Orúkọ Púpọ̀ Ní Ilẹ̀ Yìí

Ìṣòro, bí wọ́n bá pè ọ ní Ayọ̀déle,

àti pé ahọ́n wọn máa yọ̀ sórí fawelì bí okuta ìbòṣepọ̀.

Ìṣòro, bí wọ́n bá dín án kù sí Ayọ̀,

nítorí ayọ̀ gbọ́dọ̀ kere tó bá àfà ìṣàkóso.

Ìṣòro, bí Ayọ̀ bá di Yò-Yò,

ẹ̀rọ ìṣeré pẹ̀lú òkùn,

sókè, sọ́dò, sókè, sọ́dò,

àyànmọ́ rẹ ń jókòó lórí ika ọwọ́ ọmọ kékeré.

Ìṣòro, bí wọ́n bá rẹ́rìn-ín pé ń jẹ́ rẹ̀,

nítorí rẹ́rìn-ín máa ń dúró jù àsàyàn ọ̀rọ̀ lọ.

Ìṣòro, bí o bá gbìyànjú láti ṣàtúnṣe,

àtúnṣe rẹ sì di àyẹ̀rìn-ín míràn.

Ìṣòro, bí orúkọ rẹ bá dàgbà di orúkọ-àpèjá,

orúkọ-àpèjá sì di àsán,

àsán náà sì di ìdánimọ̀ rẹ.

Ìṣòro, bí àkójọ-orúkọ bá dà bí ibojì,

níbi tí ìlù baba ń kú lẹ́nu ìkọ́kọ́.

Ìṣòro, bí olùkọ́ bá pè ọ ní Yò-Yò,

kí kíláàsì sì tún-un padà bí orin ìjàngbọ̀n.

Ìṣòro, bí ayọ̀ gbọ́dọ̀ délé,

ṣùgbọ́n ó ti dàgbà ní apá ẹ̀rọ ìṣeré,

ń yí ká láàrín àga ẹ̀rù ẹlẹ́dẹ̀.

Ìṣòro níhìn, ìṣòro níbẹ̀, ìṣòro ní gbogbo ibi.

Ṣùgbọ́n kò sí ìṣòro fún ahọ́n tí ó fọ orúkọ rẹ méjì,

tí ó tún ayọ̀ rẹ bíi Yò-Yò,

tí ó sì rán án lọ́ọ wòyínbó inú ìdákẹ́jẹ.

Too Many Names in This Country

Trouble, when they call you Ayọ̀déle,

and their tongue jumps on the vowels like a skipping stone.

Trouble, when they shorten it to Ayọ̀,

because joy must be small enough to fit into management.

Trouble, when Ayọ̀ becomes Yò-Yò,

a toy with a string,

up, down, up, down,

your destiny balancing on a child’s fingertip.

Trouble, when laughter eats your name,

for laughter lasts longer than the dignity of speech.

Trouble, when you try to correct them,

and your correction becomes another joke.

Trouble, when your name grows into a nickname,

the nickname grows hollow,

and the hollow becomes your identity.

Trouble, when the roll call sounds like a graveyard,

where the talking drum of the fathers dies in secret.

Trouble, when the teacher calls you Yò-Yò,

and the class bounces it back like a taunting song.

Trouble, when joy is supposed to come home,

but it has grown up inside a toy,

spinning between chairs of pigskin burden.

Trouble here, problem there, problem everywhere.

But there is no trouble for the tongue that splits your name in two,

that bounces your joy like a Yò-Yò,

and sends it wandering quietly in foreign silence.