Introduction: Embracing the Language of the Body

I’ve always been fascinated by how we express ourselves through our bodies. In fact, I went so far as to earn a doctorate in African expressive culture because I’m deeply interested in every way people adorn or present themselves. Whether we’re talking about elaborate clothing, simple accessories, body art, or even going without clothes, I find that the human body is never a neutral canvas – it always tells a story. A few years back, I wrote articles about the dressed body and the undressed body, exploring how each carries meaning. My research highlighted that our bodies communicate on several levels: biologically, culturally, and socially. In other words, from our natural physical presence to the cultural outfits we wear, there’s always significance in how we present ourselves.

Let me break that down a bit. On a basic biological level, our bodies send signals without us even trying – think of how posture or physical fitness might wordlessly communicate confidence or health. Culturally, the stakes get even more interesting: different societies attach deep meaning to clothing or bodily adornments. For example, in Yoruba culture (which I studied in depth for my book on Yoruba dress), traditional garments aren’t just for cover or decoration – they’re symbols of identity and heritage. A specific cloth pattern or a style of wrapping one’s head can honor tradition, signal one’s community, or denote status. When a Yoruba elder dons ceremonial attire for a festival, it’s not only about looking elegant; it’s a deliberate expression of pride in one’s roots and respect for generations of tradition. Similarly, across the world, what we wear often ties us to our history or proclaims the values of our community, whether it’s a turban, a kilt, a sari, or a cowboy hat. Each item of dress can carry stories of who we are and where we come from.

Socially, how we present our bodies plays a huge role in everyday communication and power dynamics. I’ve found that what we choose to wear (or not wear) can express power, personal taste, and group identity all at once. Think about a business executive in a sharp suit, a punk rocker with a leather jacket and piercings, or even someone wearing a uniform. The executive’s suit might communicate authority and professionalism – it’s a kind of power dressing intended to influence how others perceive them. The punk rocker’s leather and body piercings, on the other hand, might express a preference for rebellion and a proud identification with the punk community (and an implicit “I’m not one of those people in suits” message to outsiders). Even uniforms, from police attire to sports jerseys, tell us about in-group and out-group identity: they immediately signal who is part of which team, organization, or social category, and by extension who is not. In subtle and not-so-subtle ways, our style choices broadcast our allegiances and values. I often say that getting dressed can be like putting on a daily costume – not to pretend to be someone else, but to show exactly who we are or who we want to be that day.

Because of this background, I can’t help but pay extra attention to people’s bodily expressions in everyday life – whether on social media, in public spaces, or at work. I’m constantly observing and asking myself: why did someone choose that look or that accessory? On Instagram, for instance, you’ll see users curating their appearance very intentionally: a carefully chosen outfit, a pose, or even a filter on a photo, all to craft a certain image or vibe. In the office, a co-worker’s decision to wear a bold colorful dress in a sea of grey suits might be entirely deliberate – perhaps a statement of individuality in a conservative environment – or it could be unintentional and simply what they liked that morning, yet it still affects how others see them. I look for this kind of intentionality in bodily expression, trying to tease out what’s deliberate from what might be accidental. Often, even choices we think are purely personal preferences carry messages we’ve internalized from society or send signals we aren’t aware of.

The more I study and observe, the more I’m convinced that dressing is both performative and intentional. By performative, I mean that when we dress up (or dress down), we’re performing a role or sending a message – much like an actor on a stage, except this is the theater of everyday life. And by intentional, I mean there’s usually some degree of thought or purpose behind it, even if it’s subconscious. Every morning, when you stand in front of your closet, you’re not just covering your body to protect it from the weather; you’re also making choices that align with how you feel, how you want to be perceived, or what you plan to do that day. Of course, the level of intention can vary – some days we throw on the first thing we see, but even that speaks to our comfort or mood. Other days (or for special events), we carefully pick every item, signaling maybe “I want to impress at this interview” or “I’m celebrating tonight!”.

What I find truly exciting – and what keeps me passionate about this field – is how this understanding of bodily expression opens up conversations in contemporary discourse. In today’s world, debates about dress and body image are everywhere: discussions about school dress codes and whether they’re fair, movements encouraging body positivity and the right to dress how one pleases, or conversations about cultural appropriation when styles cross cultural lines. All these dialogues boil down to a recognition that how we present our bodies matters in a big way. Our society is grappling with questions like: What messages do our bodies send, and who controls that narrative? For instance, when a public figure chooses to wear traditional attire from their culture at a global event, it can spark pride within their community and curiosity or dialogue in others. On the flip side, if someone wears an outfit deemed “inappropriate” for a context, it might ignite discussions about freedom of expression versus respect for norms. These debates show that clothing and bodily presentation aren’t shallow or trivial at all – they’re deeply tied to issues of identity, respect, and power in society.

So, when I say I pay attention to bodily expressions, it’s not just a niche academic interest – it’s a way of understanding the world around me. Every tattoo, hijab, business suit, rainbow hair streak, or pair of ripped jeans has the potential to communicate something meaningful. By watching for the intention behind these choices, I get to witness a form of everyday storytelling. It’s a reminder that we are all, in a sense, both authors and audiences: we “write” messages with our clothing and body language, and we “read” these messages from others. This dynamic is why I find the human body and its adornments so endlessly intriguing. No matter if a body is dressed to the nines or bare as birth, it’s carrying history, signaling identity, and participating in a broader cultural conversation. And for me, understanding that conversation – the silent, yet powerful language of bodily expression – is key to understanding people and the societies we live in.

“Sex Sells”

As the title of this essay shows, this piece is about the turning of female bodies into commodities, into objects, and the reactions this has elicited.

