This First Person column is written by Onome Ako, who lives in Mississauga, Ont. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
It was Feb. 19 — my daughter’s second birthday. The guests had left and the house was quiet. I finally sat down and pressed play on the voicemail notification blinking on my phone.
“This message is for Janice,” the voice said.
I almost deleted it. Wrong number, I assumed. The voice continued: “I’m calling to wish her a happy birthday.” My stomach tightened. This individual has completely skipped my daughter’s first given name — Morenike — and replaced it with her middle name. A name she never goes by.
That moment stung. Not just because it was wrong but because of what it symbolized: a quiet but deliberate erasure of identity.
The woman on the voicemail, an adviser for the education fund I’d set up, had ignored my daughter’s first given name — which appeared on every form I’d painstakingly filled out — and called her by what she chose. Something easier. More comfortable. For her.
It might seem small. But it wasn’t. And it didn’t happen just once. She called the next year with the same message for … Janice.
By her fourth birthday, I was waiting by the phone.
The call did come. As usual, she requested for Janice. I calmly responded, “Did you mean Morenike?”
Silence. And I heard what seemed like uncomfortable shifting at the other end of the phone.
Morenike, she finally said. I had succeeded in defending my daughter’s name.
Names with stories and meaning
Morenike is a Yoruba name that means “I am cherished.”
I chose it with purpose. I whispered it long before my daughter was born, the moment I first felt her kick inside me. I held it close during a difficult, even traumatic, pregnancy. Morenike. She was one I will cherish because of the circumstances surrounding her birth.
And seven days after her birth, as Yoruba tradition calls for, we held her naming ceremony — Isomoloruko — surrounded by elders and family bestowing names that carried hope, resilience and blessing.
Among the the names was also Janice — in honour of her paternal grandmother, a name that means God’s gift.
Culturally, our names tell a story. When you hear a name, you can determine the circumstances of birth and the hopes and the dreams for the child.
I wanted my daughter’s name to carry strength into the world. I wanted her to hear it spoken aloud and know she was seen and cherished.
But in classrooms and schoolyards in Canada, in appointment reminders and birthday invitations, her name has been shortened, misspelled or replaced entirely. Once, I was asked — with what I can only describe as polite disapproval — why I gave my child a name like that in the first place.
It’s a question that says more than it asks. It says names like hers don’t belong here. Comfort is valued more than accuracy. Belonging is conditional.
I’ve spoken with friends who’ve changed their names on resumes — Segun becomes John, Chioma becomes Amanda. Others give their children more Western-sounding names, hoping to protect them from bullying at school or discrimination later in life. That, too, is a form of love. But it’s a love born from survival.
When I moved to Canada, I faced the subtle but real pressure to adopt a resume name, something that would increase my chances of getting a job. I did not give in but kept both my Nigerian names — Onome (“This is mine”) and Oritsetemi (“God has not shamed me”). On my Canadian ID, my middle name is missing the final letter because it did not fit the space provided.
Likewise I gave my daughter a Nigerian name. Not for the ease of pronunciation or for acceptance, but for the depth of its meaning. A name that demands to be said with care. A name that reminds me, her and her loved ones that she is cherished. Morenike.
And I am teaching her to stand up for herself. To boldly defend and embrace her beautiful name.
It’s OK to defend your name
For the past nine years of my daughter’s life, I have walked beside her as she learned to carry her name. I have seen her cringe as I gently corrected those who mispronounced, misspelled or called her Janice without her permission. At the airport, at the doctor’s office. Playdates. She would say to me quietly under her breath: “Mom, it’s OK.”
And each time, I would have the same conversation with her: It’s OK to let it go sometimes, yes, but it’s also OK, in fact more than OK, to insist that people say your name right. Because names matter, and your name carries a special meaning.
I witnessed a moment of pride that told me she was beginning to understand.
She was at the swimming pool, finishing her second session. I was on the deck, towel in hand, close enough to catch every word of the exchange between her and her instructor. Great job he commended her and went on to ask: “Do you remember my name?”
“Yes,” she said, “Daniel.”
“And yours is Moriniky?”
She smiled, corrected him: “Morenike.”
“Morenaik?” he tried again.
“Morenike,” she said once more.
Finally, he got close enough to it that she was satisfied. She gave a small nod of approval. Smiling, he gave a high five. Or maybe she gave him a high five for getting close enough.
LISTEN | Here’s how to say Morenike’s name.
I beamed with pride.
She gets it. Her name is a gift. Her gift.
I know it is not always going to be an easy journey. Being that person to keep correcting, over and over again. It takes courage.
And so, as she continues to navigate the world around her and meets people — whether they’re new teachers, classmates or friends — my hope is they make the effort. Ask how to pronounce her name. Repeat it. Say it properly. Be curious. Be respectful.
Because names are not just sounds. They are stories. They are the first gift we give our children, often shaped by ancestry, culture, and a thousand whispered hopes.
When we honour names, we honour people.
And every child — Morenike included — deserves that.
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For more stories about the experiences of Black Canadians — from anti-Black racism to success stories within the Black community — check out Being Black in Canada, a CBC project Black Canadians can be proud of. You can read more stories here.
