Free Artichoke Hearts by Sita Brahmachari

Moses, apart from Moses in the Bible, and now within one week I’ve met Eco-Endings
Moses and sheepdog Moses.
    ‘So what have you all found out about your names?’ Pat asks. That’s when I remember what we were supposed to do. She looks around the room, letting her eyes rest on
Jidé.
    ‘My full name is BabaJidé. It’s an African name . . . it means “father has returned”, that’s what Jai, my dad, told me anyway. He said Grace liked the
“Baba” bit when I was a baby, but when I started to grow up they dropped “Baba” and just called me Jidé and Mum says it goes well with Dad’s name . . .
Jai.’
    I think it sounds really weird calling your mum and dad by their first names, especially when your mum’s a teacher at school . . . she’s Ms Jackson to everyone else.
    ‘Interesting, isn’t it, how some names are better for babies and others feel too grown up to call an infant,’ Pat Print comments.
    Jidé doesn’t reply. He seems lost in his own thoughts so Pat Print turns her attention on Ben. He’s funny because he just launches into things; he often makes me jump. I peer
over his shoulder at his notebook. Ben always does as little work as he can get away with. He’s got about three notes written down, that’s all, but he tells Pat Print this whole epic
story of his name, hardly even glancing at his book. He seems to have no nerves at all.
    ‘Well, my mum and dad couldn’t decide what to call me. They couldn’t even agree on any names they both liked before I was born. My mum’s Irish and my dad’s Nigerian
. . . that’s where my surname “Gbemi” comes from . . . Nigeria. Dad told me that “Gbemi” means “favoured one”. A long time ago the name used to be
“Fagbemi”, which means something like “favoured by the Oracle”, but somewhere along the line we dropped the “Fa” bit. My mum thought I should have an Irish first
name but Dad wanted a Nigerian one, and even after I was born they still couldn’t agree. So Mum says she just lay in the hospital bed thinking about what to call me. Then one day she looked
up at Big Ben, because Mum was in the hospital just opposite, and she thought, That’s it. The answer had been staring her in the face and blasting her ears, all that time. That’s why
she called me Ben, and Dad said it sounded good with Gbemi. So that’s it, that’s why I’m called Ben Gbemi.’
    Ben definitely speaks as though he’s projecting his voice across London. He’s tall too, probably the tallest boy in Year Seven.
    Pat has been smiling all the way through Ben’s explanation.
    ‘Big Ben! I’m predicting a bold career in broadcasting for you!’
    ‘What’s broadcasting?’ asks Ben.
    ‘I’m thinking . . . you could be a presenter, no, maybe more daring . . . a journalist reporting while battling against the elements, earthquakes or storms, or even in a war zone . .
. surviving against all odds and still bringing us the news.’ Pat Print is obviously enjoying herself making up a story for Ben’s life.
    Jidé laughs and slaps Ben across the back.
    You can’t help but smile, because you can just see Ben Gbemi in a job like that.
    ‘Which comes first – the name or the personality?’ asks Pat Print. It’s one of those questions she’s not expecting us to answer.
    Ben looks down at his feet and tries hard not to show he’s smiling underneath his copper glinting curls.
    ‘Now who’s next?’ Pat’s sharp eyes settle on me. ‘Mira?’
    ‘I’m sorry, Miss Print, I didn’t do the name bit. I wrote the diary though.’ There it is again, that thin little voice of mine.
    ‘OK! I’ll hear that later. Call me Pat, please. Now Millie, what have you got for me?’
    Millie needs no encouragement.
    ‘My ancestors are Scottish and, further back, originally from France, dating right back to 1066. Dad’s told me all about it, but it’s a bit complicated. Apparently, one of my
ancestors had Robert the Crusader or Marauder’s heart locked up