A conversation just erupted online, particularly within a WhatsApp group, sparked by a news caption that read, “Akwa Ibom lawmakers propose 10 years imprisonment for women sleeping with married men.” The post, shared by a netizen with the username Katlong, quickly became a magnet for opinion, emotion, theology, culture, law, and lived experience. What followed was not just debate, but a vivid exhibition of how society defines morality, normalcy, and, ultimately, madness.
One contributor, Eche Emmanuel, argued that every society enacts laws peculiar to its norms, culture, and traditions, suggesting that the proposed law merely reflected local values and might curb what he described as an age-long culture of promiscuity. Ibropharm took a different route, insisting that men should be allowed to marry more than one wife, warning that denying such an option only pushes men to “sleep outside,” since, in his view, one woman cannot be enough for a man. Lazo expanded the debate by calling attention to paternity fraud, advocating free and compulsory DNA tests at childbirth, arguing that many men unknowingly raise children who are not biologically theirs.
Uduak introduced a sharp dose of realism, observing that wealthy married men would likely exploit such a law by paying fines while young women suffer imprisonment. For her, both parties deserved equal punishment, and the issue was not a mystery but indiscipline. She went further, provocatively stating that there was nothing in another woman’s body that was not already in the wife’s, insisting that self-control, not legislation, was the missing ingredient.
Lazo later returned with a deeply personal narrative drawn from family history. His grandfather, he explained, had five sons, most of whom married between two and four wives. Only his father chose monogamy. Curiously, the eldest brother was frequently summoned to settle quarrels between his parents, while the polygamous brothers appeared to live in relative harmony. His interpretation was blunt: when one wife became distant, another provided an alternative. His parents, by contrast, had no such outlet. Whether anecdotal or not, the story struck a chord because it revealed how lived experience often competes with moral theory.
Others raised practical and ethical questions. Wale wondered how such laws could even be enforced and whether similar moral policing, like the Hisbah system in northern Nigeria, had actually solved anything. Sardauna asked what would become of commercial sex workers under such a regime. Stephen shifted the discussion into theology and demography, arguing that restricting sexual outlets would encourage same-sex relations, which he claimed violated biblical, natural, and moral principles. He cited population imbalance and biblical patriarchs who had multiple wives, contrasting them with historically infamous rulers who practiced monogamy.
Godfrey responded with a theological correction, distinguishing between the old covenant, where the Spirit came upon people, and the new covenant, where grace and the indwelling Spirit define Christian life.
Another anonymous participant invoked systematic theology, warning against cherry-picking scripture and insisting that Christ, not Solomon or David, is the ultimate Christian standard. Solomon, he argued, lost his wisdom through excess and ultimately declared all things vanity.
Then came the comment that shifted the entire conversation. Another anonymous voice countered that Solomon spoke of wealth, not women, as vanity, before jokingly declaring Solomon an extremist and, from a Clinical Pharmacology perspective, a “mad man.” He even invited theologians to join a campaign for “few wives, based on strength and benefits.” The humor was not lost on the group, nor was the provocation. Someone quickly replied that Solomon was never mad, that no one was wiser than him, and that he was a prototype of Christ.
It was this charged and fascinating exchange that provoked a deeper reflection on what “madman” actually means to different people. Until then, I had rarely considered that madness could be associated with anything positive, let alone genius, creativity, courage, or exceptional capacity. Curiosity pushed me to explore how the idea of madness has been understood across history and thought.
Being described as a “madman” depends profoundly on who is judging, from where, and for what purpose. In clinical psychology, madness refers to diagnosable mental conditions assessed through established criteria. Yet outside hospitals and textbooks, the term is often a loose social verdict, casually applied to people who unsettle us, disrupt expectations, or refuse to conform. Michel Foucault famously argued that madness is not merely a medical condition but a social construct shaped by power, noting that societies often define reason by first deciding who counts as unreasonable. In that sense, many who are called mad are not mentally ill; they are simply inconvenient.
