“The world will try to rename you, Ada, but don’t let it rewrite your spirit.”
My grandmother said that to me the night before I left Enugu.
She held my hand under the mango tree, her eyes soft like dusk, her voice thick with the weight of wisdom. I didn’t understand then. I just smiled, nodded, and tucked her words somewhere between my chest and my fear.
Now I understand.
Because I’ve been renamed so many times, I barely remember what Ada is supposed to sound like in my own mouth.
Freshman Year: The Becoming
I arrived at Bellbridge University like a blank canvas—smiling too much, apologizing too often, eager to belong to anything that wasn’t my family’s expectations.
In Enugu, I was the “last born,” the spare part in a house of high achievers.
Nnaemeka, the golden son—Cardiologist.
Ngozi, the married daughter—Banker.
Ada? Nobody knew what I wanted, because I had never said it out loud.
I wanted to write.
But in my house, writing was for the idle. Storybooks were for children. Nobody cared about your “feelings” unless you were bleeding.
So I zipped my desire shut and let it die quietly in the corner of my heart.
Until I met them.
Mimi. Zara. Tonia. The Campus Sirens.
They didn’t walk; they glided. Every strand of their Peruvian hair was an announcement. They spoke like Abuja girls with options, like Lagos girls with secrets. I don’t even know how they found me.
“You’re cute in a lost-puppy kind of way,” Mimi said, sipping a Starbucks knockoff. “Let’s make you less… pathetic.”
I laughed. They didn’t.
That’s how the makeover began.
New clothes. New voice. New rules.
No repeats. No begging boys for attention. No sandals. No JAMB story.
They even gave me a new name.
Adriana.
“It sounds expensive,” Zara said, tossing my ID card like a joke. “You look expensive now.”
And for a while, I did.
When Tolu Entered the Picture
He saw me across the quad, wearing borrowed confidence and a scandalous mini skirt.
Final-year Mass Comm. Dreadlocks that looked sculpted by angels. Voice like melted chocolate.
“You don’t belong here,” he said with a smile, handing me a bottle of Sprite.
“I know,” I whispered. “But I’m trying.”
He laughed. “Don’t try too hard.”
We became a whirlwind—his room, my texts, late-night walks, whispered dreams.
I told him about my writing.
He kissed my palm and said, “That’s cute. But don’t post those sad-girl poems online. You’re better as a mystery.”
So I wrote for myself. In secret. In shame. In silence.
The Breaking Point
It started as a rumor.
Then it exploded.
Leaked DMs. Screenshots. One blurred photo of me, half-naked and blurred out.
Nobody asked if it was real. It didn’t matter.
The campus group chats chewed me up and spat me out in pixels.
The captions said things like:
“Fake baddie caught slippin.”
“Adriana’s scandal. SMH.”
“When you upgrade too fast, karma downloads you.”
Mimi blocked me.
Zara posted a vague story: “Some girls forget who made them.”
Tolu?
He read the messages and never texted back.
The Collapse
I called home.
Daddy said, “Pack your things. You’re coming back to Enugu. We’ll find another school.”
But I remembered grandma’s voice.
I remembered what silence had cost me.
And I chose to stay.
The Rebirth
I cut my hair.
Not a trim. A war cry.
I logged out of Instagram. Deleted TikTok. Burned every crop top I didn’t buy with my own money.
I walked alone for months.
I joined a writing collective run by nerdy seniors and a literature lecturer who quoted Toni Morrison like Bible verses.
The first time I read my poem aloud, my voice cracked like breaking glass.
But I didn’t stop.
Each week, I wrote more.
Each poem, a resurrection.
Each line, a reclamation.
I was not Adriana. I was not anyone’s project.
I was Ada.
Climax: Becoming Me
It was the campus open mic night.
Packed hall. Blinking fairy lights. Nervous breath.
I stood with the microphone like it owed me something.
And I spoke:
“They renamed me for convenience. Repackaged me for consumption. But I have found my voice in the rubble of what they broke.”
“My name is Ada. Not expensive. Not mysterious. Not filtered. Just me.”
“This pain is my proof. This truth is my protest. I will not shrink to fit your comfort.”
When I finished, the silence was heavy.
And then… applause.
Tolu was in the back. His eyes wet, maybe regretful.
He approached me after.
“Hey. Can we talk?”
I smiled.
“No.”
And I walked past him like he was just another character I’d outgrown.
Epilogue: The Real Success Story
My parents sat me down two weeks later.
My father cleared his throat, awkward.
“I read that poem. The one they sent us.”
I braced myself.
But he said, “It was powerful.”
My mother added softly, “We didn’t know you were hurting. We’re… proud of who you’re becoming.”
Not what I expected. But sometimes healing doesn’t shout.
It just sits beside you and lets you breathe.
Takeaway:
The world will always try to rename you. Be brave enough to write yourself back.
I tell the kind of love stories that stay with you — the messy, unfiltered kind that unravel slowly and cut deep. Inspired by real emotion, rich culture, and everything we never say out loud, my fiction lives at the intersection of vulnerability and power. If you’ve ever loved like your soul depended on it… welcome home.
