In the heart of Africa, where culture breathes through the soil and history dances in the air, polygamy stands not merely as a practice, but as a legend—one woven into the very tapestry of identity, community, and survival. It is a tale that stirs debate, kindles memory, and sometimes, stokes quiet admiration in corners both sacred and profane. Love it, loathe it, or stand somewhere in between—it refuses to be ignored.
Polygamy has long been Africa’s romantic paradox—a phenomenon both criticized and cherished. In many parts of the continent, particularly the North, polygamy is viewed less as indulgence and more as responsibility, a route to immortality through lineage. Here, children are currency, family size is status, and a man’s ability to provide for many is a badge of pride, not shame. A house full of laughter, tiny footsteps, and shared chores is seen not as chaos, but as the ultimate form of stability.
There’s practicality too. A second or third wife often emerges not from lust but necessity—when barrenness knocks at the door or a yearning for sons looms heavy in the air. And in communities where women outnumber men, polygamy offers a curious sense of justice, a redistribution of affection. It gives every woman the right to a home, to love, to partnership. It doesn’t hurt that religion sometimes gives its stamp of approval. In Islam, for instance, polygamy is not only permitted—it is structured, deliberate, spiritual.
Yet polygamy isn’t some relic of the past buried in oral tradition. Its survival into modern times is as dramatic as it is surprising. The rising wave of Western education, capitalism’s dizzying grind, the seductive promises of monogamy, and the loud sermons of new-age churches have tried to tame it—but the fire still burns. And sometimes, the advocates aren’t even who you expect.
Take the curious case of Imo State’s former “Commissioner for Happiness” (yes, that was a real post), Mrs. Ogechi Ololo, who once boldly advised men to marry more than one wife to solve issues of prostitution and female redundancy in the state. It was an outrageous headline—yet it made the evening tea talk. Suddenly, polygamy wasn’t just a moral question, but a proposed social solution.
Even academia has tossed its hat into the ring. Professor Olu Alana of Adekunle Ajasin University didn’t just shock his audience during his Inaugural Lecture in 2025—he blew the roof off. With the flair of a prophet and the scholarship of a sage, he declared that African churches must “review their allegiance to Jesus” and consider polygamy not as sin, but as salvation from the leftovers of colonial indoctrination. According to Alana, the Jesus Africa was sold was a misfit—a passive figure, alien to African struggles. The real Jesus, he claimed, would not shy from confronting imperialists or loving multiple wives if that meant liberation for the people.
Alana didn’t stop there. He accused colonial missionaries of dressing monogamy in holy robes it never earned. Polygamy, he argued, was demonized not by scripture, but by the ethnocentric snobbery of those who couldn’t comprehend Africa’s communal spirit. “Culture,” he thundered, “is not sin.” And to strip Africa of its cultural dignity, including its family structures, was to rob it of its soul.
From the ivory towers of academia to the spotlight of Nollywood, polygamy continues to spark fierce commentary. None more emotive than the legendary RMD—Richard Mofe-Damijo—who confessed on live TV that marrying just one woman felt “unfair.” His father, he said, had five wives, and he saw no shame in it. The host blushed, the audience gasped, and the internet spiraled into its usual cocktail of outrage and applause.
Is polygamy sexist? A relic of patriarchy? Or is it misunderstood—a potential gift wrapped in centuries of dust and dogma? While many argue it privileges men, others flip the script: what if polygamy is society’s way of expanding the circle of care? What if it’s less about men enjoying multiple partners, and more about women finding sanctuary—especially in times where widows, single mothers, and the divorced navigate a society too quick to judge, yet too slow to help?
Numbers, they say, don’t lie. Across the world, women slightly outnumber men. In Nigeria, it’s about 50.4% to 49.6%. In places like France, the gap is even wider. Add to that the fact that women live longer, and you start to see the demographic math that some polygamy supporters swear by. In their eyes, polygamy is not exploitation—it’s equilibrium. It’s not greed—it’s grace.
And then comes the ever-enticing “science.” Some evolutionary biologists claim men are naturally wired for multiple partners, driven by testosterone and age-old instincts to spread their genes. Others push back, saying human love is far too nuanced for biology alone to dictate. The jury is still out, but the debate keeps the fire burning—especially in barbershops, beer parlors, and bridal showers.
But perhaps what truly keeps polygamy alive is its promise. For some, it’s a safety net. For others, a symbol of wealth, power, or benevolence. For families ravaged by death or divorce, it can be rescue. For lonely women and desperate parents, it can be hope. And in communities where financial muscle still measures masculinity, polygamy becomes a stage for heroes—the man who steps in, provides, and unites.
Of course, it’s not all rose petals and moonlight. Jealousy simmers. Inheritance wars erupt. Rivalries turn sour. Without justice, fairness, and capacity, polygamy can spiral into hell. But so too can monogamy—ask the many hearts broken in two-person dramas. The difference is, polygamy wears its risks on its sleeve. It dares the players to play with open eyes.
And through all the noise, one thing remains clear—polygamy, like every deeply rooted tradition, is a mirror. It reflects the values, crises, hopes, and contradictions of the society that birthed it. It shows us not just who we are, but who we are trying to become.
So before we throw stones or sing praises, maybe we should do what the old griots advise: listen. To the women who found sisterhood in it. To the men who found meaning in it. To the families who thrived, and the ones who fell apart. Because in every polygamous tale lies a mix of comedy, tragedy, surprise, sacrifice—and, sometimes, against all odds—love.
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Mohammed, I like reading your ingenious commentaries on topical issues. The one on polygamy should generate more discussions than expected. Most men in monogamy still keep multiple women outside. What should we call this kind of affairs?