It’s often said that “sex sells,” and today this adage rings true from Hollywood to the streets of Lagos. The commodification and commercialization of women’s bodies – treating female bodies as objects for sale or profit – has become deeply woven into modern culture. This is a global phenomenon, but it carries unique nuances in African societies like Nigeria, Ghana, Kenya, and South Africa. From the normalization of transactional sex (“sponsor” or sugar daddy relationships) to the hypersexualized images flooding media, women are frequently valued more for their bodies than their minds. Meanwhile, social media supercharges these trends: voyeuristic audiences hungrily consume racy content, and algorithms happily amplify whatever keeps us hooked. In this essay, we’ll take a critical yet conversational look at how society got here – how prostitution and hypersexualization have been normalized, how voyeurism and viral trends feed the objectification loop, and how the likes of Instagram or TikTok algorithms might prefer a twerk video over a science tutorial. Specific African examples will ground the discussion (with global parallels to show it’s not just “over there”), and importantly, we’ll explore how we can push back. From policy changes to media literacy and community initiatives, there are ways to challenge this one-dimensional portrayal of women. Let’s dig in.

Sex Sells: Normalizing Prostitution and Hypersexualization

“Sex sells everything including air fresheners with curves,” one Kenyan commentator quipped, noting how an entire economy now exploits “erotic capital” – a person’s sexual attractiveness. Indeed, across African media, it’s become passé to see women’s bodies used to draw attention to all sorts of products and entertainment. Billboards, music videos, and movies routinely feature scantily-clad women as eye candy. Popular female personalities are celebrated as much for their looks as for their talents, reinforcing the idea that a woman’s value lies in her physical appeal. Even women in professional fields are often hypersexualized in media imagery, shown through a lens that emphasizes sensuality over skill or intellect. Such repeated messages send a powerful signal, especially to young people: being “sexy” can be a form of currency in society.

This phenomenon isn’t confined to media fantasy – it spills into real life via the normalization of transactional sex. In many African cities, it’s an open secret that some young women (often nicknamed “slay queens” or “socialites”) exchange relationships or companionship for money and luxury goods. In Kenya, they call it “sponsor culture” – attractive college-age women date wealthy older men (sponsors) who finance their lifestyle. A BBC Africa feature titled “Sex and The Sugar Daddy” in 2018 profiled three young Kenyan women engaged in exactly this, describing such transactional relationships as “pervasive” in the local culture. It’s not just Kenya; similar patterns exist in South Africa (where the older benefactors are known as “blessers”) and Nigeria (sometimes euphemistically dubbed a “mentorship” “Sugar Daddy” arrangement). Even Ghana had a very public conversation on this topic after influencer Moesha Boduong told CNN that she dates a married man who pays her bills due to “the hard economy.” The ensuing uproar in Ghana only underscored how common the practice actually is – as one article noted, “There is nothing unusual about a young woman having sugar daddies in Ghana. It happens in Nigeria, it happens in South Africa (where they’re called blessers) … and it’s not that unusual in the United States either.”. In other words, the commodification of women’s sexuality in exchange for economic security is a global reality with local nicknames.

Crucially, such arrangements are increasingly discussed without much shock or shame – a sign of normalization. What might once have been whispered about is now splashed across gossip blogs and social media timelines. The term “slay queen” itself, popular in West and East Africa, embodies this cultural shift. It refers to a young woman who lives glamorously, often funded by others, and proudly displays designer clothes, flawless makeup, and lavish outings on Instagram. They are both admired and criticized in the same breath – feted and condemned in equal measure, as one Kenyan writer puts it. On one hand, these women are envied for “killing it” (slaying) in terms of lifestyle and looks; on the other, they are morally judged, sometimes labeled as “malaya” (prostitutes) or “bad girls” who don’t fit the respectable mold. Yet the fact remains: many young girls see how “Divas rule” – these slay queens gain money, fame, and followers – and the implicit lesson is that eroticism is an investment. In other words, cultivating one’s sexual appeal can seemingly translate into real benefits, whether it’s paying university fees or achieving internet fame.

This marriage of patriarchy and capitalism – where women’s bodies become bargaining chips – has deep roots. Some observers link it to the economic disenfranchisement of women. A commentary in FemInStyle Africa bluntly described a “Global Sex Exchange” in which women (disproportionately poorer due to systemic inequality) are compelled to trade sexual and domestic services for access to the capital held by men. In many African contexts, men still control wealth and job opportunities, and women who lack options may feel their body is the most viable currency they have. Whether through formal sex work, informal “runs” (casual prostitution often by college students in Nigeria), or strategically dating rich men, the lines blur between choice and coercion under economic pressure. As the FemInStyle piece noted, this dynamic plays out in forms ranging from marriage to outright prostitution, with “side-chick” arrangements and slay queen lifestyles in between – all variations on the theme of sex in exchange for support.

Importantly, global media trends reinforce these local patterns. African societies are not isolated; they consume the same Instagram, YouTube, and Netflix content that circulates worldwide. Thus, the hypersexualized depictions of women in Western pop culture (think music videos, reality TV, or celebrity Instagram feeds) also shape local aspirations. When a global superstar like Cardi B or Megan Thee Stallion releases a provocative music video, it trends in Accra and Nairobi too. Local artists then mimic the formula. In Nigeria, for example, music videos have increasingly featured erotic dancing and risque fashion as a “necessity for sales” in a competitive industry. The phrase “sex sells” is casually thrown around by promoters in Lagos just as in Los Angeles. One Nigerian rapper, Blaqbonez, recently took this to an extreme: his music video for “Commander” boasted unprecedented levels of nudity, and he launched a social media challenge where girls twerked to the song on camera. Dozens of young women, some wearing nothing but lingerie, posted videos of themselves dancing, hoping to go viral or win prize money. Blaqbonez eagerly reposted these clips and even added bold commentary rating the girls’ bodies and moves. Here we see the collision of commercial strategy and body commodification – women literally using their bodies as tickets to online popularity, while a male artist leverages that spectacle to promote a product. It’s a stark example of how normalized this exchange has become: a mainstream musician openly orchestrating a form of crowdsourced objectification to boost his song’s reach.

