✦ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑼𝒔 ✦
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
The Adeyinka dining room smelled like Sunday morning even though it was only Monday.
Golden plantain slices sizzled faintly in the kitchen, the sugary scent drifting through the air and settling over the heavy mahogany table that dominated the room. A chandelier hung above, its glass beads catching the early Lagos sun. Whoever had designed the house thought they were building something European, but Lagos humidity had other plans; the chandelier leaned slightly to the left, one bead forever dangling lower than the rest like a crooked tooth.
Adéwùrá Adeyinka sat at the table, chin propped on her palm, her fork twirling idly in scrambled eggs that were already cooling. Her braids, freshly done day before, were pulled back with a slim headband, and she was dressed in the black-and-white uniform of Oases High School: crisp white shirt, pleated black skirt that brushed her knees, socks folded once, shoes polished.
On paper, she looked exactly like every other girl who'd be at the school gates in less than an hour. But she felt nothing like them.
In her right ear, a single AirPod throbbed with Little Simz, bassline low, drums snapping.
"There's a war inside, I hear battle cries…" she mumbled into her fork, eyelids half-shut like the words were meant only for her. Chewing in rhythm, whispering again: "Sometimes I might be introvert."
Not exactly breakfast vibes in Lagos, but the song wrapped around her like armour. For a moment she could almost smell London rain, almost hear the hiss of the bus doors outside her old flat.
Then the beat flipped, deeper, hungrier. Gorilla.
Her lips moved before she even realised, syncing with Simz's growl: "Sim Simma, who got the keys to my bloodclart Bimmer? Big time drilla, monkey to gorilla…"
Her fork paused mid-air, smirk tugging at her lips. The verse hit harder than coffee ever could. She sat back, the line rolling off her tongue under her breath, steady, sure:
"Name one time where I didn't deliver."
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She glanced down beneath the table, screen lighting up: Ariel.
Ariel: Bruhhh these exams will actually kill me
Ariel: And guess what—Jayden literally carried the whole debate team today. Came in late, no prep, still roasted everyone .
Ariel: Then he smiled at me after… I swear my brain just stopped working.
Wùrá smirked, thumbs flying:
Wùrá: LOL leave him. You still like him though
Ariel: Lies! I don't…
Ariel: (okay, maybe a little )
Ariel: But his smile is kinda cute, ugh.
Wùrá shook her head, grinning at the screen. Typical Ariel—dragging a boy one second, daydreaming about him the next. Her fingers hovered before she typed again:
Wùrá: Wish I was there with you. First day here… this school better not be a prison
Three dots blinked, then Ariel's words popped up:
Ariel: Girl you'll be fine. Show them you're not just pretty, you're smart.
Ariel: They'll LOVE you. Like I do. Missing you already babe
Wùrá sighed, shoving her phone face-down into her lap. Love her? She doubted it. Lagos didn't love anyone who was different, not from what she'd seen so far. And her accent? Her parents had already warned her: everyone would call her oyinbo.
Across the table, Mr. Adeyinka snapped his newspaper shut like it had offended him. "Adéwùrá," he said, voice deep, precise. "Sit up. Sit properly. A young lady does not bend like boiled okra at the table."
Wùrá rolled her eyes so hard she could practically see the chandelier. Without pulling her AirPod, she muttered under her breath in sharp London tones: "It's just breakfast, not some sort of military training."
"Ehn?!" Her father's brows shot up like arrows. "We heard that!"
Mrs. Adeyinka, wrapped in a bright orange Ankara with a blue head tie that could double as armor, swiveled to glare. "Remove that thing from your ear. This is Lagos, not London underground."
Wùrá tugged out the AirPod reluctantly, letting Little Simz's beat die in her palm. "It was low."
"Low, high, medium," her mother snapped. "You're in this house. You will behave."
"Exactly," her father echoed, folding his paper with a crisp smack. He was already dressed for work—charcoal suit, tie neat, watch gleaming. Bank executive through and through. "At Oases, let me warn you, one mistake and you will kneel in the sun until you turn roasted corn. That is not London discipline. Here, you will respect yourself."
At the end of the table, Tola burst into laughter, half a chunk of plantain still puffing his cheeks. He was ten years old, mischief incarnate, and his school shirt was already smeared with oil.
Then he pointed at Wùrá's uniform with a sly grin.
"Bruhhh, you look like a head girl already," he said, putting on a posh voice. "'Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir.'"
He burst out laughing, nearly choking on his food.
