SIR: If, as the elders say, “the clay pot does not argue with the potter,” then mortal man must accept that he does not always sit in the driver’s seat of destiny. We are but travellers on the long road of life, and the winds that push our sails are often beyond our command. When the chick struggles to teach the hen how to scratch the earth, it is no surprise that many men wear themselves thin, wrestling with forces older than the mountains.
I have stood beneath the great iroko of experience and watched mighty trees fall to the forest floor. Men born to lead have stumbled from the highway of purpose—some tripped by the fear of wagging tongues, others ensnared by pride, still others beaten back by unseen storms. Truly, “no condition is permanent,” and the kola nut of fate cracks differently for each of us.
Consider the child born into a polygamous compound, where the laughter of many mothers and the footsteps of many children echo like drums at dusk. The lineage stretches backward like a python resting across generations—great-grandfathers with many wives, fathers who followed the same path, uncles whose households were villages of their own.
On the other branch of the family tree, aunties who parted from their husbands and began anew, their children weaving further threads into the tapestry. Life, like a river, forks and flows; yet from these waters have risen men and women who thrive—free as the palm wine tapper’s song—while some who swear by monogamy hide unspoken chains behind polite smiles.
From the dawn of time, creation has walked in pairs. “The left hand washes the right, and the right hand washes the left.” Light itself is born from the dance of opposing energies. So the Ancient Voice spoke at the beginning, “Let there be light,” and from that light came the command: go forth and multiply.
Multiplication, like the yam harvest, may spread slowly or burst forth in abundance—but always, it continues.My forebears walked in this rhythm. Their homes, though wide as the savannah, often knew a strange peace—held together by custom, respect, and the binding cord of community. But as Achebe’s Okonkwo lamented, “the white man put a knife to the things that held us together.” And so, the calabash cracked. New ways arrived, and the centre of the compound trembled.
Today, monogamy—like a borrowed garment—sometimes sits uneasily on shoulders not tailored for it.
Many declare one wife with their lips, yet their shadows wander by night. As the proverb teaches, “The heart is a restless market; it does not close at sunset.” Hypocrisy grows where truth is silenced.
May our feet not stray into folly. Let us not wield tradition as a spear or modernity as a whip. Rather, let wisdom guide us like the evening star. For in our loins, in our stories, and in our names lie the seeds of who we are. And as the Isoko say, “A river that forgets its source will surely run dry.”
Olubokun Otame wrote from United Kingdom.