Yet, as commonplace as these trends have become, they are not without controversy or consequence. African communities still wrestle with their values around sex and morality. The normalization of transactional sex sits uneasily beside religious and cultural norms that publicly preach chastity or modesty. This tension often leads to double standards. Society may quietly accept or even admire the slay queen’s hustle, but if something goes wrong, the same society is quick to blame her for being “immoral.” A tragic illustration occurred in Kenya in 2018: a university student named Sharon Otieno, who was in a relationship with a powerful politician (her “sponsor”), was brutally murdered. The sensational case dominated headlines, and while many sympathized with Sharon, others tut-tutted that young women should “avoid dirty old men” and “forget easy money and be safe.” The victim-blaming undertone – implying Sharon’s fate was a cautionary tale for those who trade in sex – highlights how society can normalize a behavior yet still harshly judge the women involved in it. This damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t dynamic is a hallmark of commodification: women who embrace the system to get ahead are simultaneously desired and disparaged.

Meanwhile, the absence of women who refuse to play along is telling. How often do we celebrate women for their intellect on the same scale as those celebrated for their appearance? Far less frequently, it seems. The public “images of professional women” tend to get a hyper-glossed, sexualized treatment, whereas their accomplishments take a back seat. This creates a skewed cultural mirror where young girls see plenty of models of how to use their looks, but fewer examples of being valued purely for talent, brains, or skill. The long-term effect is a kind of social conditioning – a generation begins to accept that commodifying one’s body is not just normal but perhaps the preferred route to success. And that is a dangerous normalization indeed.

Voyeurism and the Social Media Gaze

The rise of social media has added a new layer to this conversation: voyeurism. In the age of Instagram and TikTok, everyone with a smartphone can become both a performer and an audience. For women especially, this often means constant scrutiny of their appearances and behavior, sometimes in shockingly invasive ways. We, the public, have become “a nation of chronic social media voyeurs”, as one Kenyan columnist lamented. Voyeurism here refers to the prying, sexual interest in watching others – typically people who are naked, engaged in sexual acts, or in private moments. And unfortunately, social media has supercharged our society’s tendency to spy on and objectify women’s bodies for entertainment.

A scroll through Twitter or Facebook on any given week might reveal leaked nude photos, “sex tapes” of public figures, or clips of intimate moments that were never meant for the public eye. All too often, these involve women who suffer the humiliation while the online crowd gawks, jokes, and shares memes. In some cases, it’s outright criminal – hidden cameras or hackers disseminating content without consent. In other cases, the subjects themselves post suggestive material to gain attention, blurring the line between empowerment and self-objectification. Either way, the public appetite for sexualized content seems insatiable. Every like, share, or retweet of such content is essentially a digital cat-call, reinforcing that this is what gets attention.

African social media has had its share of voyeuristic viral moments. Consider a Kenyan example that highlights both the supply and demand sides of this trend. In 2015, a disturbing incident occurred: a group of high school students were caught in a “party bus” incident involving sex and drugs. When police intervened, one rogue officer forced some girls to strip and filmed them, later uploading the video online. The clip, showing terrified half-dressed teenagers, went viral in hours. Instead of focusing solely on the officer’s gross violation of these girls’ rights, much of the public treated the video as titillating gossip. It became a spectacle – people forwarded it, commented on the girls’ bodies, and debated their morals, as if it were reality TV. The incident painted “the picture of a culture saturated and depraved by uncontrollable sexuality and voyeurism,” the columnist wrote, noting that our public discourse is now drenched in such sexualized gossip. In the same week, another horrifying case in Kenya saw an audio recording circulated of a man bragging about sexually assaulting an intoxicated woman (known infamously as the “Mollis” case). He too shared his exploit online as if it were a badge of honor, expecting an approving audience of voyeurs – and tragically, he found one. These examples underscore a dark reality: people are not just passively consuming objectification, they are actively creating and propagating it via social media, often with little regard for the (usually female) victims.

Voyeurism on social media doesn’t always take such criminal shape; often it’s more banal but still problematic. Think of the countless “trend challenges” where women are encouraged to reveal or sexualize themselves for viral clout. A recent global example was the “Silhouette Challenge” on TikTok, where women (and some men) posed nude or scantily dressed in silhouette lighting to a music clip. The trend exploded worldwide, including in African countries – and predictably, some tech-savvy voyeurs found ways to remove the red filter in those videos to actually see the women’s bodies. In essence, a fun challenge turned into a non-consensual peep show. Another instance was a hashtag that trended in Kenya: #IfikieWazazi, which translates to “let it reach the parents.” This started when a video of two teenagers apparently having (or simulating) sex in the back of a car in broad daylight leaked online. The clip caused a moral panic – partly outrage, but partly prurient fascination as it zipped around WhatsApp groups. In response, #IfikieWazazi saw a flood of adults posting as a warning to kids, and simultaneously a flood of teens defiantly posting even more suggestive selfies to shock their elders! One observer noted the teens in the original video were smiling into the camera, fully aware they had an audience beyond just themselves. The entire saga was tinged with a strange dynamic: the teens were being deliberately transgressive and playful (almost treating the filming as a joke), and the online public was both scandalized and eager to watch. It’s a perfect storm of voyeurism – young people learn that being outrageous and sexual can make them go viral, and an army of spectators is always ready to ogle “kids these days.”

