Apparently, a woman can spend her entire life building a name, only for marriage to arrive with a rebranding proposal. Fortunately, mine came with a plot twist. To be a woman is to spend an extraordinary amount of time being told where you belong. And, more importantly, where you don't.
In some of our communities, a daughter is born into a family that loves her, raises her, educates her, disciplines her, celebrates her and occasionally reminds her that she will one day leave.
You are somebody's daughter, yes.
But apparently, only on a temporary contract.
Your brothers? Permanent employees.
You? Visiting consultant.
The family invests in you, gives you a name, teaches you its history, and then somewhere between puberty and your first serious boyfriend, the reminders begin. Remember, one day you will go to your husband's home.
Fine.
So you grow up knowing that the home you were born into is supposedly not your final destination. Then you get married. You arrive at your matrimonial home, carrying your clothes, your dreams, your opinions, and perhaps a slightly unreasonable number of shoes.
You think, Finally. Home. Not so fast, madam.
Because depending on the circumstances, you may be reminded that this is your husband's family. His people. His lineage. His ancestral home. And suddenly you are wondering whether womanhood is some sort of permanent transit visa.
At your father's home, you are leaving. At your husband's home, you have arrived, but the land may still be described as somebody else's. A daughter in transit. A wife on probation.
Like water, we are expected to flow from one family into another, taking the shape of whichever container receives us. But water has a source. And I have always wondered why everyone seems so determined to forget ours. Then there is the matter of titles.
Oh, the titles.
A man is born, and at some point he becomes Mr.
Mr. at twenty five.
Mr. at thirty five.
Mr. at fifty five.
Mr. at ninety five.
Single? Mr.
Married? Mr.
Divorced? Still Mr.
Widowed? Mr., with our condolences.
The man could have been married three times, divorced twice, and be currently reconsidering the institution altogether.
Mr.
Unbothered. Unchanged. Un- rebranded. Meanwhile, a woman must apparently provide her relationship status before the conversation can proceed.
Miss.
Mrs.
Ms.
A small collection of letters doing a suspicious amount of social administration.
Miss tells the world you are unmarried.
Mrs. announces that somebody has married you.
Ms. offers a much needed escape from the entire investigation.
And thank goodness for Ms., because sometimes a woman simply wants to receive an email without submitting her marital history.
Imagine if men had to go through the same process.
Mr. for single.
Mrr. for married.
Mrrr. for divorced but emotionally available.
Mrrrr. for divorced and absolutely not interested in discussing it.
The stationery industry would collapse under the pressure. But somehow, we have accepted that a woman's marital status deserves a public announcement while a man's remains none of our business.
Why?
When did marriage become a grammatical event that happens only to women?
And just when you think the paperwork is complete, somebody asks:
So, are you changing your surname?
Ah.
The final merger.
Now, before the surname police arrive, let me say this: I have nothing against women who choose to take their husbands' names. Some find it romantic. Some want to share a family name with their children. Some simply prefer the sound of the new name.
Beautiful. I am all for choice. What fascinates me is the assumption that the choice has already been made for you. You are born with a name. You grow into it. You answer to it in classrooms. You write it on examinations. It appears on certificates, applications, employment contracts and achievements you worked very hard to earn. You spend years building a reputation around it. Then love enters the chat.
And apparently, love has a rebranding department. Congratulations on your marriage. Please surrender your existing identity at the counter. Your new name will be issued shortly. No disrespect to the husband, of course. We love the husband. That is why we married him. But why does loving a man sometimes come with the expectation that a woman should edit herself?
Marriage is supposed to be a union.
Not a corporate takeover.
And if we are merging, why is only one company changing its letterhead?
Now, let us discuss the academic tragedy.
Imagine a woman who has spent years pursuing an education.
She has survived assignments, research proposals, sleepless nights, supervisors who respond to emails at geological speed, and a thesis that has threatened her peace, her eyesight and possibly her relationship with God. Finally, she earns her PhD.
Doctor!
A title she worked for.
A title no marriage ceremony could confer.
And there she stands, proudly introduced as:
Dr. Husband's Surname.
Excuse me?
I did the reading.
I conducted the research.
I defended the thesis.
Where exactly was Mr. Husband when I was negotiating with Chapter Four?
Perhaps he was supportive. Perhaps he brought tea, offered encouragement and tolerated several years of academic distress. Wonderful man. Give him flowers. But must we give him the bibliography too? And God forbid the marriage ends.
Now the woman has a second dissertation to complete: The Reclamation of My Former Identity: A Longitudinal Study of Certificates, Publications and People Who Refuse to Update Their Contacts. Because how do you return to the name you carried before marriage when your professional life has already been established under another?
