"The Polygamist" and the Black Family Structure: The Persistent Portrayal of Division in African Families

The fragmentation of Black families under capitalism, colonialism and the patriarchy

Jun 14, 2026

We have seen it all in just twenty-two episodes of The Polygamist. For me, the viewing experience unfolded in stages: first came shock at the sheer audacity of Jonas Gomora, then resentment, then sympathy for the children caught in the wreckage, then frustration with the women who continued to enable him, and finally an unavoidable shift toward analysis. What initially appeared to be a story about infidelity slowly revealed itself as a story about power. More specifically, it revealed itself as a story about the fragmentation of the Black family and the social conditions that make such fragmentation possible.

It would be easy to reduce Jonas Gomora to the role of villain. He lies, manipulates, withholds information and consistently prioritises his desires above the emotional wellbeing of those around him. Yet to stop the analysis there would be to miss the broader significance of the character. Jonas is not merely an individual making poor choices. He is a product of social conditions that reward male authority while insulating men from accountability. His behaviour is extreme, but the logic underpinning it is familiar. He assumes the right to exercise power without accepting the responsibilities that accompany it.

What makes the series compelling is that it exposes how this power operates not only through men but through entire social arrangements. The wives, the children, extended family members and community structures all become participants in a system that survives because it is continuously reproduced. This is what makes patriarchy so resilient. It is not sustained by individual men alone. It survives because it becomes normalised, defended and sometimes even romanticised by those who are harmed by it.

The tragedy of the Gomora family is therefore not simply that a man has too many wives. The tragedy is that relationships become organised around competition rather than collective care. Instead of solidarity, there is suspicion. Instead of cooperation, there is rivalry. Every new revelation deepens existing fractures. Family members become adversaries competing for recognition, resources and affection from a patriarch who remains at the centre of their emotional universe.

This dynamic should feel familiar to many Black South Africans because fragmentation has long been a feature of our historical experience. Colonialism did not merely dispossess African people of land. It disrupted social structures, weakened communal bonds and introduced systems that prioritised individual accumulation over collective wellbeing. Apartheid intensified this process by physically separating families through migrant labour, pass laws and economic exclusion. The Black family was forced to adapt to conditions designed to undermine its stability.

The consequences of these disruptions did not disappear with the advent of democracy. Economic inequality continues to place immense pressure on Black households. Unemployment, housing insecurity and financial precarity create conditions in which relationships become strained and care becomes difficult to sustain. In such circumstances, the family often becomes both a site of refuge and a site of conflict. It is expected to provide emotional, social and economic support while operating under immense structural pressure.

Viewed through this lens, The Polygamist becomes less a story about romance and more a story about inheritance. The characters inherit wounds they did not create. They inherit ideas about masculinity that equate power with control. They inherit notions of womanhood that glorify endurance while discouraging self-preservation. They inherit a model of family life in which hierarchy is often mistaken for leadership and obedience is mistaken for love.

The Children: Oft Forgotten, Voluntarily Involved

The children in the series are perhaps the most important figures because they reveal the true cost of this arrangement. While the adults remain consumed by their battles for legitimacy and recognition, the children absorb the consequences. They become witnesses to instability long before they possess the language to explain it. They learn lessons about relationships from environments characterised by secrecy, competition and emotional inconsistency. In this sense, the fragmentation of the family becomes generational. It reproduces itself long after the original conflict has ended.

What The Polygamist ultimately demonstrates is that division rarely begins with dramatic acts. It begins with smaller failures of responsibility that accumulate over time. It begins when power is exercised without accountability. It begins when care becomes conditional. It begins when individuals are treated as extensions of another person’s desires rather than as complete human beings deserving of dignity.

The persistence of division within many African families cannot be understood apart from the historical forces that have shaped them. Colonialism fractured communities. Capitalism commodified relationships and intensified economic insecurity. Patriarchy concentrated power in ways that often undermine mutuality and collective care. The family, rather than existing outside these systems, becomes one of the primary spaces through which they are reproduced.