What drives this voyeuristic culture? At its core is the ease with which private moments can become glaringly public in the digital age. The smartphone camera is ubiquitous, and every user is potentially a paparazzo. For women, this means living under the constant gaze. A moment of indiscretion, a wardrobe malfunction, or a trusting private photo sent to a partner can all be weaponized for mass consumption. And because these salacious tidbits draw huge traffic, even mainstream media sometimes amplify them – blurring journalism with tabloid voyeurism. As an example, when Ghanaian actress Moesha’s comments about trading sex for support made waves, it wasn’t just discussed as a socio-economic issue; tabloids also circulated her Instagram photos in body-hugging dresses, inviting readers to look at the kind of figure that “attracts a sponsor.” The message is clear: society isn’t just interested in the story, it wants the visual – the curve of the hips, the hint of scandal that satisfies our curiosity about other people’s intimate lives.

This social media gaze is largely one-sided. Women are far more likely to be objectified and have their bodies non-consensually put on display than men. We rarely see leaked nudes of young male celebrities making the rounds with the same glee, or male students being publicly shamed for sexual behavior in the same invasive way. It harks back to the age-old “male gaze” concept – media and culture framed from a heterosexual male perspective that treats women as objects to be looked at. Social media has democratized who holds the camera, but it hasn’t changed the fundamental imbalance of who is targeted by its lens.

The consequences of this around-the-clock objectification are severe. For one, it normalizes violation of privacy and consent. When a policeman feels justified to strip a girl and upload her photos, or when thousands of netizens think it’s okay to circulate a leaked sex video, it indicates a breakdown in respecting women’s autonomy. It also fuels harmful stereotypes: women come to be seen as either virtuous and invisible, or “bad” and thus fair game for any kind of attention. This perpetuates victim-blaming in cases of assault – she shared sexy pics, so what did she expect? becomes a disturbingly common refrain. Furthermore, constantly seeing women portrayed as commodities or targets can desensitize people (especially young men) to real-life consequences. Watching and commenting on a stranger’s body online can erode empathy; it’s a short leap from posting crude comments on a TikTok dancer to not seeing the problem with harassing women on the street.

On the flip side, self-voyeurism is also a trend: some women knowingly capitalize on the voyeuristic culture by broadcasting their own bodies and intimate lives. Influencers and everyday users alike might overshare explicit content – from provocative dances to detailed sexual stories – chasing the validation of views and likes. It’s a free choice, but one made in a social context that heavily rewards such behavior over other forms of expression. The danger here is that younger girls growing up online may feel pressured to sexualize themselves early to gain attention, without fully understanding the risks or emotional toll.

In summary, the voyeuristic environment of social media acts like kerosene on the fire of commodification. It creates a feedback loop: the more audiences reward hypersexual content with attention, the more content creators (or mischief-makers) supply it. And the more that supply grows, the more normalized it becomes for everyone to engage in this digital peeping. Breaking this cycle requires not just curbing those who share non-consensual content, but also reflecting on our own consumption habits – essentially, reining in the voyeur within us.

Algorithms Amplifying the Problem

If social media is the stage, its algorithms are the invisible directors deciding what the spotlight hits. Every time you open TikTok or Instagram, complex algorithms are at work guessing what you want (or what will keep you glued to the screen) – and it turns out, sex, scandal, and sensationalism are the algorithm’s best friends. It’s not a grand conspiracy so much as a byproduct of engagement-driven design. Platforms profit from our attention, and unfortunately, we humans have a bias toward content that’s exciting, shocking, or provocative. The result: the algorithms learn to serve us more of the eye-popping stuff (yes, often literally body parts popping into view) and less of the dry, educational, or nuanced posts.

Research is now confirming what many suspected: social media algorithms systematically favor sexualized and extreme content. A 2020 study by AlgorithmWatch and the European Data Journalism Network found that Instagram’s algorithm prioritizes pictures showing a lot of skin. In their experiment, posts containing women in bikinis or lingerie were 54% more likely to appear in users’ feeds than other content from the same accounts. Meanwhile, wholesome images like landscapes or food were 60% less likely to be shown compared to the scantily-clad photos. Instagram denied it explicitly favors “swimwear,” but the data strongly suggests that showing some extra skin gives the algorithm a nudge. The implication is huge: if you’re an influencer or content creator, you quickly realize that to get seen, you might need to show some cleavage. The algorithm is essentially whispering, “Undress or fail,” coercing especially female users to conform to hypersexualized norms to maintain visibility and reach.

This extends beyond sexual content. Anything that triggers strong reactions – outrage, lust, fear – tends to get amplified. Unfortunately, that means things like misinformation, hate speech, or extreme ideologies can also spread like wildfire (a whole other problem). But sticking to our topic: content that glorifies what we might call a party lifestyle – think flashy displays of wealth, suggestive dancing, references to sex, drugs, and alcohol – often outperforms a post about, say, a young woman winning a science award. The latter might get polite likes; the former gets shares with comments like “🔥🔥🔥”. The algorithms simply interpret those signals. To them, high engagement = show this to more people.

Platforms like TikTok are even more notorious for this because their “For You” page algorithm rapidly personalizes content to what engages you for even a few extra seconds. If a user happens to linger on one video of a woman dancing seductively, the app takes note and soon the feed may flood with similar videos. Before long, it creates a perception that “everyone is doing it.” TikTok’s own internal policies (at least in its early days) were revealed to have biases that reinforce this. Leaked moderation guidelines from 2019 showed TikTok instructed moderators to suppress content from users deemed “ugly” or shooting in “slums” because they believed such videos would be less engaging. While framed as an anti-bullying measure, it effectively meant conventionally attractive, polished creators got a boost. In other words, TikTok was literally tweaking the algorithm to highlight the shiny, pretty people – who often are the ones posting beauty and lifestyle content – over others. This kind of algorithmic bias inevitably favors a certain kind of hyper-presented, often sexualized image of women (and men). It’s a digital beauty pageant on a massive scale.

