this name, that I am in God’s hands.

P.S. If you’re my friend, a nickname coined from Odinakachi is perfectly fine. It’s even cute! Family and close friends call me “Odi,” and I love it. It doesn’t cancel the full impact of my name.

What’s your name, and what does it mean? I would really love to know.

With loads and loads of love,

Odinakachi Nwonu💚