Do I be Lawuo? Do I tell her to take a hike? Do I just listen to the first three words in the meaning of Lawuo? Do I go past the first three words, follow it through, and listen to the deeper and longer meaning of Lawuo? Do I completely dismiss Lawuo and take comfort in the meanings of my other names? Do I dive deeper and emerge out as just the lion? As a pissed off and furious lion? As a beautiful, amazing, strong, energetic, courageous, fearless lion? Do I combine all the meanings of my names; Lawuo, Yemah-Gbokwoh, Zorkleene, Aalafayiah, Dolokolliemah, before Cummings came along, and mold them into my own force, and fight back for survival? And fight back for my voice to be heard? Even though I am loudly shouting and screaming.

There is one meaning of one of my names that I can not dismiss or push aside. It is forever part of me, no matter what I do. It is the first thing people see when they look at me. I am reminded of it each time I go to renew my driver’s license. Every time fill out an official government form, or key medical form. 

God damn you ancestors, with your forward thinking, futuristic, forecasting rituals for naming a child’s. You mold, craft, and give them a load that is much bigger for them to carry, but knowing there will come a time and day when their necks will be a little stronger to support their heads, to support their backs, to support their legs, when they are forced to pick up a heavy, unwanted, and unintended load, lifting it up onto their heads without help from no one, and walking miles and miles with it on their heads. Without taking any breaks.

As I was carried back to the town, after being born in a school house, my aunty, my father’s sister, took a look into the futuristic forward thinking mirror that the Kpelle people look into ever-so-often and said, Oooo this child will be called Yemah-Gbokwoh. Which reads, Yawn-Ma-Go-kpwoah, all together.

_{No, no, no, noooooooooooo! I tossed and turned screaming of terror. Do not call me that name. Please, I am begging you, please no, no. I do not want that name.}

The crowds started to gather, to see the newly born baby, and they too were presented with the futuristic forecasting mirror, and they went on chattering—we were informed that you took a bath in the same water that Yemah-Gbokwoh did, and walked the same path Yemah-Gbokwoh walked before the rising of the sun. Before her arrival here. You are Yemah-Gbokwoh.

God-dammit, why is no one listening to me? Listen, people listen. Can I be called Yaie-Gormai Berber Hawelley Naimah? Or just Yaie-Gormai? It has the same Y and G if this is what you all are going for? 

I want to be called Yaie-Gormai, I demanded. My great-grandmother on my mother’s side of the family. I can see her clearly. She is tall. She is fearless. How do you know I did not bathe in the same water and walked the same path back when the sun rose on Yaie-Gormai Berber Hawelley in November of 1931? Is it because my sunrise was in the month of August, and not in November, the same month my great-grandmother was born?

Okay, everyone listen, let’s all try to reach an agreement. I have some Kola nuts and some palm wine, let’s all go and sit down under the palava hut and talk about this matter. We need to discuss this issue more. This is a very serious matter of my identity you are talking about here. This is going to define me forever. You can’t just decide on matters of identity without me having any say in it. I protested.

I led the way and we all walked to the palava hut, it was not far from the big cotton tree that is in the middle of the town. We all sat down to discuss the matter in more detail. 

I need my father here, I tossed and turned. He is not here, I am a female, and it is customary to have a male representation, in addition to my mother before we can break the kola nut. But I was told that my father wasn’t coming back anytime soon, I was informed that he was taken away by armed soldiers, and he had been gone for over a month now. That we have to move on, and we have to focus on pressing matters of identity, things that are in front of us, right now, right here, under the palava hut. 

So I started.

My people, I bring my matter before you. My father’s sister wants my name to be Yemah-Gbokwoh, and I do not want that name. I want to be called Yaie-Gormai,  or Nahi-wor, my other great-grandmother that had followed my mother to the farm, so I bring my matter before you all. The chattering started again, as they all started to put their heads together, brainstorming. They reached a decision. The same decision. But you see, they said, looking directly into my eyes, look just like Yemah-Gbokwoh. Please, I hold your two foot, I cried. Do not call me Yemah-Gbokwoh. I don’t want to be called Yemah-Gbokwoh.  I told the elders sitting in the palava hut.