What about content that’s educational or intellectually engaging? Sadly, it often struggles in this algorithmic attention economy. A detailed video explaining, say, women’s rights in the constitution or a post celebrating a female doctor’s achievements doesn’t generate the quick dopamine hits of a scandalous gossip item or a dance challenge. Thus, fewer likes, fewer shares, and the algorithm demotes it. Many educators and activists who try to use social media for awareness find themselves frustrated that their posts get buried, while a prank or “slay queen” photoshoot racks up views. It can feel like the platforms are stacked against substance in favor of spectacle.

The outcome is an amplification cascade: the loudest, edgiest voices drown out the moderate and thoughtful ones. Young people scrolling their feeds may get a skewed impression of reality – seeing mostly glamorous influencers, drama, and hypersexual content, and very little content that highlights academic success, women in STEM, or non-sexualized role models. If you’re a teenage girl on Instagram, you’re more likely to see beauty tutorials and bikini pics trending than science project demos or female leadership highlights. If you’re a teenage boy, you might get inadvertently steeped in misogynistic or voyeuristic content (for instance, the algorithm might push compilations of “hot girls” on TikTok) which can shape how you learn to view women. A recent report found that TikTok’s algorithm could push a fresh teen account into a rabbit hole of harmful content (including extreme misogyny) within days – a fourfold increase in such content appeared on feeds in just five days. This illustrates how quickly algorithms train our feeds towards extremes.

It’s important to note that algorithms reflect us as much as they shape us. They are trained on our clicks and choices. So if society disproportionately clicks on the sexy, salacious stuff, the AI simply serves up more. In that sense, the algorithm is holding a mirror to our collective id. However, the worry is that it then becomes a funhouse mirror – distorting and exaggerating certain aspects until they seem larger than life. Social media doesn’t force anyone to objectify women, but it creates an environment where that behavior is rewarded and thus repeated ad infinitum. And when the only way to break through the noise as a content creator is to play into those tropes, even people who wouldn’t normally focus on looks might feel compelled to join the hypersexualized bandwagon to stay relevant.

In summary, the combination of human nature and algorithmic curation has created a reinforcing loop that glorifies “sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll” content over educational or intellectual fare. The algorithms aren’t evil masterminds; they’re more like profit-driven amplifiers with no moral compass. But their effect is very real: they turn up the volume on objectification and tune down the volume on content that might counterbalance it. Recognizing this is the first step in challenging it. Social media companies have started to face scrutiny (for example, regulators and researchers calling out TikTok and Instagram for harmful impacts on youth), and there are calls for more transparency and even intervention. We’ll touch more on solutions soon, but it’s clear that any approach to fix this problem must contend with the algorithmic accelerant that’s pouring gas on the fire of commodification.

Influencers, Trends, and Cultural Shifts – Who’s Driving the Narrative?

It’s one thing to talk about abstract forces like media and algorithms, but let’s put faces (or at least names) to this phenomenon. In Africa and globally, numerous influencers and pop culture trends have actively shaped (and been shaped by) the commodification of women’s bodies. These are the people and moments that exemplify what we’ve been discussing – sometimes glamorizing it, sometimes exposing its ugly side.

Take Moesha Boduong in Ghana. A curvy model/actress, she became infamous (or famous, depending who you ask) after that 2018 CNN interview where she casually stated she sleeps with a married man for financial support because of Ghana’s economy. Moesha epitomized the “slay queen” culture in Ghana – always posting Instagram photos in figure-hugging outfits at upscale locations. To fans, she was just being honest about what many do in private. To critics, she was “selling Ghanaian women short.” The global parallel here is someone like Kim Kardashian, who similarly leveraged a personal sex-related scandal into a multi-million dollar brand. Moesha might be considered a local Kim K, with a controversial reputation that nonetheless opened up conversations about women’s economic survival vs. morality. Interestingly, after the backlash, Moesha claimed she “dumped” her sugar daddy and pivoted to more religious content – a reminder that some influencers oscillate between embracing and rejecting this commodified image based on public reaction.

In Nigeria, consider an influencer like Mandy Kiss, who literally branded herself as the “President of Olosho” (slang for sex workers) on social media. With provocative dressing and bold talk, she racked up followers by leaning into that identity – only to later reveal in interviews that it was largely a persona for clout. She realized early on that portraying the role of a hypersexual, money-hungry “bad girl” would gain attention in the crowded influencer space. Her trajectory says a lot: even if someone isn’t actually living that life, projecting it online can be a shortcut to fame. Similarly, Nigerian cross-dresser Bobrisky and others have shown how courting controversy around gender and sexuality can build an online empire. While Bobrisky is a unique case (disrupting gender norms as well), one aspect of “her” fame (Bobrisky uses she/her pronouns) is also the flaunting of wealth from alleged male admirers – again reinforcing the narrative of bartering beauty for money, albeit with a twist.

Kenya has its share of socialites-turned-businesswomen. Vera Sidika is a prime example. She first caught public eye as a video vixen in music videos, celebrated for her extreme curvy figure (she has openly talked about skin lightening and body augmentation – itself a consequence of beauty standards). Vera parlayed that notoriety into a social media persona of luxury and allure, eventually launching ventures like a beauty parlor. Her fame arguably rests on the commodification of her looks – she is known as the woman with the million-dollar figure – but to her credit, she has tried to own the narrative and monetize it on her terms. Critics still say she promotes an image of women as commodities (indeed, she once admitted to dating rich Nigerians for money in her earlier days), but supporters see an empowered woman who took control of her own “brand.” This dichotomy – exploitation vs empowerment – is a running debate around such influencers. Are they victims of objectification or savvy players of the system? Often, it’s a bit of both.

South Africa offers the “Blesser/Blessee” culture that even spawned a dedicated dating platform (BlesserFinder) a few years back, essentially Tinder for sugar daddies and sugar babies. Public figures like Zodwa Wabantu – a dancer known for performing in minimal clothing and who proudly dates younger men – challenge conventional norms while still arguably reinforcing the idea that a woman’s ticket to fame is her body. Zodwa has been praised for her confidence and owning her sexuality, but the fact remains that her commodified image (dancing provocatively, selling sensuality) is what brought her success. She even literally sells products like eggs and energy drinks using her name – a modern commodification twist where a person becomes a brand.

