Nigerian Lives: Seven Nigerians on Growing Up in Polygamous Families 

Polygamy in Nigeria is more than a question of culture or faith. To grow up within its walls is to inherit a complex blend of love and silence, kinship and competition, belonging and betrayal. For some, it was a beautiful chaos: the laughter of half-siblings echoing across shared courtyards, a mother’s quiet resilience, the structure of communal living, and for others, it was a lesson in how to disappear, how to stay small, stay still, stay out of conflict.

We had seven Nigerians who were raised in polygamous homes pull back the curtain on that world, revealing not only how they were shaped by it, but how they are still navigating its echoes.

Damilola, 32, Lagos

I had fifteen siblings, give or take. Some came from my mother, some from her co-wives. Our house was loud, always buzzing with activity. A spoon would go missing and spark a full investigation. Someone’s exam result would be announced and lead to a night of dancing. We were our own theatre. Yes, fights were frequent, and space was tight, but I never once felt alone. I never cried in isolation. In times of joy or pain, you were never the only one.
What people often miss is that in a polygamous house, your siblings don’t just share toys, they share your moods. If one of us was sick, everyone felt it. If one of us succeeded, we all ran down the compound screaming. Sometimes, I even forgot which of us were “full” siblings or “half.” It just didn’t matter.
 

Adebayo, 45, Ogun

My father was a businessman. When he died, he left behind four wives, fifteen children, and five properties across three states. What he didn’t leave was a clear will.
At the funeral, emotions ran high, but what came after was worse. Accusations. Allegations of fake documents. One half-brother accused another of hiding rent income. My eldest sister stopped speaking to her stepmother. And within a month, the police were invited to “restore peace.”
I sat on the stairs one morning and realized none of us had truly grieved. We were too busy fighting over cement and sand, forgetting the man who once brought us together. The home that raised us became a place we could no longer visit without tension.

Musa, 31, Kaduna

Three wives. Three houses. Three sets of children. My father was a governor, and we were the state. He divided his time like a budget. Equally. Fairly. Lovelessly.

To the outside world, we were the model Muslim family. Organized, prosperous, united. Inside, it was cold. Formal. Calculated. He gave us everything we needed. But never anything we wanted: warmth, softness, intimacy. I used to wonder if he even liked being a father, or if he just saw it as his religious duty. Now, I try to parent differently. My son knows what my lap feels like. My daughter knows what my arms are for.

Mariam, 29, Ilorin

I was 13 when my world ended. My mother had battled fibroids for years, and finally, they won. I was her only child and the youngest in the entire house. I remember clinging to her wrapper as they took her body out. After that day, I thought I’d live in a shadow, forgotten, unwanted. But that’s not what happened.
My father’s third wife, the one my mother used to call “the arrogant one,” became my unexpected protector. She helped me register for WAEC. She would plait my hair on Sunday evenings. The second wife, too, began calling me into her kitchen, handing me food in quiet moments.
There were no grand speeches. No apologies for past fights. But their small acts, those moments when I needed love and got it from women who once competed with my mother, taught me that healing sometimes wears unfamiliar faces.
 

Nkechi, 36, Abakaliki

The tension in our home was invisible but always present. The co-wives never screamed at each other, but their coldness could freeze fire. A birthday gift for one child could spark silence in the corridor. A good exam result could be met with icy stares instead of applause.
As kids, we were pawns in a game we didn’t ask to play. My mother would tell me to “be careful” with the others. I wasn’t allowed to eat food from their kitchens. I wasn’t allowed to share my textbooks. Yet, when we were all alone, away from the mothers, we laughed, played, and even cried together, but once we returned indoors, everything changed. We put walls back up. I grew up mastering the art of pretending: pretending I didn’t notice the favoritism, pretending the food didn’t taste different depending on who cooked, pretending I wasn’t angry.
 

Zainab, 27, Kaduna

I remember being able to switch fluently between Hausa and Yoruba before I could read properly. My father had married a Yoruba seamstress, a Hausa Quranic teacher, and an Igbo school principal. Our home was literally a melting pot, but not the romantic kind; they all fought constantly. Still, for us kids, it was magic.
One Sallah, one of my stepmothers made tuwo shinkafa while another insisted on ofe onugbu. And then the Igbo side brought nkwobi. The compound smelled like a food festival. And we, the children, tasted everything. I learned to dance the bata and swange during school cultural day, and while others were confused about their identity, I had three to draw from. I didn’t just grow up in Nigeria. I was in Nigeria.

Bashir, 31, Kano

My father had four wives and more than twenty children. He was a quiet man, religious, well-respected in the community, but to me, he was mostly a silhouette. I remember once rehearsing my speech for a school debate for hours, just hoping he’d hear. That day, he didn’t come home.
He tried, in fairness. He gave money for school, arranged tutors when needed, made sure every house had a generator. But love isn’t a budget. And presence can’t be substituted with provisions.
One day in JSS 3, I fell sick; malaria and typhoid combined. He didn’t visit the hospital. I heard later he was with Wife 3 in Abuja. When he returned a week later, he asked how I was feeling and moved on. That’s when I realized: he was everyone’s father. But he was never fully mine.