In the name of equality: Justice Jody Kollapen’s ruling has extended the rights of men. Photo The South African Judiciary
The Constitutional Court’s recent decision that husbands can legally take their wives’ surnames has stirred debate across South Africa. Justice Jody Kollapen ruled that stopping men from doing so “unfairly discriminated against them” and reminded us that “the right to equality is not a one-way street”.
Many South Africans will rightly celebrate this as a victory and an overdue step in dismantling the old assumption that women alone should change their identity in marriage. Equality matters and this achievement should not be dismissed.
But one should consider the origins of this legal challenge. The application came from two couples, Jana Jordaan and Henry van der Merwe and Jess Donnelly-Bornman and Andreas Nicolaas Bornman. Their case, which reached the apex court after oral hearings earlier this year, reflects a particular cultural and social experience.
While the judgment allows men to take their wives’ surnames, it does not mandate anyone to do so. For many Africans, whose surname systems carry ancestral and cultural significance, this ruling introduces potential tension between legal rights and traditional practices.
Recent research among young African women shows a more complex reality. A 2022 study of 27 educated, unmarried women in rural Limpopo found that 85% rejected double-barrel surnames, preferring to adopt their husbands’ names. These women did not see surname adoption as oppression but as gaining “dignity, respect and a new identity”, which they associated with honouring both African tradition and biblical teachings about family unity.
From a decolonial perspective, the question is about whose worldviews it reflects. Does it truly contribute to decolonisation or does it simply extend colonial rules and accommodate the wishes of white people?
In Western culture, surnames originated as practical identifiers. Names helped distinguish people — John became Johnson (son of John), Alice became Hill (living near a hill) and Thomas became Smith (blacksmith). Over time, surnames became tied to inheritance, property and patriarchal continuity. When European settlers came to South Africa, they brought this system with them.
But that is not the full South African story. Long before colonial arrival, African societies had complex naming systems that carried history, lineage and memory. Among the Zulu, the isibongo is more than a family name; it ties people to their ancestors and clan. A famous example is uShaka KaSenzangakhona “Ka” meaning “of”, showing Shaka was the son of Senzangakhona. Oral history records Shaka’s sister, Nomcoba KaSenzangakhona, carrying the same lineage marker.
Names are not personal choices; they are ancestral anchors that bind one to community and history. This explains why, as Sikheto Joe Kubayi’s research shows, rural African women view surname practices through the lens of “culture and tradition”, “family stability” and ancestral respect. One person explained that adopting her husband’s name “will ensure peace and stability in the relationship” and advance her husband’s lineage. Another respondent invoked Xitsonga proverbs about women’s roles, seeing surname adoption not as subordination but as cultural fulfillment.
This is not false consciousness; it is a different worldview entirely.
For many African people, surnames are not about property or patriarchy; they are about belonging.
The disconnect is stark — while the Constitutional Court treats surnames as individual rights to be distributed equally, Kubayi’s participants spoke of surnames in communal terms, as vessels of ancestry, markers of respect and symbols of cultural continuity. When 85% of educated rural women reject what urban elites might see as liberation, it raises a critical question — is legal equality enhancing freedom for African communities or imposing a foreign framework upon them?
This ruling poses a challenge rather than a mandate. For white people, surnames might symbolise patriarchal systems that need dismantling. For black people, they are vessels of ancestry.
The concourt ruling advances gender equality within a Western legal framework but it might inadvertently impose colonial assumptions on African women who see surname practices as cultural heritage rather than patriarchal oppression. Kubayi’s research shows that African women are not victims of tradition; they are custodians of it, speaking of surnames as sources of “dignity”, “respect” and “new identity”, rather than barriers to freedom.
True decolonisation would mean recognising that, for many South Africans, the question is not who can take whose surname, but whether our legal system will honour indigenous naming systems that predate colonialism by centuries. It would mean valuing isibongo, clan names, praise names and ancestral lineages as legitimate identity systems, not merely as relics of culture.
The real liberation lies not in extending colonial rules more fairly, but in creating space for African ways of understanding identity, ancestry and belonging. Until then, we risk mistaking inclusion for decolonisation, equality for freedom and celebrating a liberation that belongs to others, while flattening the histories that make us African.
Sbusiso Gwala is an entrepreneur, mentor, tutor and youth leader. He is pursuing a master’s in development studies.