Social media has redefined politics in East Africa, creating a space where ordinary citizens can speak boldly, organize rapidly and hold power to account. But while platforms like TikTok and X have widened civic participation, they have also become breeding grounds for digital misogyny.
Women in politics are not only judged for decisions and policies they are also examined through lenses of appearance, tone, morality and personality in ways male leaders rarely experience. A man’s firmness is viewed as strength; a woman’s firmness is treated as aggression. Leadership becomes gender performance and women are expected to be assertive yet soft, powerful but not too loud, competent yet humble. The political arena opens its doors with one hand and pushes them back with the other.
The experiences of women like Tanzania’s President Samia Suluhu Hassan reveal this double standard clearly. During periods of unrest, she faced criticism not for governance but for being “too brutal for a woman,” as though effectiveness should be measured against femininity rather than policy.
In Kenya, the pattern repeats in digital culture: Ruth Odinga is mocked more for her body than for her contributions, Charlene Ruto trends for her appearance over agenda, even Margaret Kenyatta, admired for her Beyond Zero initiative, is often discussed for demeanour instead of impact. Women become memes not leaders. Their bodies are analyzed more than their bills. Their clothing becomes more visible than their ideas.
A viral TikTok comment captured this perfectly when one woman fails, critics claim all women are unfit to lead. But when a man fails, only he is to blame. This gendered burden means a female MP’s mistake becomes a cautionary tale for all women in leadership, while a male MP’s mistake is simply an individual failure. It is why phrases like “women reps are useless” trend despite excellent women in office, yet no one suggests abolishing men’s seats when male leaders underperform.
The 2024 Finance Bill protests reflected both sides of the digital landscape. Hashtags mobilized youth, elevated awareness and created national momentum. Yet women who spoke, marched or commented were met with personal insults rather than political debate. Gladys Wanga was reduced online to “this woman,” a reminder that gender still overshadows title. Men were evaluated intellectually; women were measured emotionally, visually or morally. The hostility often came disguised as humour memes, jokes, catchy insults, but repeated enough times, mockery becomes truth. Digital culture normalizes contempt until voters internalize it without noticing.
This environment has consequences. It discourages young women from imagining themselves in leadership. It shifts public attention from policy to personality. It modernizes patriarchy instead of dismantling it. The result is a political space where women enter already exhausted by judgment that has nothing to do with governance. Many do not quit because they lack skill; they quit. After all, the cost of existing publicly is too high.
Citizens can challenge sexist language and demand equal accountability for both genders. Digital spaces can amplify accomplishments instead of aesthetic critique. Leaders like LSK President Faith Odhiambo praised across TikTok for strong performance show how excellence can trend when audiences choose to elevate substance. If East Africa hopes to nurture female leadership, narratives must shift. We must view women as political actors, not symbols, bodies or tokens. We must judge leaders by ideas, integrity and impact not by appearance or stereotypes.
The future of East African democracy depends on the stories we circulate today. If platforms continue to reduce women to visuals instead of voices, new leaders will rise afraid, silenced or absent. But if we build a digital culture that values intelligence over mockery, then more girls watching from the sidelines will look at Parliament, State House or Cabinet and think one day, I can stand there too.
