“Diary Entry: 10/17/25 – The Eve’s Narrative Leads to Surnames“
“The world is operating in Eve’s narrative, not Lilith’s. Because Lilith would definitely go ring shopping and pick her favorite ring after having an adult and equal conversation.” – Emrys Amare
I came across a golden quote in the comment section of a commentary video that asked why proposals must be a surprise. It is a gut-wrenching statement that can be applied to many social norms. I agree with the video; a surprising proposal where both partners hadn’t decided in a previous discussion that they wanted to take the marriage step relatively soon is ideological. That’s all I have to say about that. This piece is about sir names because that’s the first thing I thought about after reading that phenomenal quote.
Surenames are a relatively new concept that entered human existence mainly through colonization. As a result, human societies have adopted an Eve approach, where women are expected to change their names. I can’t pinpoint the age or where I got the idea that my surname would be my own, regardless of its origin. Very few women in my family have kept their name, and when they did, they hyphenated their husbands’ to their own, but I still had the assumption that my name would be my own from birth to death. In traditional Igbo culture, pre-colonization, names given to us at birth are viewed as an opening sentence to our story, so changing one’s name is a relatively modern concept.
However, what is tradition is still being debated: https://www.vanguardngr.com/2024/06/is-it-right-in-igbo-culture-tradition-for-married-woman-to-bear-her-fathers-surname/#:~:text=A%20lawmaker%2C%20Solomon%20Akpulonu%20said,and%20loyalty%20to%20her%20husband.;
Surnames are a Western concept brought to Africa, like the majority of the world, through colonization. And when we look at surnames in European history, we can trace surnames to the 11th century; surnames began to identify a specific aspect of that person. Whether it was their trade, location of birth, or physical features. Most likely, nobles inherited their father’s surname. But to maintain a patriarchal society, passing down the father’s surname became the social norm.
Before colonization’s patriarchal structure, many Nigerian tribal groups held their own practices, and I can imagine that the surname norms were easily adapted. Though it was standardized through Colonial administration, requiring naming conventions for record-keeping, taxation, and other legal purposes.
Like many Nigerians, I was taught the history of my last name. The story is just as dramatic as the family. My last name is a piece of my great-grandfather’s name. At the time, many people took their father’s name as their surname, but it wasn’t the norm to break the names into fours and split among the sons of the family. My great-grandfather had four wives who divided the family after his untimely death, which may have been tied to a yams thief. The mystery is still a touchy subject among the four family branches. Though the origin of my last name could be written as a telenovala, I think about my life and all the grand, as well as mundane moments, in which I wrote or heard my name.
My younger self was book smart, always on the honor roll, but I was an airhead when it came to social norms. It wasn’t that I didn’t see social norms; I just assumed that the ones I couldn’t see being ethically enforced or crucial for survival as optional. Life has taken this trait from me, but I still held firm that my name will remain the same from birth to death. Please don’t jump to the conclusion that I was born a feminist; this didn’t come from feminist views, but they do empower me now.
“You know your last name is your father’s, right? “
The first time I heard that was from a boy in middle school who overheard me telling my friends that I won’t ever change my last name. The boy wanted to sound cunning like a News Anchor giving breaking news, but it came out more like an arrogant trickster. I don’t think he even understood what he was implying since he clearly just repeated words he heard from other men. But his pre-rehearsed gotcha statement left me dumbfounded, not in the same way his smirk smile would have predicted.
To be fair to that boy, I, too, didn’t understand the full implication of his words. I interpreted his words to mean that I couldn’t own what belonged to my father, meaning my father’s belongings were his alone and not mine. I was a possessive and greedy child, but my father indulged me. If I saw he had something I wanted, whether it was food, tools, or any random object, I felt free to take it.
It took me a few business days to register the boy’s statement. I came to the concultion while playing with my youngest brother, then a toddler. I realized that the boy would never have said that to him, not because he was too young to understand what a last name was and would stare blankly back at him, but because he was a boy. That boy taught me the residual effect on society, sure name particles. Men’s names are their own, while my last name, though given the same way, could only be borrowed.
He was not the last boy to tell me this. I have heard that witty gatcha sprinkled throughout 30 years of life, and I have come up with my own signature comebacks. If you explain the implications of what they say back to them, you can see the moment their brain jerks a bit. I don’t intend to change the social norms concerning surnames; in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t hold much significance to do so; it’s just one of many reminders that the world is operating in Eve’s narrative.