The cold, air filled every crevice of the dental office, wrapping itself around my body like a blanket. My tiny, six-year-old legs dangled from the orange plastic chair, barely reaching the ground, as I reluctantly sat in the small, sterile waiting room to be seen by the dentist.
“Lakeya Oh-ma ... Oh-my ... Oh...” the short, white brunette dental assistant murmured. She adjusted her glasses that crookedly sat low on the brim of her nose and tried again, “Lakeya Oh ... moe ... Oh ... oh.”
"Omogun," my mother interjected, coming to her rescue.
It was an all-too-familiar experience that I’d gotten used to ever since I started elementary school — teachers, doctors, and new friends attempting but often failing to say my last name. They meant no harm, and on occasion would often swap “Omogun” with “Oh my god,” laughing hysterically as they called me “Lakeya Oh my god!” It didn’t help that my Midwestern accent Americanized what my father often referred to as the real pronunciation.
"Say it like this," my father would often say to me and my sisters while growing up, his slow deliberate tone guiding us. "Oh-moe-GOON." He always emphasized the “GOON,” his Nigerian accent infusing the word with warmth and familiarity. As we repeated after him, he would let out a loud laugh, and I could see the pride in his eyes, knowing that he was passing down a piece of our heritage.
Equally, if not more important than the correct pronunciation of our last name was its meaning. That was because, according to my father, it was not just a name — it was our identity. An identity that would characterize our lives.
Omogun, which originates from the Nigerian Yoruba language, means “a strong, powerful person.”
Even though my father is Edo and not Yoruba, our family acquired our last name when a Yoruba merchantman encountered my great-great-grandfather. When the Yoruba merchant looked at my great-great-grandfather, who was a small baby at the time, he declared to my great-great-grandfather’s mother, “He is going to be a very strong and powerful person.”
Through my father's stories, I learned that my great-great-grandfather grew up to become exactly that – a strong, powerful person in his village. My father once told me, “He was a person who could see. He could look at someone and know who they were. He spent his time mentoring and advising people to become successful. He helped them become great people.”
Omogun: Strong. Powerful. Relentless.
Tears streamed down my face, as I clutched my cell phone to my ear while standing beneath the massive, sprawling tree in the front yard. It was a sacred spot where I held many conversations and dreamed endlessly about my future. “It feels like I’m starting all over,” I confided to my father. I had made the difficult decision to leave fast-paced New York City and return to Michigan where I intended to finish a crucial step before pursuing further education in graduate school outside of Michigan.
“It’ll even feel like I’m years behind,” I lamented. “I was supposed to finish my certification two years ago.” Restlessly shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I absorbed my father's comforting words. "I'll share with you what my father once told me,” he said. “If you allow fear of ridicule to dictate your decisions, you'll never reach your destination. You are an Omogun, my dear. There's nothing you can't accomplish.”
Whenever I hit bumps and roads in life, especially while pursuing my very long educational and career journey, my father would remind me, “You are an Omogun. When you know who you are, you know where you are going. Stay focused. Keep going, my dear. You will be successful in Jesus’s name.”
Over time, and as I embraced the significance of my last name, I embodied its meaning by God’s grace. Despite all the generational, societal, and even workplace-based barriers that attempted to impede my journey as a first-generation African American and Nigerian girl who grew up between Detroit and New York, I triumphed over all of them. The significance of my name became a guiding force, shaping my actions and aspirations.
I had accomplished and overcome so much — personally, professionally, spiritually — as Lakeya “Omogun.”
So, when I met and fell in love with my now-husband and realized that our relationship would lead to marriage, I found myself considering, for the first time, what it meant to possibly change my last name.
“I’m not changing my last name. It’s who I am. Everything I’ve done and accomplished is associated with Omogun. You think I’m just gonna give you credit by changing my last name?” I once told him while we were making one of our favorite meals together – egg sauce and boiled yams. The words flowed easily from my lips, carrying a hint of jest and a touch of seriousness. It was a moment of lighthearted banter, but beneath the humor, there was a deeper significance to my declaration. He transferred the chopped red onions, tomatoes, red peppers, and scotch bonnet peppers from the wooden cutting board to the pan. Then he gently walked up to me and said, “Keya, it’s whatever you want to do.” He planted a kiss on my forehead and grabbed the bottle of olive oil to continue cooking.
On subsequent occasions, he’d always chuckle when I reminded him, never pressuring me to make a decision or forcing me to take his last name.
