Shouldn’t He Take Her Name Too?

More than 90% of women in Africa adopt their husband's surname after marriage. Yet less than 1% of men ever consider taking their wife’s name not as a middle name, not even hyphenated.

We don't ask why. We just continue. It’s tradition, after all. I’ve been in conversations lately — the kind that quietly bruise you. The kind that force you to confront the very essence of your identity. Conversations where someone you’ve shared life with, someone who says he loves you, draws a line. And behind that line stands tradition. Culture. Patriarchy. Dressed in respectability.

We were talking about names, about marriage, about what it means when a woman has to let go of her name, her identity, her history to take on a man’s. It happens quietly. Almost ceremonially. One moment she’s herself, and the next, she’s someone else entirely. In most African marriages, this transformation is expected. Unquestioned. Even celebrated. But I couldn’t shake the discomfort.

When my mother got married, she dropped her surname. She became someone else entirely. Her siblings faded into distance. Her story got rewritten. Her name gone. Her roots slowly cut off, her identity realigned. Today, she answers to my father’s state of origin. When people ask where she’s from, she doesn’t mention her own village. She says his. I don’t know her cousins. I’ve never heard her siblings' names. Her lineage, once vibrant now barely whispered. All because she fell in love. All because she married.

I started to wonder: what if the surname is more than just a name? What if it’s the last thread tying a woman to her story? Yes, some women retain their maiden names. Some attach it to their husband’s, hyphenated. But when the children are born, they almost always bear his name. His legacy moves forward. Hers quietly disappears. We applaud the woman for “keeping” her name but even then, her lineage gets cut off the family tree.

So I asked what felt like a radical question. What if my husband took my name too? Not as a gesture. Not as a joke. But as something symbolic. Something sincere. If I take his surname, would he take mine? If his name is John Lennon, and my surname is Obi, then he becomes John Obi Lennon. I become Obi Lennon. Our children carry us both. No one disappears. It’s been done before. John Lennon did it for Yoko Ono. In a world that insists on gendered tradition, he honoured love by disrupting expectation. If love is mutual, shouldn’t memory be mutual too?

Shouldn’t a woman’s history be allowed to travel forward just as much as a man’s? Because when I give up my name, I lose more than just a set of letters. I lose roots. I lose heritage. I lose the people who made me. And when our children bear only his name, it’s not just a family name they carry — it’s a legacy of erasure. I’m not asking for much. I’m asking for balance. I’m asking to be remembered. Marriage in most African societies still functions under quiet patriarchy. The woman’s family gives her away. The man’s family receives. The woman adjusts. The man continues. Her name fades. His lives on. Her history folds. His stretches further. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

So I’m asking calmly. Thoughtfully. Not out of rebellion. But out of reflection. If you love her, shouldn’t you carry her name too? Shouldn’t you honour her story the same way she’s asked to honour yours? Shouldn’t her identity matter just as much in your children’s passports, their CVs, their certificates, their memories? Shouldn’t her roots stay alive too? It’s a simple question.

One many might laugh at. Others might dismiss. But think about it. When was the last time you heard a man take his wife’s name? When was the last time a woman’s name didn’t vanish into marriage? Why do we expect women to give up their names and call it love, while men hold on to theirs and call it tradition? So I ask again. Shouldn’t he take her name too? Would you? Could you? If not, why should she? Let’s talk.