My mother Ranti opens the door at half-past four, her sighs and squirms announce fatigue – signs of a difficult day in the market where she trades in stationeries. Instead of welcoming her with a smile like I'm used to, I tighten my folded arms on my chest, spreading my legs wider as I assume a cranky pose.

"Why are you still in uniform at this time?" Mama drops her handbag on the floor.

My face crumples some more.

She glances around the unkempt room and, on glimpsing the spilled food, hurries towards my sofa, sitting next to me. Her soft hand lands on my shoulder, as her querulous mien swaps for a worry-face. She then touches my forehead for a test of high temperature. Her voice packs up tenderness and love, plunging to a whisper. "You didn't eat your food? What happened to you?"

My bloat halves as I heave a long sigh, stealing a peek into Mama's troubled face. My frown dissolves as the angst lining my heart melts slowly. How does one pick up grudges with a mother who toils hard to put food on the table with no one supporting her? One who pays all the bills – house rent, electricity and what have you?

Mama alone keeps me in school, buying my clothes and shoes and takes care of me when I'm down. She sacrifices all she has for her only child. Isn't she all I have? My mother and my father. My sister and brother. Mama can give me an eye should I dare to ask. Why am I so cross with her this afternoon?

I clench my teeth whilst struggling to keep up the frown. It becomes difficult to balance my initial anger with pity which is now sneaking into my heart.

"Alayonmbere, talk to me," Mama says tenderly, her voice picking up. "My only source of joy, talk to me. You know you're the reason I breathe; the reason I live. You're the only source of joy to me. Whatever I do is for your happiness, so If you don't talk, how will I know what's wrong with you? How will I help?"

When my mother talks this way tears well-up in my eyes. I can't bear to watch Mama emoting. My hand rests on my face as I struggle to suppress the tears. We've been here before – several times. Every time I ask her to reveal the motive behind my name she becomes downcast. But failing to sort this issue means I won't be happy. I can't bear this burden for the rest of my life. Mama must talk. A new wave of courage crawls into me.

"It's about my name, Mama." The statement drops with an effort, but I put up a brave face afterwards. My voice dips into a whisper. "Why Alayonmbere?" I look up to her, deep concern lining my brows.

Mama blinks for a few seconds and then burst into tears. Effusive tears. Gushing tears. She reclines into the chair sobbing heavily, covering her face with the loose end of her Ankara wrapper.

Watching Mama weep seizes my sulkiness, but I won't appease her this time. No, not on this occasion. Since my question induces such heavy tears, she won't shut me up with her retorts. I must win this battle today.

Realizing she won't stop sobbing anytime soon, my knees drop to the floor as I clutch to Mama's thighs, floods of silent tears flowing down my cheeks, regrets filling my heart for inducing such feelings in dear mom. Why do I have to trouble this woman with my worries? Didn't I think of the troubles she might have been through at the market? The hordes of difficult customers?

Soon, Mama blows her nose and wipes her face. She lets out a deep sigh and then purses her lips. Her usually pitched voice take a bass depth as she readjusts on the sofa, taking up a sober look. "I didn't name you Alayonmbere. Akin, your father did."

My shoulder drops at the mention of my late father. Why did he give me that despicable name and then left me to carry it around? A new thought peeks into my mind. Is Mama saying this so that I'll stop troubling her with this name issue? Is she bringing this up to transfer the blame to the dead? But she always speaks well of Papa.

I hurl a curious look at her to be sure she means those words. Was it actually my dad who named me Alayonmbere? My piercing glance demands answers.

"Your father named you on the recommendation of the old man who rescued us from you!"

The bombshell throws me to the ground. Why is Mama speaking in parables? Why is she going round and round to evade my questions? A moment ago, it was my late father. Now it's an old man who rescued them from me. I don't understand. Why should a nameless old man be the one to christen me? Folds of creases distort my youthful face, as I try to figure out her puzzles.

"There's a good reason we call you Alayonmbere," Mama says, her voice devoid of emotions. She tilts her head upwards looking beyond the boundaries of our small-sized room in a manner that suggests she's recollecting some important but distant facts. Yes, Mama heaves a deep breath and then purses her lips while remembering the circumstances of my birth. Her head shakes solemnly. Will she tell me the story I've been yearning for all these years?

"Sit." She taps on the space next to hers.

I lift off the floor, sitting on the chair. My left hand supports my head as I turn to Mama. Will she talk?