When Majekodunmi* (45) first imagined marriage, he thought it would be simple: one man, one woman, one peaceful home. But after losing his first wife and unexpectedly falling in love with two women afterwards, he’s spent the last decade figuring out how to balance love, fairness, and faith.
In this week’s Marriage Diaries, he talks about what life is really like being married to two women, how patience has kept his home, and why he believes friendship matters more than love.
This is a look into his marriage diary.
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Before marriage, I was certain I’d only ever love one woman
I’ve always been the kind of man who believes in loyalty. Even as a bachelor, I wasn’t the type to keep multiple girlfriends or jump from one woman to another. I liked to think of myself as a one-woman man, and that’s how I imagined marriage would be — one man, one wife, and a peaceful home.
My brothers were the opposite. They were often drawn to women and frequently found themselves in messy situations. I was always the one settling their drama or helping run errands when things went wrong. It was entertaining from the outside, but it also convinced me that I didn’t want that life.
I’ve always had a specific taste. I like slim, curvy women who are also intelligent. Looks attract me, but intelligence holds me. So before marriage, I knew the kind of person I wanted and what kind of marriage I envisioned. Nobody really influenced that thinking. It was just who I was.
I met my first wife by accident, and she changed my life
I met Toriola in 2005 at the Sagamu motor park. I was heading to Lagos, and she was boarding a bus. I asked her to join me in a smaller car I’d found — fewer passengers, more comfortable — but she refused at first because she couldn’t afford the fare difference. That honesty impressed me. I offered to cover it, and she reluctantly agreed.
We talked all through the trip. She loved books just as much as I did, and we went back and forth about our favourite novels. I didn’t even realise I hadn’t asked for her number until she was about to get down. I quickly collected it before she disappeared.
Later, I helped her gain admission into my school for her National Diploma. We became friends for years. She’d even advise me about other girls I was dating. Sometimes, I teased her that I’d end up marrying her. She’d always laugh and tell me it wasn’t possible.
By June 2010, after years of friendship, we started dating. By December, we’d done our family introduction, and by June 2011, we were married.
Our marriage was short but filled with love. She was everything I had imagined a partner to be: gentle, thoughtful, and kind. But barely a year later, she fell ill. We went to hospitals, churches, and tried prayers. Nothing worked. She died in April 2013.
That period broke me. But one thing I’ve held on to since then is my relationship with her mother. I still send her a stipend every week to this day. I promised myself I’d look after her for as long as she’s alive, and I haven’t missed a week in over ten years. It’s the least I can do to honour the woman who gave me peace in my first marriage.
I didn’t plan to marry two wives, but life had other ideas
After Toriola died, I threw myself into work. My life revolved around the office and nothing else. A few months later, I began to develop a close relationship with one of my colleagues, the woman who would later become my first wife. Around the same time, I met another woman at our satellite office, and we also got close.
That was the first time I’d ever found myself emotionally involved with two people. Normally, I’m very straightforward with relationships. If I’m dating someone, it means everyone else is out of the picture. But this time was different.
I told the second woman the truth, that I was seeing someone. But we still bonded deeply. She reminded me a lot of my late wife: her temperament, the way she spoke, and the gentleness with which she handled people. I was drawn to her, but also afraid because she made me feel things I wasn’t ready for again.
Eventually, I married the first woman. The second woman moved on, got married, and had a child. But life brought her back into my orbit. Her marriage became toxic; the man was abusive and jobless. She told me he’d hit her, and when I saw the marks, I realised she might not survive it.
At first, I encouraged her to stay. It wasn’t out of wisdom; it was fear. I didn’t want people to think she left her husband because of me. But when I saw what she was going through, I couldn’t keep giving that kind of advice. She left the marriage.
We didn’t speak throughout her divorce because I wanted her to handle it without my influence. But after she was done, we reconnected again in 2019. I prayed about it and even sought spiritual counsel. Every sign pointed in the same direction; she was meant to be part of my life.
By the time I accepted that, I already had one wife. But I also knew that refusing this second marriage would haunt me.
The early years of polygamy almost drove me mad
When I told my first wife I wanted to marry again, she was furious. Her family, too. They said if I must marry another woman, it shouldn’t be that one. They knew her from my past and didn’t trust my intentions.
But I was convinced this was where God was leading me. She got pregnant months after that decision, and I stood firm. Still, I tried to make things easier for my first wife. I apologised often, reassured her constantly, and made sure she never felt replaced.
Those early years were rough. I had to learn how to be fair without overcompensating. I gave both of them what they needed, but made sure my first wife knew her position was safe. That helped calm things.
There were moments when it felt like I’d lost control, like when both women were upset and I didn’t know who to appease first. There were nights when I couldn’t sleep from overthinking. But I realised patience was my biggest weapon. Sometimes silence saved me more than any long explanation could.
People outside didn’t see the chaos. They only saw a man managing his home. But inside, it was a daily balancing act between ego, emotions, and responsibility.
Patience and fairness are the only reasons my home works today
The hardest thing about polygamy is learning to be fair, even when emotions are involved. You can’t show favourites, and you can’t pretend that love feels exactly the same on both sides. You just have to be wise enough to make everyone feel secure.
There was a time my first wife told me she would rather die than have anything to do with the second. It scared me. I didn’t tell anyone. I just prayed about it and looked for a way to make changes gradually.
I started with the children. I ensured they attended the same school, visited both houses, and became comfortable with each other. It took time, but that created a bridge between the two homes.
Gradually, the tension softened. One day, my first wife helped the second find a shop to rent. Later, when she needed her own shop, it was the second wife who helped her secure it. That’s when I knew things were finally changing.
Now, they talk often. They travel together sometimes. They even consult each other on things that concern me. I don’t interfere too much; I’ve learnt that peace has its own rhythm. I just try to be fair and not rock the boat.
Marriage has made me a different man entirely
If you had told me ten years ago that I’d be married to two women peacefully, I’d have laughed. But life humbles you. Marriage has changed me in ways I didn’t expect. It’s made me more patient, more calculating, and more prayerful.
The truth is, if I hadn’t married these two women, I might have ended up with multiple girlfriends or children scattered around. Having them both grounded me. It forced me to live responsibly.
I’ve lost some parts of myself, though. I’m a quiet, private man, and privacy is almost impossible when you have two wives and a house full of children. Sometimes I crave silence. But when I think of the family I’ve built, I know it’s worth it.
I’ve also learnt that friendship keeps a marriage running longer than love. Love fades. Friendship stays. I’m lucky because both of my wives are also my friends. We talk, joke, argue, and we move on.
If I could advise my younger self, I’d say: marry your friend, and marry when you’re ready. Don’t rush. Don’t copy anyone. Marriage will test everything you think you know about yourself, but if you’re patient and fair, you’ll be fine.
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Even love needs wisdom
Sometimes I look at my life and wonder how I got here from that day in Sagamu park to managing two wives and a house full of children. It’s not how I planned it, but it’s where life took me.
Marriage has taught me that love alone doesn’t sustain a home. You need wisdom, understanding, and endurance. Those are the real foundations.
Both my wives think alike. They even fall sick at the same time. It’s almost like they share the same spirit. And maybe that’s God’s way of reminding me that the same love that broke me also rebuilt me.
If I could summarise my story in one sentence, it would be this: marriage is not about perfection; it’s about patience.
*Names have been changed to protect the identity of the subjects.
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