05/11/2025
One of the things I love about being Ethiopian is that women don’t change their names when they get married. Woman keep their name — the name of their father because it carries story/history. In Ethiopia, we don’t have “family names” the way the West does. Our family is spoken through us. We recite our grandfathers and grandmothers from both sides, tracing seven generations back, keeping their names alive through memory. That’s how we know who we are.
Growing up, I was called Lloyd Alayou — one name from my father, one from my mother. But on my passport, my name was Sophia Alayou. When I came to England, I put the two together and became Sophia-Lloyd, with Alayou as my middle name. Later, I added Zewde — my grandfather’s name — as my family name. It felt like carrying Ethiopia with me, a reminder that I come from a people who remember.
But in Britain, something different happens. The word "integrate" is used a lot, and it can sound harmless — almost like an invitation. Yet, if you’re not careful, if you don’t have strong roots or support, you can lose yourself in the name of “integration.” It was suggested to me to change my name when I got married because it would be easier for the family to have one shared surname. Easier for who, though? Easier for systems, not my spirit or soul.
Names are not just for convenience. They are stories. And mine tells of migration and memory, of a woman who refused to be erased. I may live in Britain, but when I say my full name — Sophia-Lloyd Alayou Zewde — I hear my ancestors echo back, “We are still here with you and we are glad you have come back home.”💃🏿
