That Cyrus Jirongo had a colourful love life is not in question. The real puzzle is political: how do intimate affairs intersect with public power? How did Jirongo manage to get elected—twice—despite a reputation that would make a modern church elder choke on his communion wine?
Does a colourful love life harm or help a politician’s popularity? To answer this, we must begin where Africans always begin serious conversations: with history—and then with gossip. We are often told that traditional African societies were morally upright, that adultery was severely punished, and that illicit romance was unheard of until the white man arrived with trousers, mirrors, and moral confusion.
We have all heard the stories: adulterers burned alive, thrown down hills, or fed to hyenas. But like many stories told by elders after the third calabash, these tales are exaggerated.
In fact, the opposite is closer to the truth. African societies were, by and large, remarkably liberal about matters of romance and sexuality. Among the Kikuyu, for example, it was an open secret that women were not expected to have all their children with the same man. The stated logic — delivered with a straight face — was genetic diversity: if one lineage had a defect, the children might still survive. My mother-in-law would occasionally take my wife aside for a tête-à-tête and encourage her not to “put all her eggs in one basket”—that basket being me, her lawful husband.
Entertain village layabouts
Now suppose I caught my wife in such extracurricular leisure. Would I divorce her? Absolutely not. Under most African customary laws, adultery was rarely grounds for divorce. At worst, the offending man paid a fine—perhaps a goat, sometimes a particularly stubborn one. And my wife? Custom dictated that I must keep her. The harshest punishment available to me was architectural: build her a house at the far end of the shamba and banish her from my bedroom. From there, she was free to entertain village layabouts to her heart’s content.
Among the Luo, matters were handled with even more courtesy. When a man returned home in the evening, he was not expected to enter his hut immediately. Instead, he had to whistle, shout, cough, and meander around the compound for about ten minutes —long enough to give any visiting gentleman a dignified escape through the window. Courtesy, after all, is the oil that lubricates society. And then there is the Maasai, the spear, and the famous silence. Enough said. These practices were not unique to Africa. History shows that monogamy is a recent human invention. Early humans lived much like primates: little pair-bonding, minimal private property, and flexible sexual arrangements. But everything changed with agriculture.
Once humans settled, accumulated land, livestock, and granaries, inheritance began to matter. A farmer wanted to know whose son was inheriting his land. Sexual freedom suddenly became a legal and economic problem. Still, monogamy did not arrive immediately.
As societies stratified, elites — kings, chiefs, and wealthy men —embraced polygamy. King Solomon famously had 700 wives and 300 concubines, a domestic arrangement that required divine patience and industrial-scale food logistics. His father David had at least eight wives and numerous concubines, and still found time to run a kingdom and write psalms.
But this system created a serious demographic problem. In any society, the marriage-age population is roughly balanced between men and women. When one powerful man takes three wives, he condemns three other men to romantic unemployment. And idle young men, history tells us, are dangerous. Resentment brews, social instability follows. But societies rarely admit the real cause. Instead, angry young men are sent to war — for land, for cattle, for glory, or for “national honour.”
That is why raids were common. That is why women were abducted in olden days. For instance, Maasai tended to target Kikuyu women. Any Kikuyu named Nyokabi or Mukabi likely has Maasai ancestry. Ukabi literally means Maasai. I once visited a Maasai MP. Out of the dust of the local market emerged his mother—fully dressed in Maasai regalia—speaking fluent Kikuyu. She calmly informed me she was originally from Rwathia, Murang’a. My friend never spoke a word of Kikuyu. History, it seems, has a sense of humour. One reason Christianity spread rapidly was monogamy. Poor men loved it. Monogamy curtailed elite hoarding of women. It reduced surplus men, stabilised society, simplified inheritance and improved child-rearing.
Economists argue that monogamy enabled capital accumulation, long-term planning, and intergenerational wealth transfer. It is even credited as one of the quiet reasons Europe industrialised first. In short, monogamy won because it aligned with humanity’s evolving desire for equality, private property, and good governance.
Or as the Bible warns: “He who multiplies wives multiplies trouble.” Solomon himself would later write Ecclesiastes sounding like a man tired of family meetings. Modern forces — birth control, women’s economic independence, and welfare states — have weakened monogamy. Serial monogamy, cohabitation, and flexible arrangements are on the rise. But history shows that when inequality rises and welfare systems weaken, societies quietly return to monogamy. Stability becomes fashionable again. Monogamy, though restrictive, is economically efficient and politically useful.
That is why US reacted so harshly to the Clinton–Lewinsky scandal. It was seen not just as a moral failing but as an affront to private property, order, and capitalist discipline. So Why did Jirongo survive? He escaped similar scrutiny because Kenya’s capitalist structures are still soft. Private property norms, inheritance discipline, and institutional morality are unevenly enforced.
In short, the political economy did not yet care enough. And that, perhaps, is also the reason Kenya is not Singapore yet. As the African proverb says: “Where the fence is weak, even the goat becomes a lawyer.”