Perhaps this is why The Polygamist resonates so deeply with audiences. Beneath the scandals and betrayals lies a familiar story about people searching for belonging within structures that continually produce alienation. The series invites viewers to ask difficult questions about what constitutes family, what responsibilities accompany leadership, and whether love can truly flourish in environments organised around domination rather than reciprocity.

Jonas

The most unsettling aspect of the series is not Jonas Gomora himself. It is the possibility that he represents something larger than one individual. He embodies a social logic that remains deeply embedded within many of our institutions and relationships. To critique him is therefore not enough. We must also critique the conditions that make him possible.

Only then can the conversation move beyond individual blame and toward the more difficult task of imagining what a healthy, liberated and genuinely collective Black family structure might look like.

An equally compelling reading of Jonas Gomora is psychological rather than purely sociological. While it would be irresponsible to diagnose a fictional character, many of Jo’s actions appear consistent with traits commonly associated with malignant narcissism. Unlike ordinary selfishness, malignant narcissism is characterised by an inflated sense of self-importance, a need for admiration, a lack of empathy, manipulative behaviour, and a tendency to view other people primarily in relation to one’s own needs.

Throughout the series, Jo demonstrates a remarkable inability to appreciate the emotional consequences of his decisions. The suffering of his wives and children rarely appears to provoke genuine accountability. Instead, moments of confrontation are frequently redirected toward preserving his authority or restoring his image. Relationships become less about mutual care and more about securing emotional supply. The family exists not as a collective unit with its own needs and aspirations, but as an extension of his desires.

What makes Jo particularly fascinating is that he appears to demand unconditional loyalty while offering conditional commitment in return. He expects understanding from those he repeatedly wounds. He expects forgiveness without transformation. He expects sacrifice without reciprocity. This asymmetry is central to many analyses of narcissistic behaviour, where the needs of others are continually subordinated to the preservation of the self.

Jo’s behaviour cannot be separated from the patriarchal environment that enables it. Patriarchy often rewards men for behaviours that would be condemned in other contexts. Control is interpreted as leadership. Possessiveness is interpreted as love. Emotional unavailability is interpreted as strength. Consequently, the line between individual pathology and socially sanctioned masculinity becomes difficult to distinguish. The question the series raises is therefore not simply whether Jo is narcissistic, but whether society has normalized forms of male entitlement that closely resemble narcissistic behaviour.

His character invites viewers to consider a disturbing possibility: that the greatest danger is not the exceptionally narcissistic man, but the ordinary social structures that allow narcissistic tendencies to flourish unchecked. In this sense, Jo becomes more than an individual character. He becomes a symbol of a broader culture in which power often excuses behaviour that would otherwise be recognized as harmful.

Joyce, Anxious Attachment and the Tragedy of Codependency

Of all the characters in The Polygamist, Joyce is perhaps the most difficult to analyse because she embodies a contradiction that is familiar to many viewers. On the one hand, she is deeply sympathetic. She is loving, committed, and willing to fight for her family. On the other hand, she repeatedly participates in circumstances that undermine her own wellbeing. The result is a character whose suffering evokes both compassion and frustration in equal measure.

One way of understanding Joyce is through the lens of anxious attachment. Attachment theorists argue that individuals who develop anxious attachment styles often experience an intense fear of abandonment, leading them to prioritize the preservation of relationships even when those relationships become harmful. Love becomes intertwined with anxiety. Security is sought through proximity rather than reciprocity. As a result, the individual may find themselves tolerating behaviour that consistently violates their needs because the prospect of losing the relationship feels more threatening than the pain of remaining within it.

Throughout the series, Joyce appears trapped within this dynamic. Her relationship with Jo is marked by repeated betrayals, disappointments, and emotional instability, yet she remains emotionally tethered to him. What makes this particularly tragic is that her commitment often appears less connected to Jo’s actual behaviour and more connected to the hope that he will eventually become the man she believes he can be. She remains attached not only to the person in front of her, but also to the possibility of who that person might one day become.

This is where anxious attachment often intersects with codependency. In psychological literature, codependency describes a relational pattern in which an individual’s sense of purpose becomes excessively tied to managing, rescuing, or sustaining another person. The self gradually becomes organised around the needs of the other. Personal boundaries weaken, emotional wellbeing becomes dependent upon another person’s behaviour, and sacrifice begins to masquerade as love.

