Nigerian feminists have barely caught a wink of sleep since last week, when Temi Otedola, daughter of billionaire magnate Femi Otedola, was accused of dragging the movement “15 steps backwards” by doing what generations of wives before her have done: taking her husband’s name.
By ditching her high-profile surname for “Ajibade”, Temi set off a cultural storm that has refused to quieten. A simple Instagram bio update became the equivalent of an earthquake on Nigerian Twitter, shaking feminist enclaves, rattling gender warriors, and sending think-piece writers into overdrive.
What should have been a private decision in the context of marriage quickly spiralled into a heated national debate about feminism, identity, and tradition. Trust Nigerians to hold emergency conferences on social media about somebody else’s personal life; fuel subsidy, exchange rate, and insecurity can wait, but a billionaire’s daughter changing her surname? That one must be dissected on Twitter Spaces until our phone batteries beg for mercy.
Temi’s marriage to Oluwatosin Ajibade, better known as Mr Eazi, was already a global spectacle. From Monaco to Dubai to Iceland, the ceremonies dripped with fashion, old money, and glamour, enough to make a recent Nigerian celebrity wedding look like a village council meeting. The Otedola name glowed on glossy magazine covers like Vogue until Temi quietly updated her Instagram bio to read “Temiloluwa Ajibade”. That single change lit up the internet like petrol on fire.
For many, it was no scandal at all, just a ceremonial act as old as the bride taking palm wine to her husband. But for others, particularly the feminist corners of social media, it was nothing short of betrayal. Their argument? That a woman as wealthy, visible, and influential as Temi ought to have preserved her maiden name rather than “submit” to an outdated practice. One angry tweet even read: “If Temi Otedola can abandon her brand, what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals?”
But here’s the thing: in Nigeria, names are never just names. They are heritage, lineage, reputation, and, in cases like Otedola, a brand that could probably get you a free first-class ticket without asking. Traditionally, when a woman became “Mrs Ajibade”, it symbolised unity, continuity, and shared destiny. Nobody was debating whether Grandma was a feminist when she happily became “Nwunye Okafor” in 1953.
Times, however, have changed. More and more modern Nigerian women are hyphenating, creating mouthfuls like “Otedola-Ajibade”, which sounds less like a surname and more like a law firm. Others flatly refuse to drop their maiden names, citing the professional capital associated with them. For critics, Temi’s decision to abandon “Otedola” entirely was a backwards step, a surrender just when the movement was beginning to win some battles.
And yet, here’s the delicious irony: the outrage exposes a contradiction at the heart of modern feminism. How can a movement built on freedom of choice suddenly demonise a woman for making her own? Isn’t that the very sort of control it claims to resist? If feminism means women can become pilots, politicians, or presidents, surely it must also mean they can become Ajibade if they feel like it.
Feminism has undeniably shaken things up in Nigeria. It has challenged suffocating traditions, emboldened women to speak up, and forced men to share more than just their seed. But it has also grown increasingly intolerant of difference. Too often, a woman is only deemed a “real feminist” if she ticks the right boxes: never take your husband’s name, never gush about marriage, and never, heaven forbid, post a picture of yourself pounding for your man.
But true feminism was never meant to be a rigid script. It was supposed to be about choices: the freedom to run a multinational company or a small bukka. The right to hyphenate or to adopt a new surname. The right to embrace or reject tradition without ridicule. Whether it is patriarchy or feminism, dictating what a woman must do is still control by another name.
The friction between tradition and modernity is not uniquely Nigerian, but here it is particularly theatrical. Many men still see their surname as a badge of honour; their wives must wear it like a national jersey. Many women increasingly see it as a symbolic erasure. The result? A surname can ignite World War III in a household. It’s almost comical, couples fight over whose name the kids will bear, while forgetting that half the time, the child will eventually pick a nickname like “Big Chibs” and ignore both.
Of course, there is value in women wanting to keep their names intact. No one should feel reduced to an appendage in marriage. For professionals, especially, names carry years of graft and recognition. That’s why women across the globe have settled for hyphenation; it keeps both heritage and marriage intact.
But for Temi, already established as an actress, influencer, and heiress, adopting “Ajibade” may simply have been about unity, not erasure. Unfortunately, nuance is the first casualty in Nigeria’s culture wars. On social media, you are either a queen or a sell-out; there is no in-between.
The truth is, women will always make different choices. Some will hyphenate, some will cling proudly to their maiden names, others will take on their husband’s, and a few bold men might even take their wife’s. None should be bullied or mocked for whichever path they pick.
The fury over Temi Otedola’s Instagram bio reveals more about the insecurities of Nigerian feminism than it does about her marriage. Instead of celebrating variety, the movement increasingly demands conformity. Ironically, in trying to liberate women from patriarchy, it risks becoming a new form of policing.
Temi’s decision is not the death knell of Nigerian women’s progress. If anything, it’s a reminder of what real empowerment looks like: the freedom to choose. Whether that choice leads to Otedola, Ajibade, or Otedola-Ajibade & Partners LLP is frankly her business.
At the end of the day, a surname is just a word. The true measure is the life lived under it. And if we’re being honest, Nigerians should probably save their outrage for fuel scarcity and the dollar rate, problems that don’t care whether your name is Otedola, Ajibade, or even Beyoncé.
