Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan and the Fragility of Gendered Power in Africa

Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan

Photo illustration by Dami Mojid / THE REPUBLIC. Source Ref: NATASHA AKPOTI / IG.

THE MINISTRY OF GENDER X SEXUALITY

Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan and the Fragility of Gendered Power in Africa

When Nigeria’s upper chamber punished Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan with a six-month suspension after she spoke up about harassment, the act didn’t just close a door on one woman—it revealed the fragile hinges of gendered power that determine who may even touch the handle in African politics.
Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan

Photo illustration by Dami Mojid / THE REPUBLIC. Source Ref: NATASHA AKPOTI / IG.

THE MINISTRY OF GENDER X SEXUALITY

Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan and the Fragility of Gendered Power in Africa

When Nigeria’s upper chamber punished Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan with a six-month suspension after she spoke up about harassment, the act didn’t just close a door on one woman—it revealed the fragile hinges of gendered power that determine who may even touch the handle in African politics.

On 6 March 2025, Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan was suspended from the Senate for six months without pay after accusing the Senate president of Nigeria, Godswill Akpabio, of sexual harassment. The Senate denied any connection between her suspension and the allegation, instead citing gross misconduct and unruly behaviour during sessions. However, the optics of punishing a female lawmaker for speaking out against a powerful male colleague have reignited national and continental conversations about gender, power and political solidarity in Africa. 

The former minister of education, Dr Oby Ezekwesili, and women’s groups such as the Interfaith Women Alliance for Justice and Women’s Voice for A New Nigeria, have  challenged Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s suspension. They argue that it reflects the systemic harassment and discrimination women face in political institutions and workplaces. Yet beyond the specifics of this case, the incident raises critical questions about how gender shapes both access to and the exercise of political power. It is a stark reminder that gender equity goes beyond symbolic representation—it is fundamentally about power, legitimacy and the ability to resist entrenched structures of exclusion. 

Women’s participation in African parliaments has seen modest gains in recent years. In 2021, women held approximately 25 per cent of parliamentary seats across the continent; by 2024, that number had increased slightly to 26 per cent. These incremental improvements, however, mask deeper structural barriers—particularly in Nigeria, where female political representation remains among the lowest in Africa. Under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration, women comprise just 15 per cent of his cabinet and only 4 per cent of the National Assembly—far short of the 35 per cent affirmative action target outlined in his Renewed Hope Manifesto.  

Despite these challenges, Africa has seen six women elected to the presidency, an important milestone on the journey toward gender parity in leadership. Still, representation alone is not enough. A woman holding office does not automatically dismantle patriarchal structures, nor does it automatically translate into institutional power or protection from political retaliation. The real question is not simply how to increase women’s political presence, but how to ensure they are heard, respected and empowered once they get there.  

WHEN SPEAKING OUT INVITES REPRISAL: LEGAL GAPS AND CULTURAL BACKLASH

Across the continent, women in politics who challenge entrenched male power often face disproportionate backlash, ranging from social ostracism to institutional punishment. A joint study by the Inter-Parliamentary Union and the African Parliamentary Union, which interviewed 224 women parliamentarians across 50 African countries, found that over a third had experienced sexual violence, 40 per cent reported acts of physical violence, 78 per cent had faced sexist behaviour and 83 per cent had experienced sexual harassment.  

Despite the widespread prevalence of violence against women in politics across Africa, political institutions often respond to those who speak out not by seeking justice, but by protecting powerful men. In South Africa, for example, Nkele Molapo accused a senior political figure of sexual harassment in 2020 and was subsequently expelled from her party. Similarly, in Kenya in 2015, Taita Taveta Women Representative, Joyce Lay, reported being sexually harassed by a male colleague during a parliamentary mission to Japan. Since 2015, no proper due process has been done to address this issue, despite more than 50 female parliamentarians calling for an investigation. The very mechanisms designed to uphold accountability are often weaponized—not to uphold justice, but to silence women who speak out. This reflects a deep irony: women are socialized to believe that political power is a pathway to justice, yet even those who attain high office are punished for naming abuse. Gendered exclusion in African politics is not merely a legislative gap but a structural feature of political culture—one in which speaking truth to power comes at profound personal and professional cost. 

Internationally, Nigeria is a signatory to two key instruments that promote and protect women’s rights: the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW), adopted by the United Nations, and the Maputo Protocol, an African Union treaty on the rights of women in Africa. Both frameworks obligate signatory countries to enact and enforce laws that prevent gender-based violence, including sexual harassment. Nigeria’s commitment to these treaties carries the legal and moral responsibility to align its national policies with international standards that promote gender equity and protect women’s rights in both public and private spheres. However, despite these international commitments, the domestic legal landscape presents a more complex and uneven picture. Nigeria has made some legislative progress, notably with the passage of the Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act (VAPP) in 2015. The law defines sexual harassment as ‘unwanted conduct of a sexual nature that is persistent or serious and demeans, humiliates, or creates a hostile environment.’ Yet implementation has been inconsistent. Adoption of the VAPP Act across Nigeria’s 36 states remains uneven, and accountability for violations—particularly within political institutions—has been minimal. Workplace harassment policies for public officials are weak and largely unenforced, with political privilege often shielding perpetrators from consequences. 

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While the VAPP Act has now been domesticated in 35 states, enforcement remains limited. Fewer than two-thirds of these states have established sex offender registries, and in the Federal Capital Territory, only 36 convictions have been secured out of over 3,000 reported cases of gender-based violence. This stark gap between legislation and enforcement highlights the persistent weakness of accountability mechanisms, particularly within political institutions, where internal ethics committees rarely sanction senior officials. 

