“Does anyone else feel like this thing is going on forever?” Lila whispered, nudging Amara with her elbow.
Amara didn’t answer. Her gaze was locked on the stage, where graduates were crossing one by one to receive their diplomas. The auditorium buzzed with quiet conversations and the occasional enthusiastic cheer. She adjusted the name tag pinned to her graduation gown: Amy Njeri. She could almost feel the weight of her mother’s disapproval from three rows back.
Amara, her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Your name is Amara. Why would you change it?
The name had been a compromise. In middle school, “Amara” had been butchered by teachers, ignored by classmates, and scribbled incorrectly on every attendance sheet. By high school, it had morphed into “Amy,” an identity she adopted to make her life easier.
“Amy Njeri!” the announcer’s voice boomed.
She hesitated, just for a second, before pushing herself up to stand. The applause was already swelling, and her heels clicked loudly against the polished stage as she walked. As she accepted her diploma, her eyes flicked toward her parents. Her father was clapping enthusiastically, a proud grin lighting up his face, but her mother sat stiffly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable.
The graduation party was in full swing. Her aunties’ vibrant *kitenge* dresses added bursts of color to the backyard, where the scent of varied delicacies filled the air. Amara’s black, form-fitting gown felt starkly out of place amidst the lively patterns and earthy tones.
“Amara,” her mother called, her voice sharper than usual. “Why didn’t you wear the dress I sent you?”
Amara sighed. “Mom, it’s my graduation. I wanted to wear something that felt like me.”
“Like you?” Mwikali’s tone carried a hint of accusation. “Is this who you are now? Black dresses and…” she gestured vaguely toward Amara’s high heels, “…whatever this is?”
“Mom, it’s just a dress,” Amara replied, forcing a smile. “Can we not do this today?”
Mwikali’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly. Amara turned to leave, but not before catching her mother’s murmured words in Swahili: “Amy…she’s forgotten who she really is.”
Later that night, Lila sprawled across Amara’s couch, holding a glass of wine. “So, are we going to talk about your mom or just pretend that didn’t happen?”
“It’s fine,” Amara muttered, sinking into the armchair. “She’s just…stuck in her ways.”
“Amy,” Lila said pointedly. “Or is it Amara? I’m honestly losing track.”
Amara groaned. “Not you too.”
“I’m just saying,” Lila continued, “if you’re not comfortable with ‘Amy,’ why keep using it? Own your name, girl. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not that simple,” Amara said, swirling the wine in her glass. “‘Amy’ works. It’s easier. Amara’s just…complicated.”
“So?” Lila leaned forward. “Complicated is good. It’s you.”
Amara’s silence filled the room, her thoughts spiraling. The wine glass in her hand felt heavier as Lila’s words echoed in her mind: Own your name. It’s beautiful. But how? How could she reconcile the Amara her mother clung to with the Amy she’d built to survive? Exhausted by the weight of it all, she set the glass down and retreated to her bedroom, feeling an unshakable pull to figure it out—to untangle who she was.
The next morning, she found herself at the library. The quiet offered her a sense of refuge, the perfect backdrop to sift through her emotions. Amara sat cross-legged on the floor of the cultural studies aisle, flipping through a memoir. The author, a Kenyan-American woman, described her journey of navigating two identities—a story that felt eerily similar to Amara’s own.
One line stood out: Your identity isn’t something you leave behind. It’s something you carry with you, everywhere you go.
The words felt like a quiet revelation, settling over Amara with a strange mixture of comfort and ache. She stared at the page, her fingers brushing the paper’s edge as if to hold onto the sentence itself. It spoke to her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed—a reminder that she wasn’t failing by being caught between two worlds; she was living proof of both.
Amara’s eyes grew misty, and she quickly blinked the tears away, glancing around the quiet aisle to make sure she was alone. It wasn’t just the words; it was the truth they unearthed. She thought of her mother, of Lila, of the nametag on her graduation gown. For so long, she’d seen her identities as separate, incompatible halves, but here was a different perspective: layered, whole, and uniquely hers.
Closing the book, she hugged it to her chest for a moment before placing it on the checkout desk. As she walked toward the exit, she slowed her pace, drawn to a colorful flyer tacked to the bulletin board near the door.
Kenyan Cultural Festival – This Saturday.
The words seemed to leap out at her, tugging at something deep inside. Amara hesitated, her hand brushing over the bracelet she wasn’t wearing. She stood there for a moment longer, then took a picture of the flyer with her phone, a small smile pulling at her lips.
The festival was alive with music, laughter, and the aroma of traditional Kenyan dishes. Amara wandered through the crowd, feeling both comforted and out of place. She stopped at a booth displaying handmade jewelry and ran her fingers over a beaded bracelet that reminded her of one her mother had given her years ago.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said.
Amara turned to see a man in his thirties, wearing a brightly patterned shirt. “I’m Kamau,” he introduced himself, extending a hand.
“Amara,” she replied, hesitating before using her full name.
“Nice to meet you, Amara,” Kamau said with a warm smile. “You’re Kenyan?”
“Born here, but my parents are,” she explained.
Kamau nodded knowingly. “Navigating both worlds isn’t easy. But you know, you don’t have to choose one over the other. Your identity isn’t split; it’s layered.”
His words struck a chord. For the first time, Amara felt a sense of clarity.
That night, she sat at her desk, the bracelet her mother had given her resting in her palm. Slowly, she slid it onto her wrist. Then, she opened her laptop and updated her professional website to read: Amara ‘Amy’ Njeri.
The next family gathering was less tense. Amara wore a kitenge-patterned scarf over her outfit, a subtle blend of her two worlds. The scarf’s bold reds and yellows caught the light as she moved, drawing approving glances from her aunties, who whispered amongst themselves with smiles.
“You’re wearing the bracelet,” Mwikali observed, her voice softer than usual, as she stood next to Amara in the kitchen where they prepared chapati together. The familiar rhythm of rolling and flipping the dough felt oddly comforting.
Amara smiled, glancing at her wrist. “I am.”
“It suits you,” her mother said, pausing to brush a bit of flour from Amara’s cheek. Her hand lingered for a moment. “I was afraid you’d forgotten.”
Amara shook her head gently. “I haven’t,” she replied. “I’m just figuring out how to carry it all.”
Mwikali’s lips curved into a small, proud smile, and her eyes glistened, though she quickly blinked away the moisture. “You’re doing well, mwana wangu.”
For the first time in years, Amara felt at peace. The tension that had defined so many of their interactions seemed to disappear.
Later that evening, as the family gathered around the table, Amara caught snippets of laughter and conversation that felt different this time. Her auntie teased her father about his attempts to dance at the last wedding, while the younger cousins debated over whose turn it was to serve dessert. For the first time, Amara didn’t feel like an outsider observing the moment but a part of it, a thread in the intricate tapestry of her family.
Weeks later, her essay, “Two Names, One Me,” was published on a storytelling platform. The response was overwhelming. Messages poured in from readers who related to her journey, and one email in particular caught her eye:
Your story reminded me of my own struggles. Thank you for sharing it.
Amara leaned back, a smile playing on her lips. She glanced at her bracelet and thought of the layered identity she had finally embraced. The journey wasn’t over, but for the first time, she felt she was on the right path.
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