But why? The elders asked me? The ancestors told us that you look just like Yemah-Gbokwoh, so we are just following orders. This is how things are done, my child. Noooo, you are all lying. I cried. I am still just a baby, not even a few hours old yet, how do you know that I am just like her? Babies change when they grow-up. This is a curse, I don’t want it. I spread a lappa on the ground, and knelt down on it, holding on the feet of everyone that were sitting under the round shaped hut made of clay and mud, with a roof made of palm trees branches, called thatch. One person at a time.

Thatches that are put over this round and kind of square shaped looking structure, interlocking it to the tiny tree branches that had been crisscrossed, matted, and tied over the round square-like structure, creating a triangle looking shape on the top.  From a distance, and close up, if you look at the roof of the hut, it looks like an umbrella over a round glass of water. Or what I like to think, a round glass filled with palm wine, sex on the beach, a long island ice, or a tequlia sunrise. But with the umbrella slightly larger in weight than the glass, creating a bit of an eave that you can stand under, without being pressed against the actual clay and mud structure of the palava hut.

Pleaaaaaase, I cried, I hold your two foot. How about we reach a deal? My deal? I took a kola nut–a nut that is used traditionally in key ceremonial events such as engagements, marriages, settling disputes, and more. The splitting, sharing, and eating of a kola nut amongst disputed or celebratory parties sitting under a palava hut or sitting in any gathering, is the equivalent of signing your name on the dotted signature line and reaching an agreement. Let’s reach an agreement, I proposed.. How about I meet you halfway? I will take the name Yemah but not the Gbokwoh. I split the kola nut into its two pieces, took a bite off one of the halves as a way of signing my name, just the name Yemah, on the contract that I had drafted out. 

My people, please, I am begging you, I will carry you on my back, I will “pol-pol” you. I turned to my mother, mama please help me beg these people for me? I pleaded to her. My mother looked back at me and said, I am sorry my child, these are your father’s people. Your father is not here, and they are in charge. These are your family. I am just an outsider. I am not really part of this family so I do not have any say in this matter. You have to fight your own battle with your Dolokolliemah family, my child. I am a Naimah. I am not a Dolokolliemah. I am sorry my child. My hands are tie, with layers and layers of strong rope, made of steel. I am not in any position to get in a fight right now.

I turned back to the Dolokolliemah family, and said, since you are not taking the 50/50 deal that I have presented, how about a 80/20 deal? How about you call me Yemah-Gbo? I just do not want the “Kwoh”. I just do not want to look just like Yemah-Gbokwoh because of the “Kwoh” in her name. I know the meaning of this and I do not want it.

And once again, they replied, my child it had been molded and crafted in the stones, deep beneath the crust of the earth, before the rising of your sun, that you are a short woman just like your aunty Yemah-Gbokwoh, so we can not call you by your great-grandmother’s name, Yaie-Gormai or  Nahi-wor because they are a tall women, and you are a short woman, just like the word “Kwoh” which means “short” in Kpelle.

We hold your heart, they pleaded with me. Please, accept that this is not going to change. You can fight it all you like, but you are a short woman. Kneeing and holding our feet are not going to make any difference. We are begging you, (we hold your heart), please get up and have a bite of the kola nut, and let us all drink the palm wine and celebrate that we have reached a decision, and that you will never try to fight it again or dismiss it. Never in your life or death. This is the first thing people will notice when they see you, and this is one of the last things they will remember as they describe you long after your sun have set. You can not escape it.  

They now took the kola nut, split it, each of the Dolokolliemah family took a bite of the kola nut, handed me the kola nut, I took a bite, and it was agreed upon. Despite all of my tossing, turning, crying, and screaming as a baby, the Dolokolliemah family still did not listen to all my cries, and my mother was in no position to help, so I am the shortest person amongst my siblings, and in my generation. Just as they predicted.

I definitely had taken a bath in the same water that my father’s sister bathed in. I definitely had drank the same water she drank. I definitely walked the same path she walked prior to the rising of my sun, because I am short just like she was. God-dammit!

Go ahead and call me short. Go ahead and describe me as short. I will not be offended because that is part of my name. That is part of who I am. I tried to fight it before now and I lost bitterly, so I ate my kola and accepted it. I watched my mouth and took my physical identity. I took the name decided and agreed upon. I am Yemah-Gbokwoh.

But, when I beat the drums bad-way and aggressively, my family calls me Y-Kwoh.

Thank you for reading.

Lawuo, Yemah-Gbokwoh, Zorkleene, Aalafayiah, Dolokolliemah, before Cummings