Wùrá narrowed her eyes. "Shut it, Tola, before I draw you with that big forehead and hang it on the fridge."
Tola's jaw dropped. "My forehead's not big!"
"It's massive," Wùrá teased, leaning back in her chair. "They'll probably use it as projector screen in assembly."
Tola gasped, clutching his head like she'd just insulted the crown. "Mum! She's being rude!"
"Enough!" their father thundered, though his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. "The two of you will not turn this house into market noise."
Their mother, meanwhile, inspected Wùrá's skirt with eagle eyes. "This one is short. Did I not tell you? It must reach below the knee. Do you want boys to be chasing you on the first day?"
"Mummy, please," Wùrá groaned. "It's literally regulation length. Look." She stood, tugging it down a little.
Her mother wasn't convinced. She turned to her husband. "Akin, are you seeing what I am seeing?"
Mr. Adeyinka adjusted his glasses, glanced once, then buried himself back in his newspaper. "If it is short, prefects will catch her. Let them."
"See?" Wùrá muttered. "Even Dad agrees."
But her mother wasn't finished. "And tuck in your shirt properly. Not this your half-style." She reached across and yanked Wùrá's shirt into her skirt with military precision.
"Mummy!"
"What? Do you think Oases is like those your oyinbo schools where students talk back to teachers? Better forget that Ariana or whatever you were calling yourself. Here, you are Adéwùrá Adeyinka. Behave accordingly."
The name dropped heavy, like a stone in water.
For a moment, the room stilled. Even the fan hummed lower. Wùrá's fork clinked against her plate as she froze. Her mother's words pressed on her chest: You are Adéwùrá Adeyinka.
She hated how heavy it sounded. Back in London, she was Ariana—light, easy, something teachers and classmates could pronounce without squinting. But here? Adéwùrá. No shortcuts. No escape.
"You're older now," her mother added softly. "Eighteen. Your name carries weight. Don't throw it away."
Wùrá blinked.
It was quick, so quick she thought she imagined it. But as the word weight left her mother's mouth, the chandelier above gave the faintest tremor. Just one glass bead jingled, a tiny sound no one else seemed to hear.
Her father folded his newspaper sharply. "Eat quickly. Time is going."
"Can I take her plantains if she won't eat it?" Tola asked eagerly, already stretching his hand across the table.
The moment shattered. Everyone chuckled except Wùrá, who smacked his fingers away with her fork.
"You'll eat your own," she hissed.
Tola stuck out his tongue. "Stingy sis!"
Laughter bubbled again, the tension broken, but Wùrá sat back, staring at her untouched plate. Ariel's last message buzzed in her pocket: They'll LOVE you.
She doubted it.
Because what her parents didn't know—and what she couldn't explain—was that every time someone said her full name here, it didn't just sound heavy.
It felt heavy.
Like the whole room had heard it too.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
The Lagos sun had no mercy.
It was only 7:40 a.m. but the sky already looked like someone had poured fire over the city.
From the back seat of her father's black SUV, Adéwùrá pressed her temple against the tinted glass. The roads blurred: keke drivers darting between danfos like stuntmen, hawkers jogging after cars with Gala sausage rolls and chilled "pure water," kids in oversized uniforms trudging toward schools that looked more like prisons.
Her earbuds hummed softly in her ears. Not Little Simz today. Burna.
"Ye, ye, ye, ye…" 🎶
The bass rattled through her bones, sweet and heavy. She mouthed the lyrics without thinking. Back in London, she used to play it on late bus rides home, lights streaking across wet glass. Now, hearing Burna Boy in Lagos itself felt different — like the ground was reminding her this was where the song was born.
Still, she clung to it like armour. London clung to her too — her slang, her tone, even the way she sat slouched in her uniform skirt.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
"Adéwùrá."
Her father's baritone cut through the music. He sat stiff in the passenger seat, tie knotted like he was going to court, glasses glinting. "When we arrive, greet the principal with respect. Proper respect. No oyinbo forming."
Her mother, regal in gold Ankara with matching gele, leaned forward from the back. "And smile. Not that one you do in London like you're mocking people. Smile like a Yoruba girl."
"Mum…" Wùrá groaned, dragging out the word. "It's just school, not UN peace talks."
Beside her, Tola snorted. His uniform was already crumpled, collar twisted. "Better remember roasted corn, sistahhh. If you mess up, they'll make you kneel in the sun."
He mimed holding a cob. "You'll be sizzling—shhhhhh—like Suya!"
