A name is a powerful thing. It’s a tool used to shape a soul into the exact person they were meant to be. A name is not a label to be arbitrarily selected and carelessly called, but a gift that guides like the tender love of a mother’s hand.
I have never had my name called.
You there!… White haired girl… Kitachi—
But not once was it my name.
“What are you doing later, Rue? Father’s giving me lessons today. He said I could bring a friend,” said a small, ruddy-faced boy with a missing front tooth. His hair hung in black waves across his forehead, a few strands stuck to his skin from the sun’s heat as he grinned at his friend—a girl with features so similar they could have been siblings.
“I can’t tonight, I have to finish revising for our exam.” She frowned, splitting her sandwich in half and passing some to him.
It was an oddly calming feeling to watch others interact with such normalcy, like they were perfectly content to live their life with their backs turned on the injustices of the world, their names being called with love, not disdain.
I felt my heart twist uncomfortably as I thought of how wonderful it must be to live like them— a physical reproach at my contemplation.
“Irina!” My head turned. “I finally managed to get a flower to bloom in my palm! Come, look, look!”
I craned my neck slightly to peer over the girl’s back as she grew a beautiful long-stemmed daisy for her friend.
It was magical.
The rest of the afternoon passed in like fashion, with me perched in a tree to avoid the rest of civilization, candy wrappers slowly filling my pockets and both eyes watching the world from behind my book until it was finally time to go home.
As I climbed down and packed away my history books, a sharp pain bolted through my head. My hand instinctively covered it, and I turned around to see a bunch of laughing classmates.
“We thought it might have been fake.” One of them quipped as they hurried from the room.
Sometimes I wished it was.
Sometimes I wished that I was just as plain and boring as the rest of the realm, with a head full of black and a complexion as pale as the moon.
By the time I made it home the pain had spread from my head to my heart, filling me with a grief that ran deeper than places blood could reach. I knew it wasn’t my father’s fault for loving my mother, but bringing her from Hifae, to a land where she would forever be an outsider, felt too cruel. Then having a child who looked just like her was crueler still.
A father’s love could only do so much. It couldn’t protect you from the inferiority that others whispered into your heart, nor the embarrassment they poured over your soul. It didn’t change features and eradicate humiliation; it only held you close as you fell apart.
“You’re home, A—”
“Leave me alone!” I didn’t mean to yell.
I didn’t mean to run up the stairs or slam my door, throw my things or curl up on my bed in tears either. I was stronger than that, and I knew it, but it felt so wrong that I had to endure such normalized insults from the same people who had their silks imported from my realm.
As they pranced around in sheer scarves and wore chains around their ankles in one breath and laughed at my brown skin and traditions in the other.
My realm was not an accessory for them to use as an adornment where they saw fit. It was not a broach to carelessly pin to their meticulously cultivated images.
It was a land of burning fire, rich history, and beautiful culture. It felt like betrayal to live in Mizul and tolerate such behavior that would be fiercely reprimanded if I were in my mother’s homeland.
No one would deny Mizul its beauty. With its luscious forests, golden beaches, hidden caves, and small towns, it was breathtaking. Often cold, but breathtaking.
I wasn’t entirely sure if that was enough though. A beautiful land did not mean a beautiful people, but I suppose then nowhere was ever truly enough.
Pride exists in us all, a greed for status, an envy for money, a gluttony for validation. They breed and multiply within us, consuming our goodness like shadows eating the light.
I wished I wasn’t like that.
I wanted to be someone noble, someone with character that spoke in place of my face and an impression that hung in place of my hair.
“Are you hungry, little miracle?” The sound of my father’s voice drifted under my door, forcing me up.
“Yes, I’ll get ready and come.” I sniffled, rubbing my eyes. “I love you, father.”
The sound of his soft chuckle had my lips tilting upwards.
“I love you too, Aria.”
Alisha Umar has a deep thirst for knowledge and a beautiful appreciation for learning. She spends hours pondering over her recent reads, researching for her own stories and scouring every inch of the library. When she’s not engrossed in her books or posting on her social media she can be found spending quality time with her friends and family, engaging in meaningful debates with her loved ones, taking down the next food destination on her bucket list and fantasising about which places she wants to travel to next- whether fictional or real. You can find her on TikTok, Instagram and YouTube @authoralishau
Featured image by Jose Pablo Garcia on Unsplash.
