kəˈrim

I was on a call with my maternal grandmother few days back, and as always, she wrapped me in the warmth of my roots, singing eulogies of my background, weaving praises like a skilled griot passing down history. In the midst of her melodic words, she called me "Ọmọ Iya Alalubosa." That name— Ọmọ Iya Alalubosa —is a title I wear with pride, a name given to me by the extended family of my father’s household. It carries weight, wrapped in memory and lineage. Iya Alalubosa was my father's grandmother (may she rest easy). I lived with her for a brief yet unforgettable time when I was very young—so young that my parents were still trying to find their footing in life, occupied with work and the demands of youth. I cannot say for certain if I was sent there for the holidays or if there was another reason, but what I do know—what I remember with an unshakable certainty—is that I bonded with her in a way that even now, the entire household teases me about. They would laugh and s...