Then there are the viral trends that aren’t tied to one person but sweep through youth culture. We mentioned #Ifikiewazazi; there’s also the music phenomenon of songs explicitly celebrating sexual themes that then inspire dances. In Kenya, a hit song “Lamba Lolo” (slang for oral sex) by a young rap group Ethic came out around the same time as #Ifikiewazazi, further stirring debate about a new openly sexual youth culture. In Nigeria and Ghana, dances like shaku shaku or azonto might be innocent enough, but clubs and TikTok are filled with moves that emphasize twerking and grinding – again feeding the visual economy of voyeurism. Even challenges that start wholesomely can take on sexual undertones as people seek to stand out. For instance, a fitness challenge can morph into people showcasing their physique more than the exercise. It’s the nature of the beast: to “go viral,” there’s pressure to add a little scandal or sex appeal.

One cannot ignore the influencer economy behind all this. Many of these behaviors are incentivized by real money. Influencers who gain massive followings through sexy content often get brand deals – ironically, often to promote products like slimming teas, alcohol, fashion, or beauty items, which further perpetuates the cycle. A lingerie brand will naturally sponsor the influencer who posts bikini pics, not the one who posts poetry. An alcohol brand might prefer the party-girl image over the bookworm. In Africa, where youth unemployment is high, being an influencer is a genuine income opportunity – and many see that edgy content is the algorithmic cheat code to success. Thus, we have university students funding their tuition not just via side relationships but via side hustles on OnlyFans or similar platforms, selling access to adult content. The COVID-19 pandemic lockdowns saw a boom in such online sex work globally (OnlyFans reportedly grew over 500% in sign-ups in 2020), and African content creators were part of that wave, though often more covertly due to societal stigma.

What’s important to highlight with these examples is that they both reflect and shape societal attitudes. When young girls see someone like Huddah Monroe (a Kenyan socialite) go from posting sexy photos to launching a successful cosmetics line, it sends a message: use what you’ve got (i.e., your body or beauty) to get ahead, then pivot. When reality TV shows (African versions of Big Brother, for instance) reward flirtation and drama among female contestants, it reinforces stereotypes. And on the flip side, when an influencer tries to break the mold – say, a female tech blogger or a modest fashion influencer – they often struggle to get the same attention unless they inject some “glam.” Many such content creators have admitted feeling the pressure to occasionally “throw in” a pretty selfie or jump on a trending dance, just to appease the algorithm gods and keep their follower count.

All that said, we are not devoid of voices pushing back. There are also African influencers and celebrities using their platforms to call out objectification. For example, in Nigeria, actress Adesua Etomi has spoken against unrealistic beauty standards. In South Africa, during the #MeToo wave, some public figures explicitly tied the hypersexualization in media to the treatment of women in real life, arguing that it contributes to a culture of gender-based violence. And interestingly, some of the very people who once epitomized “sex sells” have rebranded to more nuanced images as they mature (Moesha’s quasi-”repentance” being one case, or some video vixens later becoming fitness or business influencers). Society too isn’t monolithic – for every group of teens hyping a twerk video, there are others criticizing it and sharing content of African women breaking barriers in other fields. The struggle for cultural direction is ongoing.

In summary, the trends and influencers of the last decade have largely ridden the wave of commodification because it works – it brings eyeballs and money. They are the visible agents in this ecosystem, turning abstract ideas into real-life influence. By examining them, we can better understand the allure of this path and also see the beginnings of change. Now, with all these issues laid out, the big question remains: What can be done about it? How do we, as societies, reclaim the narrative so that women (and men) are valued for more than just their bodies? The final section will dive into some solutions and hopeful shifts.

Challenging the Trend: Solutions and Recommendations

After surveying the landscape – the normalized hypersexualization, the voyeuristic social media culture, the algorithmic bias, and the influencers fueling the fire – it’s easy to feel disheartened. Can anything actually be done to change this trajectory? The answer is yes, but it requires effort on multiple fronts: policy makers, tech companies, communities, educators, parents, and indeed content creators themselves all have a role to play. Change won’t happen overnight, but shifting norms is possible (after all, just a few generations ago, even showing a kiss on screen was scandalous – norms do evolve). Here are some practical approaches and recommendations to challenge the commodification and commercialization of women’s bodies:

1. Policy and Regulatory Changes: Governments and regulators can help set guardrails for media content. This doesn’t mean imposing draconian censorship, but rather thoughtful regulations that discourage the most harmful depictions of objectification and protect vulnerable groups. For instance, enforcing strict penalties for sharing intimate images without consent (revenge porn laws) will deter some of the voyeurism and make it clear that women’s bodies are not public property. South Africa and Nigeria have started moving in this direction legally, which is promising. Additionally, broadcasting authorities can maintain guidelines about sexual content during hours when children are watching. Nigeria’s National Broadcasting Commission, for example, has in the past banned or restricted music videos that were excessively raunchy from daytime TV. While creatives may chafe at that, it at least limits ubiquitous exposure.

On a higher level, governments can engage with social media companies to demand more transparency and responsibility in how their algorithms operate. Just as regulators are pushing Facebook and TikTok on disinformation or extremist content, they could also scrutinize the amplification of hypersexualized content to minors. Perhaps age-verification or content filters could be improved so that a 13-year-old’s feed isn’t full of suggestive dances. Policy can also support positive content – for example, public media campaigns that celebrate women’s achievements in science, leadership, sports, etc., providing a counter-narrative to the hypersexualized imagery.