"Shut up, Tola," she muttered, elbowing him. But the knot in her stomach tightened.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
The SUV slowed, turning through a tall archway.
OASES HIGH SCHOOL: Knowledge Is the Crown.
The words glimmered in gold above the gate. Palms swayed along the walkway, like the school had its own private breeze. Students streamed in, uniforms crisp, voices bouncing across the courtyard.
The car rolled to a stop. The driver hopped out, opening her door.
Wùrá's chest locked.
This was it.
Her mother touched her arm softly. "Go."
Her polished shoes hit the gravel. And instantly, heads turned.
She felt it. The weight of stares. The whispers slicing through the warm air.
"New girl."
"See her skin, omo."
"Chei, oyinbo accent go choke us."
Heat prickled up her neck. She tugged her bag higher and muttered under her breath: "Right then…"
The accent curled out naturally, making the whispers hiss louder.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
Near the registration desk, a tall girl with hair puffed out like a crown waved enthusiastically.
"Babes! Over here!"
Wùrá blinked. She didn't even know her, but the energy was magnetic.
"I'm Dunni," the girl said the moment she reached her. Her smile was wide, her laugh already bubbling. "SS3 too, abi? You're the London returnee."
The label stung, but before Wùrá could sulk, Dunni looped her arm through hers like they'd known each other for years.
"Don't mind them," Dunni whispered, eyeing the gawkers. "Your accent? Sweet die. You'll see, they'll adjust. Anyway, you're stuck with me now."
Before Wùrá could reply, a boy leaned against the desk, dreadlocks brushing his cheekbones.
"That's her way of saying she never shuts up," he drawled with a grin. "Name's Remedy. Or Remy, if you're lazy. Resident vibes plug."
He bowed slightly, the gesture mocking but somehow charming.
Behind him, another girl adjusted a pile of books in her arms, her smile quiet, almost shy. "Ignore them. I'm Chima. Welcome."
The trio radiated warmth. For the first time since she'd stepped out of the SUV, the tension in Wùrá's chest eased.
"Thanks," she said softly. "I'm… Wùrá."
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
Of course, not everyone was welcoming.
By the low wall near the courtyard fountain, three girls lounged like queens on display. They didn't just stand around like everyone else — they performed.
Kemi — tall, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, braids sleek and swinging when she turned her head. Every step she took felt like a runway strut, even when she was standing still.
Tasha — loud lips glossy pink, laugh pitched just high enough to carry across the courtyard. She spoke with her hands, tossing her hair back, making sure her bracelets clinked in the sunlight like stage lights.
Amaka — quieter, but somehow the most magnetic. She had that practiced "effortless" vibe: phone in hand, scrolling like nothing here could impress her, yet everyone was waiting to see if she'd look up.
And people did notice.
Juniors lingered nearby, stealing glances. Boys from SS2 tried too hard to pass their spot casually, waiting for one of the girls to throw them a smile. Even some SS3 students gave respectful nods when Kemi caught their eye. They were Oases High's unofficial Insta squad — curated, admired, and impossible to ignore.
Then they saw her.
Adéwùrá.
Fresh braids catching the sun, blazer tailored just right, that London aura clinging to her like perfume. She wasn't even trying, but her presence bent the air a little, like someone had just changed the music.
Tasha froze mid-laugh, lips parted. "Omo… new girl thinks she's some model. Walking like she owns Lagos."
Kemi's smile stretched, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Hmm. Pretty face. But let's see if she can survive SS3. Accent won't save her."
Amaka finally lifted her gaze from her phone, slow and deliberate. Her eyes scanned Wùrá from head to toe, no hurry, no shame. Then she blinked once, long and cold. Verdict delivered: threat.
The thing was — people noticed their noticing. A group of boys near the basketball court turned to follow their line of sight. Two girls whispering by the palm trees glanced over too. The courtyard's attention shifted in waves, away from the reigning trio and onto the new girl striding through the gates.
Wùrá felt the weight of it all pressing on her — their stares, their whispers, her own pounding heartbeat. But when she caught her reflection in the glass doors ahead, she realized the truth: nothing was wrong with her look. She looked… good. Better than good.
So she lifted her chin, straightened her back, and kept walking.
Behind her, the trio kept their eyes locked, annoyance painted over their faces. For the first time in a long while, the spotlight wasn't solely theirs.
And they didn't like it. Not one bit.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
And then the courtyard shifted.
Like when a DJ drops the bass and everyone knows the moment.
Heads turned. Voices hushed. The crowd… parted.
