I met Zainab some years ago at a leadership program. Though I was slightly older, her quiet maturity and composure made her seem well beyond her years. She wasn’t the type to giggle through group sessions or throw herself into idle chatter. Instead, she carried herself with a calm restraint—her laughter measured, her words deliberate, and her silences meaningful. There was something almost regal about her reserve, as if she carried secrets she had long made peace with.
When I finally got close enough to know her story, she told me, almost casually, that she had been married and divorced. The words fell like a hammer on glass. I remember staring at her, unable to hide my surprise. She smiled softly, perhaps to calm my reaction, though the pain behind that smile was impossible to miss.
Over time, our friendship deepened. Zainab, once reserved, found comfort in my company, while I, perhaps foolishly, found myself haunted by curiosity. What could have gone so wrong for a woman so gentle, so intelligent, to end up divorced so young? Yet every time I tiptoed toward the subject, she sidestepped it with quiet grace, as if shielding her past from unnecessary autopsy.
Then one afternoon, during a conversation laced with laughter, she asked me a question that has lived rent-free in my mind ever since. I had just joked, “Zainab, with your beauty and poise, you should be every man’s dream.” She smiled mischievously and asked, “Bagudu, do you think you could ever marry a divorcee or a widow?”
It was a simple question, but it sliced through my heart like a blade. I couldn’t answer. And even today, I still can’t.
Divorcees and widows are not faceless statistics; they are someone’s daughter, sister, niece, mother. They are women who once loved deeply, who dreamed of forever, and who now find themselves navigating a world that can be cruel to those who have tasted love and lost it. For them, finding affection again isn’t just about romance; it is about restoration of self-worth, of belonging, of hope.
Yet, society judges them harshly. When such women remarry, particularly to men who already have wives, the world splits into two camps: those who see it as healing, and those who brand it as betrayal. One group calls it a lifeline; the other, a moral failure.
It is within this moral tug-of-war that Tiwa Savage, the celebrated Afrobeats queen, recently dropped a bombshell. She declared that she was open to being a second wife. Her words shocked many, yet they carried the weary honesty of a woman who has seen enough of life to know what truly matters.
In her interview on the American podcast Lip Service, Tiwa confessed that most of the men interested in her are either older or already married. “If I meet somebody who can really marry me,” she said, “they are either in their fifties or already married. So maybe I can be a second wife. I think so. I could be a second wife.”
Her calm acceptance wasn’t self-pity; it was realism. Tiwa, once married to Tunji Balogun (TBillz) before their highly publicized split, was simply acknowledging a truth many women conceal: that love, in its purest form, doesn’t always come wrapped in societal approval.
To her and to countless others, polygamy isn’t a scandal but a sanctuary. It offers legitimacy, companionship, and the dignity of belonging in a world where loneliness can be more corrosive than judgment. Sociologists like Sylvia Walby have long argued that “the structures that define morality are often designed to preserve power, not justice.” In other words, what we call immoral is often just unconventional.
I have always believed that polygamy, when practiced with sincerity and fairness, can be more compassionate than the cold loneliness of divorce or widowhood. Why should a woman wait until her options shrink before realizing that companionship, no matter the form is a human necessity, not a privilege?
Critics say polygamy is unjust because no man can love two women equally. But justice, as Aristotle taught, is not about equality; it is about equity. Parents love their children differently but not unjustly. Fairness lies not in sameness but in sincerity.
In societies like ours, where women statistically outnumber men and live longer, perhaps we should question not the fairness of polygamy but the hypocrisy of those who condemn it publicly while practicing it privately. The institution has been demonized more by perception than by principle.
Tiwa’s revelation is not merely a celebrity’s confession, it is a mirror reflecting the hidden desires of many women caught between moral expectation and emotional need. She speaks for the divorced, the widowed, and the lonely who crave validation without shame. Her voice challenges a world that celebrates freedom yet condemns choice when it comes to love.
We often romanticize monogamy as the only moral path, yet what happens when it breaks? When a woman like May Edochie, for instance, finds her marriage fractured because her husband took another wife, society expects her to walk away in dignitybeven if that dignity costs her peace. But perhaps, as painful as it seems, polygamy might sometimes be the gentler alternative to emotional exile.
Life, after all, is not about controlling the storms we cannot stop; it is about adjusting our sails. Tiwa’s statement is not a call for chaos—it’s a call for compassion. She reminds us that what we cannot change, we can at least learn to understand.
When Zainab asked me if I could ever love a divorced woman, I avoided the question. But today, I see the truth she was trying to teach me: that those who embrace such women are not sinners—they are saviors of broken dreams, custodians of second chances.
For in the end, love is not a prize for the pure; it is a refuge for the wounded.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