There’s also an economic policy angle: addressing the underlying issue of women’s economic disempowerment. When women have more access to education, jobs, and equal pay, they are less vulnerable to exploitation. Policies that support women entrepreneurs, or conditional cash transfers to young women, could reduce the lure of transactional sex out of desperation. In essence, if we change the material circumstances that make commodification appealing or necessary, we chip away at the problem’s root. As one analysis noted, women remain the poorest gender globally and in Africa, creating a “survival sex” dynamic. Economic empowerment policies fight that.

2. Tech Accountability and Algorithm Tweaks: Social media companies often dodge responsibility by saying “We just show people what they like.” But as we saw, they do make active choices in their algorithms. We should press companies like Meta (Instagram) and ByteDance (TikTok) to examine the unintended outcomes of their recommendation systems. If an independent study shows Instagram favors bikini pics by 54%, Instagram should address this – maybe by adjusting the algorithm to put less weight on engagement alone and more on content diversity. While a platform probably won’t manually nerf all sexy content (it drives their metrics after all), they could introduce features giving users more control: e.g., a “content preference” setting where one can choose to see more educational stuff and less risqué stuff. Platforms have experimented with ideas like hiding “like” counts to reduce pressure; similarly, they could downplay the virality of sexual content without banning it outright.

Content moderation is another piece: outright banning pornography or nudity on mainstream social media does set a limit (Instagram already bans full nudity by policy). But enforcement is spotty and there’s a lot of borderline content. Better AI or human moderation to swiftly remove non-consensual explicit content (like those leaked videos) and penalize those who upload them is key. Basically, tech platforms should treat the abuse of women’s imagery with the same seriousness as they are starting to treat hate speech and self-harm content.

Moreover, algorithm transparency can empower users. If users know “okay, the app is showing me this because it gets engagement,” they might be more critical of what they consume. Some jurisdictions are considering forcing companies to reveal algorithm criteria or offer non-algorithmic feed options (chronological feeds). That could help break the trance-like hold of the engagement machine and allow more organic, diverse content to surface.

3. Media Literacy and Education: Perhaps the most powerful tool is education – not just of youth, but of society at large – to critically engage with media rather than be passively shaped by it. Media literacy programs in schools can teach young people to decode what they see: to understand, for example, that an Instagram model’s glamorous life might be a paid advertisement in disguise, or that a TikTok challenge may have risks and doesn’t reflect “normal” behavior. By learning to ask “Who made this content and for what purpose?” students can become less susceptible to harmful messaging. There are efforts in Africa on this front: organizations like the African Centre for Media & Information Literacy (AFRICMIL) are pushing to introduce media literacy into school curricula across the continent. They recognize that new media can be great for education and development – if youth know how to use them positively and see through the negatives. For instance, a media literacy curriculum might analyze popular music videos and discuss how women are portrayed, or examine social media “clout culture” and its psychological impact. These discussions can plant seeds of change in how the next generation chooses to represent themselves and consume content.

Beyond formal education, public awareness campaigns are needed. NGOs and governments can collaborate on campaigns akin to anti-smoking ads – but here it’s “anti-objectification” messaging. For example, a campaign might highlight stories of women who succeeded through intellect and hard work, implicitly contrasting them with the “easy money” narrative. Community workshops with parents and teens together could also help – many parents feel bewildered by what their kids are exposed to online; giving them tools to talk about it without shaming or shutting down conversation is important. A global Amnesty survey noted young people are concerned about social media’s impact on their privacy and well-being – meaning youth want guidance on these issues.

4. Encouraging Alternative Content and Role Models: One way to fight a narrative is to provide a compelling alternate narrative. We need to flood the space with diverse representations of women. This includes supporting female creators who are making educational, inspirational, or body-positive (as opposed to body-objectifying) content. Initiatives like contests or grants for content creators that produce high-quality educational entertainment could help. Imagine a pan-African digital content fund that rewards the top science explainer channels, or drama skits that address social issues without resorting to misogynistic tropes. If these creators can gain more visibility (perhaps through the algorithm adjustments mentioned or through dedicated promotional campaigns), they can become influencers in their own right, providing girls and boys alike with role models that counterbalance the slay queen prototype.

Communities can also celebrate local “sheroes” – the scientists, activists, entrepreneurs – through social media. A hashtag campaign that goes viral for uplifting reasons (like #WCW – WomanCrushWednesday – being used to highlight women for their achievements, not just looks) can gradually steer perceptions. In Kenya, we saw an example: a stage play called “Brazen” showcased pioneer Kenyan women who defied patriarchy. It was a hit and sparked conversations about unsung heroines. Such cultural projects, when amplified on social media, remind people that women’s identities and contributions are multifaceted.

5. Community and Grassroots Initiatives: Often, the push for change comes from the ground up. Grassroots movements have already sprung up to tackle related issues – for example, the #MyDressMyChoice protests in Nairobi challenged the idea that a woman’s outfit could be justification for assault. That movement, while centered on violence, carried a broader message asserting women’s autonomy over their bodies and rejecting public entitlement to women’s bodies as sexual objects. Community forums, both offline and online, where youth can discuss the pressures they feel, can be eye-opening. Sometimes it takes peer-to-peer conversations for a teenager to admit, “Yeah, I post those pics because I feel that’s what gets likes, but I wish people valued my other talents.” Once such feelings are in the open, collective resilience can build – maybe a group of friends agrees to support each other in pursuing more meaningful projects and not just Instagram popularity.

Religious and cultural leaders could also be engaged, carefully, to endorse messages of respect rather than control. Too often the reaction from conservative quarters to this issue is to police women more (telling them to dress modestly, etc.), which actually reinforces the idea that women’s bodies are objects (to be hidden or shown based on others’ approval). Instead, forward-thinking leaders can preach the value of character over appearance, for both genders, and condemn the exploitation (rather than the expression) of female sexuality.