The reminders were less for him and more for me. They were my way of staking my claim — a rebellion against societal messages that I had digested over the years through media, conversations, and literature. The messages all shared a common theme — to take on a man’s last name is to become his “property” — or worse, “lose my identity.”
I also warred with the real issue of changing my last name, particularly as an assistant professor on the tenure track in academia. So much of our professional identity as academics is tied to our last names — our publications, citations, grants, and accomplishments that we meticulously list on our CVs that define our careers.
It was a deep internal conflict, as I felt compelled to consider my identity as a “strong professional career woman” and the importance preserving the legacy of my Omogun family name.
To explore this internal conflict, I spent hours on the phone with recently-married friends who, like me, had spent years building their careers before marriage. I asked them about their decisions to either change or keep their last names. After long conversations filled with laughter and my anxious questions — Will people remember me? Will they know that Lakeya Omogun and Lakeya Afolalu are the same person? I finally found comfort when one of my dear friends said, "Lakeya, whether you choose to change your last name or not is entirely your decision. It's not right or wrong. It’s about what you want."
I began to acknowledge that there was a quiet longing in my heart that influenced my decision to change my last name — a desire I had only ever confided to the pages of my journals: to build a new legacy with my husband.
After my parents divorced, I grew up with my mother in Detroit and my father in New York City. Sure, it was rich and beautiful, shaping me into the well-rounded woman that I am today. Still, I always desired to have one family under one roof. I perceived taking on my husband’s last name as a symbol of the joint legacy that I desired since I was a little girl.
This isn’t to say that women can’t build a legacy without changing their last name. But when I reflect on my upbringing — two parents in separate homes and states, caught between different racial, ethnic, and cultural worlds — I see that I’ve always yearned for a sense of oneness.
I never felt comfortable expressing this desire beyond the pages of my journals.
Coming from a lineage of strong African American women on my mother’s side, I internalized a heightened level of independence and strength. Coupled with the embodiment of my last name, Omogun, I carried a deep strength and tenacity that played a critical role in both my educational and professional accolades.
But deep down inside, God placed a desire in my heart to be more than my work. I've always longed to be more than what I “produce” – to be soft, vulnerable, receptive, a wife, and eventually a mother.
So when we married in Volterra, Italy before our family and friends on June 10, 2023, I made the decision to become Lakeya Afolalu.
Afolalu, also originating from the Nigerian Yoruba language, means “a family that is blessed with success, wealth, and riches. So, the family celebrates by dancing to beat of the drum with honor.”
My father-in-law elaborated on the meaning of Afolalu during one of our evening phone calls. “Where we come from in Nigeria, there’s always a celebration — always something to celebrate. It could be the birth of a child, a naming ceremony, a housewarming, or a wedding. These are all forms of wealth. Dances are used in very special occasions, but it is not just any dance, it is a dance that is dignified. Like when a king or queen is coming, they will dance with dignity and honor. So, Afolalu means to celebrate, to dance with dignity and with honor.”
This past June, my husband and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary. Marriage has been one of the most transformative experiences of my life. It has softened me. It continues to stretch me, molding me into a kinder, more patient version of myself. Even as I continue to pursue my career aspirations, I find that Christ is illuminating the path for my husband and me, showing us how our ambitions harmonize with His greater purpose for our lives. Together, we are crafting a joint legacy that will endure, leaving an indelible imprint on this world and securing our place in the heavens.
I've certainly faced unsolicited comments about my last name switch, contrasting sharply with the support from my closest friends. Responses like, “Wait, you changed your last name?” and “I could never do that!” Some even questioned my career choices: “Did you think about your career before you changed your name?”
Despite those unsolicited comments, I must say that my life has been filled with more ease and peace since my last name switch. It has, in many ways, felt like a continuous celebratory dance — ushering in new beginnings, answered prayers, joy, and so much more.
In the past year, I've accomplished quite a bit. I've published a new article, have one in-press, and one accepted. Also, my PhD student, whom I co-advise, and I were awarded the 2024-25 Resilience and Compassion Seed Grant through the UW Resilience Lab and the Campus Sustainability Fund (CSF) to fund our community-engaged project, “The Seattle Multilingual Youth of Color & Educator Collective”. I also received the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) 2024 Early Career Educator of Color (ECEOC) Award Fellowship! All these achievements have been realized under my new last name, Afolalu. They serve as a testament to the enduring strength, power, and determination of the Omogun legacy that I will forever carry with me. This legacy has brought me this far, and as I continue to shape my career, I will do so while building a Christ-honoring legacy with my husband.
Photo at top: Lakeya and her husband on their wedding day. (Photographer: Matteo Cuzzola)
