Call me Onyi. I

The Name They Gave Me.

“You're a special child," my mother would say, smoothing my hair with hands that always trembled just slightly. "Born for a special reason."

But I never understood why.

Was it because of the rain—the way it fell in great, gasping sheets the day I was born, drumming against the clinic’s corrugated roof like impatient spirits, even though the dry season had cracked the earth barren for months?

Or because of my father, how he came home that same evening, his shirt translucent with stormwater, waving the government contract that would yank us from poverty? ("Look what your life already brings us,"* he’d say for years after, like I owed him for the air in my lungs.)

Or was it the way my grandmother pressed her cracked palms to my tiny chest and hissed my name into the thick, rain-scented air: "Onyinyechukwu"—like an incantation, like if she said it hard enough, God might hear and agree?

A gift from God, they said.

By seventeen, I knew the truth: Gifts from God are heavy to hold.

---

The classroom smelled of sweat and chalk dust when Mr. Okafor slapped my exam paper onto the desk. The red F bled through the thin sheet. Behind me, Emeka snickered into his palm, his knee jabbing my chair. My fingers left damp prints on the wooden desk as I gripped it, willing myself not to turn around.

"Special child," Aunty Ada would say later that day, her voice dripping with something worse than disappointment, "and yet you can't even solve for x."She spat my full name like a curse—Onyinyechukwu—each syllable a stone added to the pile already crushing my chest.

That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and stared at the girl in the mirror. Steam from the shower curled around her—around me—obscuring my reflection until all I could see were my eyes, dark and burning. I dragged my fingernails through the condensation, watching as Onyinyechukwu dissolved into streaks of water.

When I came out, my father was waiting.

“You embarrassed me today," he said, his voice low. The contract folder was open on the table, his precious signatures on display. “Do you not know what people expect from you?"

I did. And that was the problem.

---

I didn’t mean to say it aloud, but the words came anyway—quiet, steady, deliberate.

"Call me Onyi," I said. I said it to Omasirichi, but I knew the whole table would hear.

The dinner table froze.

Grandma's peppermint sweet cracked between her teeth. Father's fork hovered over his fried plantain, oil dripping onto his tie. Only Aunty Ada moved—reaching for more stew, her smirk a sliver of silver.

“Ehn ehn, I said it.” Aunty Ada echoed, her voice sing-song as she stirred her stew. The wooden spoon clacked against the pot like a warning.

"That's not the name God gave you,"Mama whispered, her fingers clutching her rosary so tight the beads left marks.

I stood so fast my chair screeched. The sudden movement made the kerosene lamp flicker—just for a second, but long enough to see Omasirichi flinch. “Then maybe God should've asked what I wanted."

The silence that followed was thicker than the monsoon air. My father's hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for something—maybe the belt, maybe my shoulder. Outside, the first drops of rain began to tap at the window.

"You don't get to choose.", he said finally.

---

That night, I found the note under my pillow, its edges crisp as a fresh naira note. My hands shook so badly I nearly tore the paper straight down the middle.

"Proverbs 22:1 - A good name is more desirable than great riches. Don't throw yours away."

Omasirichi's handwriting curled sweetly, the ink smudged like she'd hesitated. I crushed the paper, the scripture dissolving into pulp between my fingers. Since when did she care about scripture?

Across the room, my sister pretended to sleep, her breathing too even. The moonlight caught the gold cross at her throat—the one Father gave her after my first F. Aunty Ada's low humming floated through the wall, that same hymn she always sang when someone was in trouble.

I used to think we were allies. Then I remembered: in this house, even love came with footnotes.

---

Hi, hi, my love.

How are you? How was last week for you? And this one—did it start on a good note? I hope you’re easing into it with peace.

I know I’m sending this letter a little late, and I’m sorry. But as you’ll soon see, it’s because I had something quietly cooking for us.

This story? It’s about a girl named Onyinye, who just wanted to be seen, beyond the circumstances surrounding her birth.

It's going to have five chapters(or episodes) and I'll be sending you each one from now til Friday.

I hope you find space to read this story slowly. To sit with it. To feel through it. Maybe even to see bits of yourself in the spaces between the lines. And I hope that when you see these pieces, they find you whole, or hold you gently until you are.❤️