Photo illustration by Dami Mojid / THE REPUBLIC. Source Ref: Ben Enwonwu’s Christine, 1971. / SOTHEBYS.
THE MINISTRY OF GENDER X SEXUALITY
Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan, Gender and Body Politics in Nigeria
Photo illustration by Dami Mojid / THE REPUBLIC. Source Ref: Ben Enwonwu’s Christine, 1971. / SOTHEBYS.
THE MINISTRY OF GENDER X SEXYALITY
Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan, Gender and Body Politics in Nigeria
Mma nwaanyi nọ n’isi ya (A woman’s beauty is in her head).
—Igbo proverb
On 6 March 2025, the Nigerian Senate suspended Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan for six months without pay, sparking public controversy. As one of only four women in the 109-member Senate, she was suspended over alleged misconduct despite a court order to halt the expedited proceedings of the Senate ethics committee on the matter. Representing Kogi Central at the National Assembly, Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan is the sixth senator to be suspended since Nigeria transitioned from military to civilian rule in 1999. The six-month suspension came after the dismissal of a petition she filed against Senate President Godswill Akpabio, who has faced similar accusations of sexual harassment in the past. The unfolding case has ignited renewed public discussion about the significance of gender in Nigerian politics and the deeply rooted issues within the political system, providing valuable insights into the intersection of gender and politics.
Women are severely underrepresented in Nigerian politics, holding only 3 per cent of Senate seats and 4 per cent of House of Representatives seats. Ranking far behind many African countries, the national average for women’s representation in elective and appointive positions in Nigeria is well below the West African subregional average of 15 per cent and has declined to less than 5 per cent in recent years. The underrepresentation of women in Nigerian politics is not a new issue. The colonial foundations of modern-day Nigeria shaped the political landscape in such a way that women were systematically marginalized through the formal recognition of male warrant chiefs, the introduction of property rights institutions based on patriarchal marriage statutes, and policies that favoured boys for formal education and employment in specific industries. Even during the continent-wide decolonization period of the 1960s and beyond, the entrenched patriarchal political order, along with ongoing social inequalities, perpetuated an environment where independence seemed to ‘change the composition of office holders and not the character of the political system.’ In the contemporary period, although Nigerian women are just as active as men in other areas of political life, such as voting, organizing protests, supporting candidates at rallies and engaging in local civil society associations, women remain profoundly underrepresented in political offices.
But it is not only about the numbers; it is also about the experiences of the few women who hold these seats of power. The systemic underrepresentation and marginalization of women in Nigerian politics fosters a political culture that mirrors the broader societal culture of misogyny. The rushed proceedings—condemned by many—along with Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s suspension, highlight the repercussions faced by minority voices that dare to challenge the status quo. By publicly sharing her experiences in the Senate, this case reveals the various ways in which both men and women perpetuate a culture of misogyny.
MISOGYNY AND BODY POLITICS
One profound way that society perpetuates misogyny is by objectifying women’s bodies and validating the male gaze. Developed in cinematic studies, the male gaze is a feminist concept that explains the objectification of women from a heterosexual male perspective. To illustrate how the male gaze manifests and is justified, former senator and minister of works, Adeseye Ogunlewe, presented Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s physical appearance as a problem in an interview with Arise News, stating:
The beauty of distinguished Senator Natasha is a problem for her because when someone beautiful passes by men, their [men] attitudes change. They can smile, but they may not talk to her. But Natasha’s beauty is a problem for her, and there’s no doubt about that….To men, when she [Natasha] is passing, there’s no way they will not look at her, but they may not talk to her. It’s a natural thing for men to look at a beautiful woman because how can you be a man, and when a beautiful woman is passing, you close your eyes? You might tag it as anything, but it’s inborn for men to look at women when they pass by.
Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s public self-presentation highlights the hypocrisy and depths of misogyny in politics. With her hair often veiled and her body draped from neck to toe in flowing Ankara dresses, frequently paired with dark sunglasses, her appearance ironically showcases a potential response to the political environment she navigates. This careful curation of appearance is not merely stylistic; it reflects a conscious negotiation with the male gaze in Nigerian politics, where women deemed beautiful are expected to downplay their physical attributes to be taken seriously in their roles. Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s experience is far from isolated; it mirrors a broader pattern across professional spaces in Nigeria and beyond. Last year, Zenith Bank CEO Adaora Nwokoye faced similar scrutiny, criticized not for her competence but for being too attractive for her executive position. These parallel experiences highlight how women’s bodies become contested terrain in professional settings, with beauty weaponized against them while demanding constant management. This is a systemic burden that men in similar positions seldom encounter, if ever.
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First lady and former senator, Remi Tinubu, also weighed in on the case, speaking to women about her own experiences in her younger years, by stating that ‘…people compliment you all the time…women, raise yourself high, don’t be in a position that men can be talking to you; you can always shut them down before they start.’ The issue with these statements by Ogunlewe and Tinubu is not about a person admiring the physical attributes of another person or about encouraging women to be assertive, but about context and the implications of excusing badly behaved men and putting the responsibility of respect solely on the backs of women. The context of these statements by both former senators belittles the serious nature of the fact that a lawmaker was suspended from her position without pay and had her security details removed due to alleged misconduct and unruly behaviour.
The events leading up to Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s suspension reveal a pattern of targeted behaviour. Before the suspension, Senator Akpabio chastised Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan for speaking out of turn, condescendingly stating that the Senate floor was not a ‘nightclub’. Additionally, Senator Akpabio had Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s seat moved without notification, prompting her to confront him, declaring, ‘I am not afraid of you.’ Her subsequent exposé on Arise TV, where she first alleged sexual harassment, seems to have triggered the swift disciplinary action against her. This suspension, which many, including several women’s rights groups, condemn as illegal and a form of ‘legislative recklessness’, suspiciously occurred after she dared to accuse the Senate president of sexual harassment. Dismissing the male gaze as a harmless, natural phenomenon, particularly in the context of this high-profile case, feeds into rape culture by normalizing and trivializing harassment, which can escalate to violence. Due to the social stigma surrounding sexual assault, there is limited data on the rates of such incidents; the prevalence of rape in Nigeria is estimated to be between 11 per cent and 55 per cent. Therefore, what does it mean when lawmakers create a caricature and public spectacle of sexual harassment in one of the highest offices in the land and blame the physicality of the person speaking out?
Reflecting critically on the politics of beauty and desire as they intersect with power and gender, one might wonder if women often live in cages while men enjoy too much freedom. When girls are taught that they are responsible for the desires of others and boys are taught that their passage into manhood relies on their declared desire for the opposite sex, it nurtures a culture of misogyny—one where women suffer punishment for non-compliance and men receive praise for doing the bare minimum of respecting their fellow human beings while being excused for insolence. This demonstrates a broader pattern of many individuals navigating everyday life with an acute awareness and potential burden of how their bodies are not truly theirs but are seen and treated as instruments of others’ desires and exploitation.
Transnational feminist scholarship has developed a socio-political perspective for understanding bodies as sites of social constructions of difference. Body politics recognizes the body as politically inscribed and shaped by power structures through practices of containment and control. In Nigeria and beyond, beauty is not merely a descriptor or a measure of attractiveness; it operates as a form of currency. Yet for many women, this currency appreciates or depreciates in value based on a market primarily dictated by the male gaze. Increased discussions about pretty privilege online have unveiled how beauty can serve as a tool for gaining access, bypassing bureaucracy and receiving favours. Nevertheless, this currency can be quite costly as it reinforces the very systems that constrain women.
