They Named Her N'game'

I Am N'gamè 

(pronounced ING-Gaum-ay)

The ancestors named me N'game'

Birthed from dreams the Goddess sent messages, I unfolded and 

was molded into existence. 

And all the while my Blackness is political?

They write white poems
with tongues too tired
to wrap around my name
as if N’gamé is too much labor
for a mouth that recites Neruda with ease.
As if my syllables are a disruption
instead of a drumbeat.
And when I ask them to try,
they sigh,
call it “difficult, or interesting”
as if my name owes them comfort,
as if the flow of a poem
should not be disturbed
by the fullness of me.

   

From the breath in my lungs

to the spelling of my name

from how I enter a room

to how I leave it without breaking.

My skin walks in

before my words do.

My voice gets questioned

before it gets heard.

And even in silence,

they’ve already judged

my presence

a protest.

See, they told me:

Make it easier.

Make it lighter.

Make it quieter.

So I swallowed my roots

and let them rename me

Kristi.

The most polite, palatable,

“Please, don't be afraid of me” name.

Kristi...

the name they could say

without trying.

The name that tucked in my fire,

folded up my rhythm,

and prayed in English

when my ancestors spoke

through drums through the bloodlines of Togo 

and dusk

and the deep breath of becoming.

But I woke up.

I rose up.

I took it back.

N’gamé.

Say it.

Try again.

Put some respect

on the syllables my naming mothers gave me.

On the sounds, my ancestors died

trying to preserve.

On the vibration that carries

both war and worship.

Their history in my locks,

locked into spiritual alchemy in soul

So, now, when they say it wrong,

I correct them.

Not because I’m angry

but because I remember.

Because that name is not a suggestion,

it’s a declaration:

I. Am. Here.

Still...

I carry both.

Kristi and N’gamé.

The colonized and the cosmic.

The woman they trained me to be

and the woman I was born from stars to become.

That tension?

That duality?

That’s political, too.

Because being Black

means being fluent

in survival and sovereignty.

Means honoring every name

that helped me make it

through this world.

What is political about being Black?

Everything.

I  didn't choose this battlefield. It chose me

But I walk into it anyway draped in ancestors

armored in hope, walking towards freedom

that doesn't need permission

So yes, my black is political

My smile—coded resistance.

My hair—unapologetic history.

My joy—unregulated uprising.

My name—a revolution in syllables.

So when you ask me

what is political about being Black,

I say:

It’s in the way I correct you

when you stumble over N’gamé

but never Kristi.

It’s in how I carry both

without apology

because both are me.

the past and the present future.

I am not just Black.

I am Black with layers.

Black with memory.

Black with name.

Black with fight.

Black with fire and flame.

And this

this right here

is what they never wanted:

A Black woman

who knows her worth,

knows her name,

and dares to live in both.

But make no mistake about who I am...

I. Am. N'game'