Alice Tagwira
Beyond Boundaries
Let us have an uncomfortable conversation, the kind we usually avoid at lobola negotiations and white weddings. Let us ask: Is it possible to marry a man who hates you?
The answer is, rather painfully, yes. In fact, many African women have done it. With a white dress, ululation, and a three-tier cake.
And before you picture hate as shouting, beating, or infidelity, let me correct you. That one is obvious. The hate I am talking about is more diplomatic. It is well-dressed, well-prayed for, and often pays your rent. It does not raise its voice. It lowers your ambition.
Who is a man who hates you?
He is not necessarily a villain. He is the man who does not rejoice when there is progress in your life. Your promotion makes him moody. Your graduation makes him insecure. Your business idea gives him a headache.
He will not support you when you need support. He will discourage you in ways that sound like love.
If you say, “I want to go back to school,” he will say, “Why stress yourself? A Masters won’t cook sadza. Besides, who will look after the children? Wait until they are older.” And the waiting becomes forever.
If you say, “I got a job offer in Harare,” he will say, “My wife does not need to work. I can open a boutique for you.”
Ah, the famous African husband-sponsored boutique. This is my favourite case study in economic sabotage disguised as empowerment. He pays the shop rent every month. He stocks it once. You sit inside from 8am to 5pm selling two dresses a week. At the end of the month, there is no profit, no growth, no understanding of the business, because he is the one paying the landlord. You cannot even tell if you are making a loss because you have never been allowed to feel the loss. You are employed by your own husband in your own company, and you must thank him for it. That is not love, my sister. That is a beautiful prison with a till.
If you are a musician, he will become a theologian overnight. “Shows are for whores. Decent women don’t perform at festivals and nightclubs. What will my family say?” He knew you were a musician when he paid lobola for you, when he was dancing to your own song at the wedding. But now that you are his wife, your voice is too loud.
If you say you want to join politics, he will become a political analyst: “Politics is dirty, my dear. Those women in politics are not decent. People will insult you. You are too beautiful for that world.” The translation is: “I cannot manage a woman who is in the spotlight, so I will make the spotlight sound evil.”
And we laugh. But this is how careers die in Africa. Quietly. At the altar.
Let us look at the numbers, because feelings may be dismissed, but statistics are stubborn.
In Zimbabwe, women constitute 52% of the population and 54% of registered voters. Yet in the 2023 harmonised elections, only 70 women contested for 210 electable seats in the National Assembly out of 637 candidates. Only 22 women were directly elected — that is just 11%. In Local Government, it is even worse: 13.3% of councillors are women. At ministerial level, 28% in 2024. The total figure of 30% women in Parliament only looks respectable thanks to President Mnangagwa’s proportional representation quota — 60 reserved seats. Without the quota, the House would be almost entirely male.
Across sub-Saharan Africa, the story is similar. Women hold 27.3% of Parliamentary seats. It is progress from 10 years ago, but it is still far from equal. Nigeria, our continent’s giant, has one of the lowest — less than 4% of elected parliamentarians are women.
In the entertainment industry, UNESCO research across Africa found that in Central Africa, 98% of practitioners estimate that women make up less than 10% of the sector. In Eastern and Western Africa, 50% of practitioners believe women are less than 10% of the film and music industry. Why? As veteran Nigerian talking drummer Ara and Ghanaian-British model executive Jolly Abani both observed in separate interviews: some female artists lose relevance after marriage not because of lack of talent, but because of spousal restrictions, societal expectations, cultural stereotypes, and the age-old choice forced on women: “Choose between your marriage and your career.”
We then wonder why there are fewer women in positions of authority. The World Bank notes that women occupy less than 15% of all leadership positions in Zimbabwe. 70% of qualified women in one study on corporate Zimbabwe had never even applied for senior positions — not because they lacked degrees — most had Masters — but because they had already been taught that ambition makes them less marriageable.
So your own husband can hate you. Not with fists, but with fear. Not with insults, but with instructions that shrink you.
The painful part is that society will applaud him. He is called a responsible man. “He takes care of his wife. He does not let his wife suffer.” He is praised for building a boutique that never grows. He is praised for protecting you from the dirty world of politics, from the noisy world of music, from the stressful world of education.
Meanwhile, you are slowly disappearing. The girl who was a star student, the woman who was the best marketer in her company, the lady who could sing — she is now a full-time shop attendant in a business she does not own.
Africa, and Zimbabwe in particular, cannot afford this. We are a continent that needs every talent. When we marry a girl and kill her dream, we are not just committing a domestic offence. We are committing an economic sabotage against the nation. A nation where half the population is told to dream smaller will forever remain half-developed.
To the men reading this: Loving a woman does not mean sponsoring her captivity. If you pay the rent so she never learns to profit, you are not a provider, you are a landlord. If you stop her from studying, working, singing, or leading, you do not love her — you love the version of her that cannot challenge you.
And to my sisters: A man who celebrates your wins is not intimidated by your light. A man who loves you will argue with you about fees, about babysitters, about how to make the boutique profitable, but he will never argue against your growth itself.
Because marriage should not be the place where your career goes to die. It should be the place where it gets a second witness.
Let us stop normalising subtle suppression.
