There are weddings—and then there are weddings that rewrite the cultural script. In 2025, Temi Otedola and Mr Eazi managed both. Their union unfolded not as a singular event but across three continents—Monaco, Dubai, Iceland—fusing ceremony with significance, fashion with tradition. Vogue called it a “three-continent wedding extravaganza” blending culture, fashion, and personal significance. The couple officiated their court signing in Monaco on May 9 (symbolic, it being Eazi’s late mother’s birthday), enjoyed a Yoruba wedding in Dubai, and capped it with a dramatic white wedding in Iceland, complete with Fendi Haute Couture and Sunny Ade and John Legend serenading under Northern Lights.
Then came the profile update.
On September 6, Temi quietly slipped into the public’s feed with a post captioned “Mr and Mrs Ajibade,” and changed her Instagram to Temiloluwa Ajibade. It sparked deletions of “Otedola,” public murmurs, and robust societal commentary. The daughter of billionaire Femi Otedola is taking another name? That was the crux. Why did this, of all things, so surprise us?
In societies rooted in lineage and legacy, shifting surnames can feel like erasure—especially when a name like Otedola comes with its own weight and capital. Yet, asking if she should change her name overlooks the most modern invention of all: choice. Feminist commentary erupted. Following the ongoing conversations reflected in a post made earlier in August by an X user, Omo Kosoko, reads “To every girl … you CAN absolutely keep your name … Don’t let anyone lie to you.” This post elegantly challenged the tradition. Others countered in the comments: “If you were married into the family of a Dangote, Adenuga, Otedola … would you prefer to still keep your father’s name?” The conversation wasn’t about forcing one choice over the other, but resurrecting agency. The choice, not the name, is the point.
On X, Nihinlola Olowe reminded readers, “Changing surname after marriage is Western culture, not African. In Nigeria, it’s not compulsory by law.” Indeed, in many African societies, identity is communal, not patriarchal possession. Yet globalisation tugs traditions toward Western mores—creating friction. For Temi, changing to Ajibade might be viewed by some as acquiescing to norms she didn’t previously need to, given her prominence. It’s a paradox: resisting erasure of a woman’s identity yet willingly adopting a new one.
The internet’s shock may also say more about us than her: what Americans call “self-branding.” Here is a couple whose love radiated beyond gowns and vows: it was shown in choice of venues, in designer gowns, in cultural signifiers, in high-altitude extravagance. Temi’s surname shift felt like a post-nuptial monologue: not a ceding of power, but a merging of stories. It’s “our” story now.
Some commentators wrote with mock admonishment: “If Temi Otedola change her name to Ajibade, who you be wey you say you no go change your name?” Others observed the irony: “Temi Ajibade but her handle na still Temi Otedola … who is f**ling who abeg?” A reminder that digital identity doesn’t shift as quickly as marital identity.
So why does the internet collectively trudge toward outrage? Because our cultural expectations penalise women who do both or choose either. If she keeps her father’s name, “why humble herself?” If she changes it, “why erase the lineage?” The only uncontroversial choice for women is to not have a choice. That is why the internet is surprised: because choice still sounds like betrayal.
This is not a debate about feminism versus tradition. It is a meditation on the symbolic gravity of names in the age of self-fashioning. Temi Otedola’s evolution into Temiloluwa Ajibade is less a submission and more a statement. She is saying: “I carry my past, but I choose my future.” It is deeply modern, quietly radical, and entirely hers.