Joyce frequently exhibits this pattern. Rather than evaluating the relationship according to whether it nourishes her, she appears preoccupied with preserving it at almost any cost. Her emotional energy is repeatedly invested in stabilising situations she did not create and solving problems for which she bears little responsibility. In this sense, the relationship becomes less about mutual flourishing and more about endurance.

What makes Joyce’s story particularly compelling, however, is that her behaviour cannot be understood solely as an individual psychological issue. Women are often socialised to view self-sacrifice as a virtue. Across many cultures, the ideal woman is celebrated for her ability to endure, forgive, accommodate, and remain loyal through adversity. The language of devotion frequently disguises patterns of emotional self-erasure. What may appear as personal weakness is often reinforced by broader social expectations regarding femininity, caregiving, and commitment.

Sociologist Arlie Hochschild’s concept of emotional labour is useful here. Joyce performs a tremendous amount of emotional work, constantly managing feelings, maintaining relationships, and absorbing the consequences of decisions made by others. Yet this labour remains largely invisible and undervalued. She is expected to carry emotional burdens without receiving the same level of care in return. Her exhaustion becomes normalised because women are so often expected to function as emotional shock absorbers within families.

The tragedy of Joyce’s character is therefore not simply that she loves the wrong person. It is that she gradually loses herself in the process of loving him. Her story forces viewers to confront an uncomfortable question: at what point does loyalty cease to be admirable and become self-destruction? There is a profound difference between commitment and captivity, yet the two are often confused in relationships characterised by codependency.

Perhaps this is why Joyce resonates so strongly with audiences. Most people know someone like her. Many have been her. She represents the painful reality that love alone cannot sustain a relationship. Without reciprocity, accountability, and mutual care, love can become a mechanism through which suffering is prolonged rather than healed. Her story is not merely a cautionary tale about romance; it is a reflection on what happens when a person’s desire to be loved becomes stronger than their willingness to protect themselves.

Matipa, Economic Dependency and the Politics of Survival

If Joyce represents the tragedy of codependency, then Matipa represents a different tragedy altogether: the collision between economic aspiration and patriarchal power.

One of the most uncomfortable realities explored through Matipa’s character is the relationship between economic vulnerability and personal autonomy. Her employment at Jo’s company emerges under circumstances that immediately complicate the power dynamics between them. What appears at first to be opportunity gradually reveals itself as dependency. Jo occupies a position of authority not only in her romantic life but also in her professional life, creating conditions in which genuine freedom of choice becomes increasingly difficult to determine.

This is not to absolve Matipa of responsibility for her decisions. She knowingly enters a relationship with a married man and participates in actions that contribute to the pain experienced by Joyce and the broader family. To deny her agency would be patronising. Yet an honest analysis requires us to examine the structural conditions surrounding those choices. Agency does not exist in a vacuum. It operates within contexts shaped by power, class, gender, and economic necessity.

Sociologist Pierre Bourdieu reminds us that power often functions through access to resources and opportunities. Those who control economic capital frequently possess the ability to influence the decisions of others without ever issuing direct commands. Jo’s position as employer therefore cannot be separated from his position as lover. The relationship unfolds within an unequal arrangement where one party possesses significantly greater economic and social power than the other.

The birth of the twins further complicates this dynamic. Children are often imagined as symbols of love and continuity, yet within the narrative they become evidence of the extent to which Jo’s decisions reverberate through multiple households. The consequences of his actions are no longer confined to romantic relationships. They become intergenerational. New lives enter an already fractured family structure, carrying the burden of conflicts they did not create.

What makes Matipa particularly fascinating is that she occupies an ambiguous moral position. She is neither a straightforward victim nor a straightforward villain. She is both participant and casualty. She exercises agency while simultaneously operating within conditions shaped by unequal power relations. This ambiguity is what makes her such a compelling figure for analysis. Human beings rarely fit neatly into categories of innocence and guilt.

The tendency to place all blame on women like Matipa often obscures a deeper reality. Patriarchal societies have a remarkable ability to direct public anger toward women competing for a man’s attention while leaving the man himself relatively unexamined. The “other woman” becomes the primary object of scrutiny, while the individual who violated his commitments escapes equivalent condemnation. This pattern reveals how deeply patriarchal thinking remains embedded within social life.

Ultimately, Matipa’s story is less about romance than it is about power. It forces viewers to ask difficult questions about the relationship between economic security and personal choice, about the vulnerabilities created by unequal workplaces, and about the ways patriarchy continues to structure intimate relationships. Her story is not simply the story of a side chick. It is the story of what happens when desire, survival, ambition, and power become entangled in ways that leave no one untouched.

Freedom and the Cage of Neglect: Alcoholism as an Escape

Freedom is the forgotten child, a boy named for something he has never truly known. He grows up in the margins of a crowded family where attention is a scarce resource, and love arrives unevenly, like a visitor who never quite stays long enough. What begins as quiet emotional neglect hardens into a lifelong ache, one he cannot name but can only numb, and so he turns to alcohol not as escape in the dramatic sense, but as relief from being constantly overlooked. His drinking becomes a language for pain that no one in his household has learned to hear, a slow protest against a life in which he is present but rarely held in mind. In him, the series captures a devastating irony: that a child called Freedom can become most imprisoned by the absence of care.

My Bone to Pick with the Portrayal of Black Families in Film

My concern extends beyond The Polygamist itself and into a broader pattern that has become increasingly common in the portrayal of Black families on screen. While film and television often claim to reflect reality, they also play a significant role in constructing it. The stories we repeatedly tell about ourselves eventually begin to shape what we believe is normal, inevitable, and representative. It is for this reason that I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with the narrow range through which Black family life is depicted.

There is no denying that dysfunction exists within Black families. To suggest otherwise would be dishonest and intellectually lazy. Families can be sites of violence, neglect, betrayal, and profound emotional harm. The issue is not the existence of these realities, but their dominance within the narrative landscape. One begins to wonder what conclusions audiences are expected to draw when Black families are repeatedly presented as fractured, chaotic, and incapable of sustaining healthy relationships.

What is often missing from these portrayals is history. Dysfunction is presented as a cultural trait rather than a social outcome. We are shown broken homes without examining the economic conditions that place households under immense strain. We are shown absent fathers without interrogating the labour systems, incarceration patterns, and historical disruptions that have shaped Black family structures across generations. We are shown conflict, but rarely the forces that manufacture it.

The consequence of this approach is that Black suffering becomes spectacle. Audiences consume dysfunction as entertainment while remaining detached from the structural conditions that produce it. The family becomes the object of scrutiny, while the systems that undermine it escape analysis altogether. This is a familiar pattern. Black people are frequently asked to explain their symptoms while society avoids confronting the disease.

What is particularly frustrating is that these portrayals often fail to capture the extraordinary resilience that exists alongside struggle. Black families have survived slavery, colonialism, apartheid, forced removals, migrant labour systems, economic exclusion, and ongoing inequality. They have done so not because they are naturally dysfunctional, but because they have continuously developed strategies of survival in hostile conditions. Grandmothers raising entire generations, neighbours becoming caregivers, aunts functioning as second mothers, and communities stepping in where institutions have failed are all part of the Black family story. Yet these realities seldom receive the same attention as betrayal and scandal.

The result is a distorted picture. Viewers are presented with Black families at their point of collapse, but rarely at their point of resistance. They see the fracture but not the labour required to hold things together. They witness the conflict but not the care. They encounter the wound but not the healing.

My objection, then, is not that Black families should be portrayed as perfect. Perfection is neither realistic nor desirable. My objection is that our stories are too often reduced to dysfunction without context. A genuinely honest portrayal would hold both truths simultaneously. It would acknowledge the pain while also recognising the historical conditions that produced it. It would show the damage without forgetting the dignity. It would tell stories not only about how Black families break, but also about how they endure.

Until that balance is achieved, many portrayals of Black family life will continue to feel incomplete. They will show us the consequences of inequality while remaining reluctant to interrogate inequality itself. And in doing so, they risk reinforcing the very stereotypes they claim merely to represent.