He was walking in.
Adéwálé Akanni.
The name moved faster than he did.
Tall. Blazer fitting across his shoulders like it was made for him. Deep chocolate skin glowing under the sun. His prefect badge gleamed: Head Boy.
He didn't walk like a student. He walked like he owned the ground.
"Morning, prefects," he said, voice deep enough to vibrate in her bones. Juniors scrambled to greet him. Teachers nodded in approval.
And then his gaze landed on her.
"You're new."
The words weren't a question. His eyes — steady, unreadable — locked on hers.
For a second, the lyrics of Burna Boy's "Ye" evaporated from her mind.
"Y-yeah," she stammered. "I'm… Wùrá."
His lips curved slightly, like he knew something she didn't. "Welcome, Adéwùrá."
Her full name. Rolled perfectly off his tongue. Heavy.
Above, the courtyard lantern trembled — just slightly. A bead clinked faintly. She blinked. No one else noticed.
Before she could breathe, two boys flanked him.
Ayo — tall, lighter-skinned, grin sharp enough to cut glass.
Deji — darker, quiet, thoughtful, with a gaze that could strip you bare.
"Head boy, you dey recruit fresh babes now?" Ayo teased, winking at her.
"Behave," Deji murmured, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward.
The three of them together were unfair. Tall, handsome, magnetic. The whispers around the courtyard grew breathless.
"The Crown Boys," someone whispered. "See fine boys na."
"Akanni, Ayo, Deji — triple threat!" A-List guys as they popular refer to them as on socials.
"God abeg, make one of them just look my way."
Akanni lingered on her one more second before turning toward the hall. The sea of students parted naturally around them as they walked.
Wùrá exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for an hour.
Dunni leaned close, her voice low. "Careful, babes. That one? Half the girls in this school would trade their souls for one smile."
Wùrá tried to laugh, but her pulse was still drumming like Burna's bassline.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
The bell clanged, sharp and metallic.
Students surged toward the assembly hall. Dunni grabbed her wrist, tugging her forward. Remy strolled behind, humming a tune. Chima's books were tucked close to her chest.
They found a spot in the back. The air smelled faintly of polish and chalk.
The principal's voice boomed, welcoming them, talking about discipline, excellence, God's blessing. Wùrá half-listened, eyes drifting toward the front row where the prefects sat.
Akanni sat perfectly straight, head slightly bowed like a king bored with ceremony. Ayo whispered something that made Deji shake his head slowly, lips twitching.
Her stomach tightened. She hated herself for staring.
The speeches dragged, the anthem was sung, prayers said. Finally, the assembly dismissed.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
By the time Wùrá reached her dorm room, the sun was a blazing coin high in the sky.
The girls' hostel smelled of detergent and hair cream. Narrow corridors stretched out with metal doors on either side. Her suitcase thudded as she wheeled it across the floor.
Room 3C.
She pushed the door open.
Dunni was already inside, perched cross-legged on a bunk, eating chin-chin from a bag. "Babes! Finally! You're my roommate. Destinyyy."
Remy sprawled across another bed, clearly not supposed to be there, earbuds in, nodding to a beat. He lifted a hand in lazy greeting. "See? I told you she'd end up with us."
Chima sat at the study desk, carefully arranging her notebooks. She smiled, small but warm. "We saved you top bunk. Hope you don't mind."
Wùrá dropped her bag, scanning the room. It was cramped but alive. Posters on the wall, clothesline strung in the corner, the faint sound of laughter spilling from outside.
For the first time, she felt… almost at home.
Almost.
But in the back of her mind, her name still echoed the way Akanni had said it. Heavy. Certain. Like a spell.
And outside, she could still feel the weight of eyes — Kemi, Tasha, Amaka — watching, waiting.
Her black british skin, her british accent, her british everything.
She wasn't sure Lagos was going to let her keep any of it.
⎯⎯⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯
✦ 𝑬𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒏𝒆 ✦
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑼𝒔 — 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 & 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒍
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"𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑼𝒔" 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑨𝒏𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒐𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒍. 𝑼𝒏𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅.
✦ 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝑹𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 ✦
𝑬𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 "𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒕" & "𝑮𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂" 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒛 © 𝑨𝒈𝒆 101 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 / 𝑨𝑾𝑨𝑳.
𝑹𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 "𝒀𝒆" 𝒃𝒚 𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒂 𝑩𝒐𝒚 © 𝑺𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 / 𝑨𝒕𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑹𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔.
𝑼𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌.
—𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒍