Before I knew my own name, there was a song. A song carried through my mother’s body, through my grandmother’s hands. In Yoruba, there is a word. IYÀ. It means mother. But it means more than that. It means the one who carries you before you know you need carrying. I grew up watching those hands. Hands that oiled my scalp. Hands that braided patience into my hair. I thought it was just the smell of oil warming. Just moringa in a wooden bowl. Just shea, baobab, and earth. I did not know I was being given a language. A language of skin. Of hair. Of memory. IYATI was born from IYÀ. From what my grandmother carried. From what my mother kept alive. From the land we came from. From the rituals that became me. And now, I carry them forward. For every crown. Every body. Every daughter of the ritual. IYATI. Rooted in IYÀ.