When a woman gets married, does she have to take her husband's surname or keep hers?

Temi Otedola got married. She changed her surname on social media. That was all it took. The internet lit up like Lagos traffic after rain. Threads of opinion turned into a full-blown fabric of hot takes. Strangers chewed her choice like it owed them an explanation. I do not like that the internet has a way of turning joy into a boxing ring.

Someone wrote, “Why would a billionaire’s daughter drop her father’s name?” Another said, “If money cannot keep a woman’s name, what hope do you have?” But the truth is simple: Temi made a choice. Her choice. That is it.

Here is the thing. Everyone has their own criteria for love. I have mine. You have yours. Why should your wants unsettle me? Why should my choices offend you? If our values do not align, we move on. Someone once gave me conditions that made no sense to me, so I walked. He found someone who fit those conditions. That is a win for both sides. Life is not that hard. Find your kind.

Yet somehow, a surname will trend like fuel scarcity. This was not even the official paperwork. It was just a profile update and people were already at each other’s throats. The truth is, name changes hit women the hardest. Give women some grace. If you are not wearing the shoes, you will never know the pin inside. Marriage is not a one-size-fits-all event. Changing a surname is neither proof of submission nor rebellion. It is just a choice. Let two people with the same vision find each other and walk together. Stop dragging strangers for not living by your template. Out of eight billion humans, there is someone who fits you. Go and find that person.

We keep behaving like someone else’s criteria for love is a personal insult. You want a partner who will take your name? Good. You want one who will not? Fine. You want neither? Still fine. If two people want the same thing, they should go ahead. If not, move on. Life is not a traffic jam. You do not have to fight to be in the same lane.

The sweetest part for me is that this wedding was not loud. It moved like a love story told in chapters. What looked effortless had been carefully kept private until it was complete, then shared with the world on their own terms. It opened in Monaco on May 9th, 2025. Two people walking into Monte Carlo’s city hall to sign papers that would turn a long love into a legal bond. The date was not random. It fell on the birthday of Mr Eazi’s late mother — a nod that said more about memory and meaning than any speech could.

Temi wore a modern Wiederhoeft suit that refused to fight for attention but still held the eye. Mr Eazi chose Louis Vuitton, not in a way that flaunted wealth, but in the quiet way of someone comfortable in his own skin. Afterward, they raised glasses in Karl Lagerfeld’s Villa La Vigie, a house soaked in fashion history, but the mood felt soft, almost weightless, like a secret gently shared.

Months later, in July, Dubai came alive with something entirely different. The Otedola villa turned into a home alive with tradition, music, laughter, and the movement of people from everywhere. Temi changed into pieces from Zac Posen, Miss Sohee, Lisa Folawiyo, Oscar de la Renta — each look carrying a mood rather than a label. Mr Eazi moved between agbada and modern tailoring, the same man in every outfit, grounded yet global. King Sunny Adé played. Elders prayed. Guests who had crossed oceans found themselves on dance floors where culture was not a costume but a heartbeat. It felt like a celebration not trying to impress the world, only trying to honor the families that built it.

By August, Iceland gave them a final setting. Hallgrímskirkja stood like stone carved into prayer. Temi walked in wearing Fendi Haute Couture, a silhouette that did not speak loudly but refused to be ignored. Dinner came under a glass tent surrounded by quiet snow and soft light, the kind of evening where music bends the air and conversations lean closer. John Legend sang. Hours later, people drifted toward geothermal pools, bodies warm under a sky where the Northern Lights stretched like ribbons. It was not a spectacle built to trend. It was an intimacy dressed in scale — a wedding imagined with a global reach but a human center.

Here is what I have learned: Love is not a universal syllabus. Peace lives where expectation ends. Let two people with the same vision find each other and walk together. The rest of us? We clap, pray, and mind our lane. Some women change their surname. Others keep it. Some couples marry in courtrooms. Others in castles. Neither is superior — only personal. But still, we weaponize preferences like war. We mock strangers for not living by our template. We confuse “different” with “wrong.”

Now I want to ask you — honestly and without noise: Would you or did you change your surname after marriage? Why or why not? And what is one thing you believe couples should protect from public opinion at all costs? Drop your thoughts in the comments. Let us talk, not tear apart.