Online Reporter
Bruce Ndlovu, Sunday Life Reporter
WHEN all is said and done, different people love Netflix hit series The Polygamist for different reasons.
Some just love the fact that, in the end, Jonasi, the show’s now infamous protagonist, eventually dies a death fitting a man of his dastardly nature.
Throughout the show’s binge-worthy 22 episodes, Jonasi establishes himself as a villain viewers love to hate, a man whose life is a ticking time bomb. He is a man living on borrowed time, juggling wives, lovers and carefully constructed lies, convinced that his charm and wealth will forever shield him from the consequences of his actions.
When his life eventually explodes, the shrapnel from the blast wounds not only him but also those he swore to love and protect.
His fall, when it arrives, feels justified and long overdue.
Others have been drawn to the series for its unapologetic portrayal of sex. Jonasi is a man driven by insatiable appetites, and the creators refuse to shy away from depicting that reality. African film and television have traditionally approached intimacy with caution, often leaving much to the imagination. Unsurprisingly, some viewers have criticised The Polygamist for crossing that line, arguing that certain scenes are unnecessarily explicit.
However, for those who have in the past complained that film and TV on the continent play it too safe, the raunchy scenes in The Polygamist are a much-needed breath of fresh air.
For some, ultimate satisfaction from The Polygamist cannot even be derived from what happens on screen. At a time when Zimbabweans, like other Africans, have found themselves on the wrong end of xenophobic hate in South Africa, Sue Nyathi’s self-published book becoming a global hit feels like vindication of not only her talent, but the ingenuity and resourcefulness of her often persecuted countrymen.
While it is undeniable that many different people love The Polygamist for different reasons, some could argue that the series has resonated with a Zimbabwean and African audience because of the familiarity of its story and the characters in it.
Over the last few weeks, Jonasi has become a sensation for his wild actions in between the sheets. He is a new kind of villain on TV. He is not a gun-toting thug or a physically abusive husband or father who gets ultimate pleasure from brutalising those he loves. As a wealthy banking executive, Jonasi from a distance appears to be the ideal husband and father. He is suave and presentable, a provider and a man that others in the community aspire and look up to. He is the kind of man that mothers want their daughters to marry and fathers want their sons to emulate.
But beneath that carefully maintained image lies a life built on deception.
The more one examines Jonasi’s world, the clearer it becomes that every aspect of his respectability rests on carefully concealed secrets.
That is perhaps why so many Zimbabweans have found him disturbingly familiar.
Most people know a Jonasi.
He is the respected businessman whose second family only emerges after his death. He is the church elder whose children suddenly discover unknown siblings at the funeral. He is the man whose burial becomes less a celebration of his life than a battleground over inheritance, hidden relationships and disputed paternity.
Zimbabwean newspapers have carried countless stories of funerals descending into chaos after secret wives or children appear unexpectedly. Courtrooms are filled with inheritance disputes, DNA tests and bitter legal battles, all rooted in lives lived in deception. These are not fictional dramas created for Netflix. They are stories that unfold with remarkable regularity in communities across the country.
Jonasi’s insatiable thirst for sexual conquest is equally recognisable.
Walk through almost any Zimbabwean central business district and one is likely to encounter vendors hawking herbal aphrodisiacs from recycled five-litre containers. They promise renewed virility, enhanced stamina and endless sexual prowess.
The popularity of such products, despite questions about their safety and effectiveness, speaks volumes about society’s obsession with masculine sexual performance. Jonasi is simply an exaggerated version of impulses that already exist around us.
Yet reducing The Polygamist to the reckless adventures of its protagonist would be to overlook the emotional weight carried by the women around him.
If Jonasi embodies deception, then Joyce represents endurance.
Played with remarkable restraint by Gugu Gumede, Joyce transcends the screen because she mirrors the experiences of countless women whose pain remains hidden behind carefully rehearsed smiles.
Most Zimbabweans know a Joyce too.
She is the neighbour who appears content while quietly carrying the burden of her husband’s repeated betrayals.
She is the wife who attends church beside the very women she suspects have shared her husband’s bed. She exchanges pleasantries at weddings, funerals and community gatherings with people who know intimate details about her marriage that she herself only dares to acknowledge in private.
She stays, not because she cannot see the truth, but because leaving is often far more complicated than outsiders imagine.
There are children to protect, families to preserve, financial realities to confront and social expectations to navigate. Love slowly gives way to duty, companionship to endurance and hope to quiet resignation.
Joyce becomes the keeper of secrets that threaten to consume her from within.
It is in characters like Jonasi and Joyce that The Polygamist finds its greatest strength. The series is not merely entertaining because of its twists, its intimate scenes or even its dramatic ending. It resonates because it reflects uncomfortable truths that many families would rather keep hidden. The Jonasis and Joyces have always lived among us. Netflix has simply given them names.