Across societies, deviation from norms is frequently mistaken for pathology. Those who think differently, speak uncomfortable truths, reject dominant customs, or refuse to perform expected roles are often branded mad. Here, madness has little to do with the mind and everything to do with distance from the average. As John Stuart Mill once observed, “That so few now dare to be eccentric marks the chief danger of the time.” Normality, after all, is often just what is most common, not what is most reasonable.
History shows that calling someone mad has long been a convenient way to silence them. Political dissidents, religious reformers, radical thinkers, and social critics have all been dismissed as irrational rather than engaged seriously. Madness, in this sense, becomes a form of soft repression, stripping ideas of legitimacy without ever addressing their substance.
Culture further complicates matters. Practices considered madness in one context may be revered as wisdom in another. Speaking to ancestors may be spiritual in one society and pathological in another. Solitude may signify enlightenment in one culture and antisocial behavior in another. What we often call madness is simply cultural misinterpretation wearing the mask of certainty.
Creativity, too, has always danced uncomfortably close to madness. Many artists, philosophers, and scientists were dismissed as mad long before they were celebrated. Albert Einstein once remarked that “the distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion,” a statement that might sound mad to some, yet revolutionary to physics. Creativity often requires breaking mental boundaries, and what appears irrational today may become obvious tomorrow.
Emotional expression offers another lens. People who grieve loudly, love intensely, rage openly, or refuse emotional restraint are often labeled mad, not because they are unstable, but because they disrupt social comfort. Society tends to prefer emotional discipline over emotional honesty, even when honesty is healthier.
Sometimes, madness is simply a moral protest. When a system itself is unjust or irrational, refusing to adapt can look like insanity to those who benefit from it. In such cases, madness is not a defect but a refusal to normalize dysfunction.
Fear also plays a role. The unpredictable, unfamiliar, and uncontrollable make people uneasy. Rather than understanding difference, society often labels it madness and pushes it to the margins, where it feels safer and less demanding.
Perhaps the most uncomfortable insight is this: when we call someone mad, we may be revealing more about our own limits of tolerance than about their mental state. The label often tells us where society draws its invisible lines.
This understanding resonates deeply with my own experiences. In my hometown, there is an unconventional man who buys anything put up for sale, including scrap, and somehow turns it into useful, functional creations that inspire awe and mystery. Many consider him mad, yet they patronize him, depend on him, and quietly admire his results. If madness were purely negative, what explains his usefulness? And if he is mad, what does that say about those who rely on his talent?
I am reminded, too, of a man from Niger State, popularly described as a super-polygamist, allegedly with over forty wives. Despite widespread public disapproval, he commands loyalty, admiration, and even affection. One cannot help but wonder how someone labeled abnormal attracts followers who are supposedly more “normal” than he is.
The same ambiguity appears in politics. Some leaders are described as mad because they demolish expensive illegal structures or enforce laws with ruthless determination, even when resources are scarce. Figures like El-Rufai or Wike are often portrayed as extreme, temperamental, even villainous, yet many also see them as effective, decisive, and necessary. Their actions may look like madness to some and courage to others, depending on who bears the cost and who enjoys the benefit.
The truth is that we may need to be a little mad to be ourselves. Evidence across education, business, and innovation suggests that those who excel exceptionally rarely conform fully to popular narratives. They resist groupthink, reject inherited assumptions, and challenge standards that pull everyone toward comfortable mediocrity. Society, however, often punishes such deviation, using ridicule, bullying, public shaming, or convenient labels to enforce conformity and maintain echo chambers.
The madness I know, therefore, is not merely disorder or instability. It is also the courage to differ, to disrupt consensus, to challenge groupthink, and to change narratives. It is the willingness to stand alone when necessary, even at the cost of being misunderstood. And perhaps the real question is not whether someone is mad, but whether society is brave enough to tolerate those whose difference exposes its own contradictions.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
