Atọkẹ

Firmly placed amid the hatch, you never quite liked that name.

They did not tell you — you had to come into yourself.

Middle child, the only thing kept from you was the soil upon which your life is set.

The sun-stricken women surrounded your shell, twisting laurels and chanting:

Awa mẹta, a to kẹ ọmọ yii.

You walked into the world with hallowed cheeks upon which birds plant kisses.

You walked into the world a prayer.