In A Name

My name is Josephine. You can call me Meenakshi. I also love the name Celeste. In mandarin, my name would sound like Rong Zhao. I could call myself Vicky, I heart the name of Denziel and I wonder how Iberatu would roll off my tongue.

I am alternatively in 19th century France or in 13th century South India or in early 20th century Argentina. I could be in late 20th century Britain, a breaker in the pathbreaking 60s Black America or in a clan in interior Nigeria.

What’s in a name? Asked the master.

Or I could be me. Carrier of a name simple to tongue and unassuming to the ears. I could have the license to be interesting in complicated times under the guise of an unpretentious moniker.

As I continue my believable one-dimensional existence, behind my open eyes – there exist intriguing times and stimulating lands. In that closeted space, I fly across verdant lands, gallop over patchy terrain, dive under sparkling green oceans, fight state-crumbling ultras, flush out dirty fishes, write time-distinctive poetry, spin timeless tales, fire up a stage with my fierce performance, win those tinkly medals at that international festival of nations.

A flick of eyelashes and I wake.