Your colleagues know one name.
Your publications carry another.
Your certificates may tell a different story.
Your email address has become an archaeological site.
Of course, some women happily retain their married names after divorce. Others change them back. Others never changed them in the first place. All perfectly legitimate choices.
But the fact that women so often have to think through these complications while men continue peacefully answering to Mr. Whatever He Was Born With is rather telling.
Now, dear reader, before you conclude that I am writing this from a place of personal surname trauma, allow me to introduce the plot twist.
My name is Achom Atem Garang.
My husband's name is Dau Atem Garang.
Yes.
Read that again.
Achom Atem Garang.
Dau Atem Garang.
Same Atem.
Same Garang.
Different first names.
I know.
Of all the men in the world, I somehow married one whose name came with absolutely no threat to my existing stationery. While other women are negotiating whether to keep, drop, hyphenate or rearrange their surnames, I walked into marriage with my name already compatible.
No rebranding.
No identity crisis.
No awkward conversation about which name goes on the certificates.
The merger department reviewed our files and discovered that both companies were already operating under the same name. Acquisition cancelled.
I sometimes wonder whether the universe looked at my future arguments about women's identities and decided to spare my husband the administrative burden. Because imagine me trying to explain why I wasn't changing my name. The debates. The PowerPoint presentation. The supporting evidence. The references.
Instead, the man arrived with the exact same Atem Garang. Baba, wherever you are, I hope you appreciate the comedy. And when I eventually earn that doctorate? Oh, I intend to enjoy it. Dr. Achom Atem Garang. Not because I borrowed a name through marriage. Not because somebody graciously allowed me to keep one. But because I was Achom Atem Garang before I met Dau Atem Garang. And I will be Achom Atem Garang after the PhD.
I will carry the name I inherited, the name I built my life around, and the academic title I intend to earn. All of it. High and mighty. As I should. Some women have to fight to keep their names. I married my namesake. Technically, my husband and I did not even need to discuss whose surname would survive the marriage. Both survived. Nobody was harmed in the making of this union. Well, except perhaps the patriarchy, which had prepared a whole procedure and found itself unemployed.
Jokes aside, I know my situation is unusual. And I know that sharing a surname with my husband does not magically solve the bigger questions. Because the issue was never simply what we are called. It is what we are allowed to carry.
Our identities.
Our ambitions.
Our histories.
Our sense of belonging.
Why must a daughter grow up being reminded that she will leave, as though marriage cancels the home that raised her? Why must a wife sometimes be treated as an addition to somebody else's story rather than a person arriving with a complete story of her own?
And why do we continue to measure a woman's identity against the milestones of her relationships?
Before marriage.
After marriage.
After children.
After divorce.
After widowhood.
Always another label.
Always another adjustment.
As though womanhood is a document that must be amended every time life changes. I want a different understanding of love. One where marriage does not require a woman to become less herself to prove that she belongs. Where keeping your name is not interpreted as rejecting your husband. Where taking his name is not interpreted as surrendering your independence. Where a couple can choose a shared name, separate names, or something entirely different without inviting a family tribunal.
Because the point is not that every woman must keep her birth name. The point is that every woman should have the freedom to decide what her name means to her. And perhaps we should question the idea that the name we were born with is necessarily the only authentic one, too.
Some women have complicated relationships with their birth families. Some find freedom in choosing a new name. Some create identities that have nothing to do with either father or husband.
That is their version.
This is mine.
I keep returning to the idea of a daughter being a visitor.
A visitor in the family that raised her.
A visitor in the family she marries into.
Always moving.
Always adjusting.
Always expected to fit.
But I refuse to believe that a woman's life must be spent waiting for somebody to grant her permanent residence.
I am my father's daughter.
I am my mother's daughter.
I am my husband's wife.
And before, during and beyond all those relationships, I am Achom. These identities can coexist. One does not have to evict the other. Love should expand the places where we belong, not shrink them.
Marriage should add to our lives, not erase the chapters that came before. And to the girls who are still growing into their names, I hope you build lives that make those names mean something to you.
Study.
Work.
Dream.
Love.
Marry, if you want to.
Change your name, if you want to.
Keep it, if you want to.
But do not let anyone convince you that becoming somebody's wife requires you to stop being somebody in your own right.
As for me, I will continue happily answering to Achom Atem Garang.
And one day, God willing, Dr. Achom Atem Garang.
The daughter who inherited the name.
The woman who built a life under it.
And the wife who married a man with exactly the same one.
Of all the plot twists love could have written for me, this one deserves a standing ovation.
I married a man and kept my name.
He married a woman and kept his.
Apparently, equality was in the family name all along.