As I sat watching a basketball game between my team, the Toronto Raptors, and the Washington Wizards, a memory resurfaced unexpectedly. Though the recollection had no connection to the game, it came anyway—a reflection on how we address each other and what that says about us.
A few years ago, a client called my office to book an appointment. He introduced himself as Dr. BV, and in the process of scheduling, my assistant inadvertently addressed him as “Mr. BV.” What followed was an explosion of anger. “Don’t you ever refer to me as Mr. I worked hard for my PhD, and that’s no small feat. Show some respect,” he fumed. My assistant apologized, wishing him well with his PhD. I later learnt that the man was a senior civil servant in Nigeria and, the encounter stuck with me.
This incident prompted me to think more deeply about how we demand to be addressed and how titles have come to define so many people. Some allow titles to shape their identity entirely, sometimes at the expense of meaningful relationships. I recall hearing about a governor in Nigeria who banned a close childhood friend from ever visiting again. Why? His friend had dared to call him privately by his first name—the same name they grew up using—instead of the official “His Excellency.” This obsession with titles isn’t limited to political office; it extends to all professions and positions of status. It’s not unusual to hear close friends, family members, or former classmates refer to each other as “Chief,” “Your Honor,” “Pastor,” “Imam,” “Professor,” “Doctor,” “Barrister,” “Engineer,” “My Lord”, “SAN”, “MD,” “Honorable”, “Excellency”, “Engineer”, “Architect”, and so on, with no mention of their actual names.
One thing that has always puzzled me is how certain professions have somehow transformed into titles. For instance, being a “Barrister” shouldn’t really be a title at all. It’s a profession—something we do, not something we are. I have often wondered how a profession, which should be about serving others, has instead become a way for some to demand recognition. Yet, in many cases, professions like law, engineering, and even medicine have become titles that people carry around like badges, insisting they be addressed as such in every aspect of life, whether in the courtroom or at a family gathering.
Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being recognized for one’s hard-earned accomplishments, be they professional, political, religious, or traditional titles. It’s both respectful and appropriate to address individuals by their titles in formal or official settings. However, when titles begin to invade personal spaces—among family, friends, and informal gatherings—they can slowly erode intimacy and friendship. A person’s identity, their essence, becomes overshadowed by a label, and relationships that once thrived on mutual understanding and personal connection may start to feel hollow.
This cultural shift is something I’ve had to navigate personally. In Canada, where I live, I’m simply JB—Johnson Babalola—or at most, Mr. Babalola. People address me by my name, and there’s no emphasis on titles. It feels natural and egalitarian. However, each time I visit Nigeria, I become “Barrister” or “The Law,” often with my name completely missing from the conversation. It’s as if the title has become my identity, and I can’t shake it off. This huge cultural shift is something I continue to struggle with. While I try to maintain the simplicity of being addressed by my name, it’s difficult to change a societal norm that places so much importance on titles. People back home often feel that using titles is a sign of respect, but I can’t help but feel that it distances me from those relationships I value most.
Recently, my friend ZC asked me to accompany him on a visit to his childhood friend, who had become a local government councillor. Throughout the visit, ZC referred to his friend exclusively as “Honorable,” never once mentioning his actual name. It got to a point where I had to ask “Honorable” for his name because ZC seemed to have forgotten that beneath the title, his friend was still the same person he had grown up with.
In Nigeria, this phenomenon has taken on a life of its own. Titles are sometimes treated like names themselves, and the result can be both amusing and puzzling. I recently visited a state secretariat, and as I walked in, I overheard a man calling out to another: “Builder, the file is ready!” Intrigued, I wondered if the man was addressing an actual builder or if it was just another honorary title. A friend who worked at the secretariat later explained that “Builder” was, in fact, the man’s professional designation—he was a building technologist. It was fascinating, but it also made me think about how far we’ve come in allowing our roles and titles to define us in everyday conversations.
Titles and accolades are important, no doubt. They represent hard work, dedication, and achievement. But we should be mindful of how we use them and when we let them dominate our interactions. When we insist on being addressed by our titles in all settings, we risk building barriers instead of bridges. A title is something you have earned, but it’s not who you are. Who we are goes beyond job titles, educational achievements, or social standing. It’s about the character we show, the relationships we nurture, and the humility we carry.
Moreover, there’s a danger in letting titles fuel our ego. When we allow titles to dictate our worth or become the focal point of our identity, we may miss out on the deeper connections that come from simply being human, from letting people see us as we are. After all, at the end of the day, it’s not the titles that will matter most; it’s the relationships, memories, and legacies we leave behind.
So, the next time you find yourself caught up in the world of titles, ask yourself: What do I call you? And more importantly, what do you want to be remembered for?
NB: Johnson Babalola, a Canada based lawyer, leadership consultant and corporate emcee, is a public affairs analyst.