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BEAUTY AS A DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD
Ideologies that reinforce patriarchal structures often shape people’s interior lives and emotional experiences. Committing to live as freely as possible is not just a personal choice—it is a political act. Reflecting on my own experiences transitioning from girlhood to womanhood, I often feel nostalgic for the blissful ignorance I had about body politics. When I started to show signs of puberty, I began wearing oversized clothing. Prior to that, I was completely unaware and unashamed of my body, sometimes wandering around shirtless in my dad’s village just outside Aba in southeastern Nigeria. I was ignorant of any societal expectations regarding bodies, particularly those of women and girls. The freedom I felt during those childhood moments of ignorance disappeared as I grew older. The male gaze—a powerful influence in both subtle and overt ways—made me highly aware of how my body was perceived and judged. Suddenly, I found myself in a societal framework that sought to define me by my physical appearance.
We see these dynamics play out at the highest levels of Nigerian politics. During the Senate screening of Ambassador Bianca Odumegwu-Ojukwu, nominee for minister of state for foreign affairs, male senators made inappropriate comments about her beauty, reducing her years of diplomatic experience to her physical appearance. Belittling sexual harassment and alluding to a potential social media criticism, Senator Akpabio responded to the inappropriate comments by saying ‘Please restrict your comments to her résumé. You know why I am saying that? Otherwise, we will go on social media and ask, “Who touched my Bianca?”’ The Senate president’s response prompted laughter throughout the chamber. This incident occurred just months after Akpabio apologized for his nightclub comment and faced significant backlash on social media.
Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s case illustrates a recurring theme of disrespect towards women and a clear disregard for the accountability demanded by Nigerian citizens. These challenges transcend politics. Many women in traditionally male-dominated industries report feeling compelled to manage their appearance to gain respect, as their bodies are frequently scrutinized. Grammy Award-winning artist Tems has shared her experiences with such pressures, stating that she purposefully chooses baggy clothing in recording studios to ‘limit distractions’ and be taken seriously as a musician instead of being objectified. In various domains, including music, politics, business and public spaces, women engage in ongoing negotiations about how they present themselves, aware that their physical appearance may be weaponized against them, regardless of the choices they make.
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These negotiations with the male gaze begin early and persist throughout women’s lives, affecting their relationship with public spaces and even their most basic freedoms. I remember an observation I made at several beaches across different West African cities—Lagos, Cotonou, Lomé, Accra and Dakar—and later, on a separate visit to Zanzibar. Watching little boys live freely and enjoy swimming in the glistening water at Ouakam or on the shores of Stone Town, I could not help but notice the absence of little girls doing the same. This observation led me to reflect on the constant mental calculus that many women face when removing their clothes to enter the water. This occurs in a culture where women’s bodies are oversexualized and where males of varying ages feel entitled to harassment, sharing their opinions about women’s physicality with the expectation of compliant responses. I often think about the strain this mental calculus imposes when trying not to become the object of someone else’s desire while just trying to live freely. In spaces where women’s bodies are hypersexualized and subject to harassment, even the act of accessing natural bodies of water that belong to everyone can feel like a risk.
As the case of Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s suspension continues to unfold, we are reminded not only of the extremely low numbers of women who make the laws of the land but also of why gender still matters in politics, both in Nigeria and beyond. Conversations surrounding beauty and women’s bodies that trivialize sexual harassment accusations by excusing inappropriate behaviour and blaming victims are harmful. We must contend with the costs of expressing oneself politically in ways that challenge the status quo. If gender equity is to be achieved in our lifetime, it is essential to increase descriptive representation while also respecting and valuing the experiences of the few who have managed to secure those seats rather than reducing the challenges they face to their physical appearance.
Like power, beauty does not have to be a burden or a point of contention if people stop trying to use it as a weapon. The weaponization of beauty is not by accident but by design. This reality will change only when we collectively refuse to accept systems that ridicule and subjugate women’s bodies. Until we recognize that the battle over women’s bodies in political spaces is fundamentally about control, we will continue to witness cases like Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s—where women who dare to assert their rightful place find their appearance weaponized against them to preserve patriarchal power structures that were never designed to include them⎈