How We Wear Ourselves – Part 3
There’s something that happens when a Nigerian name enters a room before its owner.
People pause. Frown. Repeat. Misspell. Apologise. Ask for “a shorter version.”
And slowly, over time, we begin to edit ourselves.
You start life as Chijioke, and by university, you’re CJ.
You were born Oluwadamilola, but now your email signature just says “Lola” for ease.
You flinch when someone says “Sorry, I’ll just call you T.” And you nod. Because what’s the point of correcting them again?
That’s the thing about names. They don’t just identify you. They introduce your story.
And for many Nigerians, especially in the diaspora, that story often starts with softening, shortening, and slowly backing away from syllables that once carried pride.
The Shrinkage Is Real
You don’t realise when it begins.
Maybe it’s primary school and your teacher refuses to pronounce Oluwatosin properly so you offer “Tosin” just to move on.
Maybe you move to the UK and your new friends say your name is “too hard.”
Maybe you get tired of hearing it mangled at Starbucks and start saying “Call me Jay.”
Maybe you’re in a Zoom meeting and someone pauses at your name like it’s an airport security check and you jump in to “save” them.
You tell yourself it’s not that deep.
But it is.
Because every time you trim your name for someone else’s convenience, you leave a piece of yourself on the floor.
This is Not Just a Diaspora Thing
Even in Nigeria, we’ve been doing this dance for years.
How many Bimpe’s are actually Oluwabimpe?
How many Obinna’s go by “Obi” at work to sound more… neutral?
How many Northerners swap out their full Hausa or Arabic names in Lagos just to “fit in”?
There’s pressure to sound “normal” even in your own country especially if you’re angling for access.
Bank jobs, law firms, corporate spaces where English is polished, and culture is muted just enough to not rock the boardroom table.
So don’t be surprised when someone who grew up in Surulere introduces themselves as “Joe” in Toronto.
They’ve already done it before right at home.
The Return Is Slow but Sweet
And yet, something is shifting.
Maybe it’s age. Or therapy. Or just the fatigue of explaining your nickname like it’s a witness statement.
But more and more Nigerians are going back to the full name.
Pronouncing it. Insisting on it. Correcting gently but firmly.
Wearing it on lanyards, in bios, on book covers.
Choosing to say, “Actually, it’s not Layo. It’s Omolayo. And yes you can say it.”
The return is not always loud.
Sometimes it’s quiet changing your social media name back to the original spelling.
Or putting the full name on your CV.
Or finally saying “I’m not Jay. I’m Jide.”
It’s not just cultural pride. It’s ownership.
Not rebellion but realignment.
But Let’s Be Honest Sometimes We Still Code-Switch
You’re Damilola at the owambe. But Dami on Slack.
You’re Emeka at home. But your CV says Mike.
You sign off as Nneka, but pronounce it “Nay-ka” at that networking event because you just don’t have the energy today.
It’s okay.
We all do it.
Some days, identity is worn full-length. Other days, it’s folded into the pocket.
The point isn’t perfection. It’s awareness.
To remember what you’re editing and why.
Your Name Has Meaning. And Swagger.
Ask your parents why they named you what they did.
Watch their eyes light up.
The prayer, the moment, the story behind it.
Your name didn’t just come. It was chosen.
Often by elders. Sometimes by dreams. Always with intention.
And when you wear it again with chest, with grace, with small corrections and large confidence you’re not just being difficult.
You’re honouring memory. You’re holding ground.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re giving the next person with a “hard name” permission to carry theirs too.
So What’s Your Name? The Full One.
No short forms. No stage names. No nicknames you made up in 2008 because someone said your real name was “long.”
Just your name. The one they called at your naming ceremony.
The one that means something.
The one that carries rain, laughter, hope, identity, and maybe small generational baggage.
This is How We Wear Ourselves and your name is your first outfit.
So drop it.
Share its meaning.
Tell us what you were called before the world asked you to simplify.
Use #HowWeWearOurselves and tag someone whose full name deserves to be said with pride.
Because your name is not too long.
Not too hard.
Not too foreign.
It’s yours.
Say it. With your chest.