6. Individual Responsibility and Literacy: While larger structural changes are essential, change also begins with personal choices. As consumers of media, we can all practice a bit of mindfulness: What am I clicking on, and why? If we can each curtail our own voyeuristic impulses – maybe skip watching that leaked video, maybe not follow that gossip blog that body-shames celebs – we reduce the collective demand. It might feel like a drop in the ocean, but culture is the sum of individual behaviors. Likewise, if you’re a content creator or just a social media user, you might reflect on what you share and promote. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating beauty or sexuality in a healthy way, but ask: Am I reducing myself or someone else to just a body? Sometimes it’s as simple as mixing up your feed: if you usually post sexy selfies, try also posting about your interests or opinions – train your audience to see you as a whole person. And when you engage with others, drop positive comments on content that isn’t just about looks (e.g., “Love your brain!” should be as common as “Nice body!” in comment sections).

7. Mentorship and Safe Spaces: Creating safe spaces (online or offline) where young women can discuss the pressures they face and get mentorship can counteract the influence of toxic online culture. For example, a mentorship program that connects teenage girls with female professionals can provide alternative role models and advice on building self-worth beyond appearance. Schools or community centers can host “Girls empowerment clubs” where media messages are dissected and confidence is built. Boys shouldn’t be left out either – engaging young men in conversations about respect, consent, and the false glamor of “player” culture is vital. Some researchers suggest including boys in the discussion as allies is key to dismantling misogynistic norms. Essentially, changing men’s attitudes will reduce the demand side of the problem.

In African contexts, leveraging existing communal structures could amplify impact. Many communities have strong youth networks, church groups, or even WhatsApp groups that spread information quickly. These can be used to circulate empowering messages just as they sometimes circulate gossip.

To sum up the solutions: It’s about a balance of top-down and bottom-up approaches. We need wise policies and better tech oversight and we need grassroots cultural change and personal accountability. Think of it as pushing on all levers – legal, educational, technological, and social – to shift the equilibrium from where it is now. It took decades of multiple efforts to change attitudes about issues like smoking or drunk driving; similarly, tackling the objectification of women will require sustained multi-faceted effort.

Conclusion:

Ultimately, reversing the commodification of women’s bodies is about changing minds and media at the same time. We have to challenge the narrative that a woman’s main value is her sexual appeal, and replace it with a narrative that celebrates women’s humanity in full spectrum – brains, heart, and yes, body too, but on her terms. This is a global battle with local fights. In Nigeria, it might mean questioning the “runs girl” culture on campus; in Ghana, it might mean providing opportunities so fewer Moeshas feel they have “no choice” but to date for money; in Kenya, it could be continuing the activism that says a woman’s dress is not an invitation for abuse; in South Africa, it ties into the fight against gender-based violence and economic inequality.

The good news is that awareness is growing. Conversations like the one you’ve just read are happening more often. Women and allies worldwide are calling out double standards and demanding better representation. Social media – ironically the culprit – can also be a tool for resistance, as campaigns and solidarity movements can spread virally too. The global nature of the issue means we can learn from each other. African societies can draw lessons from Western feminism and media reforms, while also speaking up to ensure their unique cultural contexts are respected in solutions.

In a conversational tone – because this is a conversation society needs to keep having – we should encourage each other to be more critical of the media we consume. Ask: Who profits from me thinking this way? Often you’ll find it’s not you. Encourage young people to build identities rooted in their talents and values, not just their looks or sexuality. And importantly, let’s not shame women who have navigated this commodification system, but rather create viable alternatives so that the next generation of girls doesn’t feel it’s the only way to get ahead. The goal is a world (and an internet) where intellectual and creative content by women gets as much traction as a booty-shaking video, where being a “slay queen” isn’t more admired than being a STEM queen, and where no one feels entitled to a woman’s body – physically or visually – without her consent.

We’re not there yet, but with collective effort, we can turn the tide. Women are not products or clickbait; they are people. It’s high time our media and mindsets reflect that truth.

Sources:

Oyunga Pala, “Slay Queens, Socialites And Sponsors: Sexual Violence in Kenyan Society” – Commentary on commodification of female bodies and transactional sex culture.

BBC / The Star (Kenya) – Reports on Kenyan “sponsor” culture and advice for young girls to avoid transactional relationships.

Pamela Ofori-Boateng, Quartz Africa – “A CNN interview sparked a debate about women, sex and love” – Discusses Moesha Boduong’s case and notes sugar daddy culture in Ghana, Nigeria, SA, and U.S..

Duncan Omanga, Daily Nation (Kenya) – “Obsession with sex and social media voyeurism an affront to our women” – Details voyeuristic incidents like the bus stripping case.

Christine Mungai, The Elephant – “#IfikieWazazi and Wamlambez” – Analyzes a viral teen sex video and ensuing social media trend in Kenya.

UCL Report 2024 – Found TikTok’s algorithm rapidly amplifies misogynistic content to teens, illustrating how algorithms normalize extreme content.

AlgorithmWatch/EDJN Study (2020) – Revealed Instagram favors posts showing skin: bikini images 54% more likely on feed, while non-sexual content is suppressed.

Omowale M. Bokinni, Afrocritik – “Nudity in Nigerian Music Videos…” – Notes Nigerian music industry’s turn to sexual content and an example of Blaqbonez’s twerking promotion.

Francisa K, FemInStyle Africa – “Women, Poverty and ‘Slay Queens’” – Links transactional sex to women’s lack of capital and terms it a “Global Sex Exchange”.

United Nations Report (2003) – Highlighted “increasing sexualization and normalization of pornography… pervasive in all media” and called for policies to address it.

AFRICMIL (African Centre for Media & Information Literacy) – Emphasizes introducing media literacy to youth to curb involvement in drugs, prostitution, etc..

Peoples Dispatch – “Instagram algorithm prioritizes scantily-clad women” – Coverage of the AlgorithmWatch study confirming bias towards sexualized images.