On paper, the public sector includes some safeguards. The Federal Public Service Rules classify sexual harassment as ‘serious misconduct’ punishable by dismissal. Furthermore, Nigeria’s 2022 ratification of ILO Convention 190 commits the state to eliminating violence and harassment in the world of work. Yet, these standards have not translated into a cohesive, enforceable policy for elected officials. According to the National Industrial Court, employers are merely expected to take ad hoc ‘administrative action’ when such incidents occur, with no statutory requirements for training or independent oversight. In practice, political privilege and procedural opacity continue to protect perpetrators more effectively than the law protects victims. The limitations of these legal protections become especially visible in high-profile cases involving women in politics such as Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan. Despite the seriousness of her allegation against Senator Akpabio, no formal inquiry has been launched. Instead, her suspension appears to reflect an institutional effort to silence rather than support her.  

To fully understand this coordinated silencing, it is essential to situate it within the broader socio-political landscape. The realities facing women in African politics are shaped not only by legislation, but also by the political, economic, social and cultural environments in which they operate. These contexts influence both the forms of violence women face and the nature of institutional responses to such violence. Deeply entrenched norms that uphold male dominance often result in systemic violations of women’s rights, especially in public and political life. 

Further complicating this landscape are the dual legal systems through which many African states function. Amina Mama, a feminist scholar, points out that, the state often operates through both civil and customary law. While civil law may offer stronger protections for women’s rights, many African women are more heavily governed by customary norms that limit their political and legal agency. In practice, this duality creates a gap between rights guaranteed on paper and those accessible in reality. Customary laws still treat women as legal minors, limit their access to land and leadership and fail to protect them from abuse. 

Structural inequalities, including economic barriers, further exacerbate these challenges.  

Campaigning in Nigeria, for instance, is notoriously capital-intensive. Party nomination fees for a senate seat can exceed 20 million (approximately $13,000), a hurdle that Mama links to the ‘neoliberal privatization of politics’. While Akpoti-Uduaghan, a lawyer and entrepreneur married to a prominent businessman and philanthropist, could raise these funds, her experience illustrates that financial independence does not shield women from institutional backlash. The senate stripped her of salary, allowances and security detail immediately after she challenged male leadership—underscoring that even well-resourced women remain financially vulnerable when they step out of line. For less-resourced women, the message is even clearer: do not even try. This systemic discouragement reinforces a political environment where silence, not participation, is rewarded—leaving democratic institutions poorer for the exclusion of half the population. Ultimately, the political backlash against women who speak out—as exemplified by Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s experience—reveals more than just institutional failure. It reflects a broader unwillingness to challenge entrenched power structures and a deeply rooted resistance to achieving genuine gender equality in political life.

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TOWARDS A FEMINIST SOLIDARITY IN NIGERIAN POLITICS

While notable strides have been made in increasing women’s representation, the deeper challenge lies in dismantling the patriarchal structures that continue to shape political institutions. These structures are too often upheld not only by men but also by older women in positions of power who, knowingly or not, reinforce norms that marginalize younger and more vocal generations. 

After Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan accused Senator Akpabio of sexual harassment, more than 100 women’s groups issued a public apology—not to her, but to the Senate. In their statement, they described her behaviour as ‘disruptive, crude and distasteful’, effectively discrediting her claims and reinforcing a culture where women are discouraged from naming abuse, especially when it implicates powerful men. By framing Senator Akpabio’s conduct as harmless or joking, their response normalized inappropriate behaviour and signalled that institutional loyalty takes precedence over accountability. Prominent female political figures, including Senator Ita Giwa, also dismissed the allegations, with Giwa asserting that ‘senators can’t be sexually harassed’ and characterizing Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s actions as a sign of ‘weakness’. These reactions reflect a generation of women who succeeded in politics by adapting to deeply patriarchal norms rather than confronting them—upholding a status quo that silences survivors and punishes those who speak out. 

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Cultural expectations that prioritize harmony over confrontation further entrench this posture. Older senators and women politicians, shaped by politically conservative and often repressive environments, frequently counsel endurance and quiet resilience. These were strategies that once served as survival tools in patriarchal spaces. Yet today, such advice functions less as protection and more as suppression. It mutes the very activism capable of challenging entrenched power. The irony is stark: women in positions of influence, including the first lady of Nigeria, Remi Tinubu, and Senator Giwa, publicly inferred that a senator cannot be sexually harassed. This assertion both shames the survivor and elevates institutional status over individual harm. It reflects a broader paradox in political life, where women can be seen as too vulnerable to seek justice and at the same time too powerful to be believed when they do. The shaming and silencing by these older figures—many of whom have broken barriers themselves—highlight how power can be wielded to invalidate women’s testimonies, not just by men but also by the very women who once fought for inclusion. In doing so, they reinforce the systems that once excluded them and perpetuate a cycle where survival is rewarded over truth. This intergenerational divide has not gone unchallenged. A new wave of feminist resistance is steadily reshaping the landscape. Younger women—drawing inspiration from transnational feminist movements and leveraging digital tools—are increasingly vocal in calling out institutional injustice. Social media and other platforms have become powerful tools for amplifying their voices and demanding real-time accountability. For many of these women, silence is no longer the price of admission into political life. 

Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan personifies this generational shift. By speaking out across both local and international platforms, she represents a form of political resistance that blends institutional engagement with public advocacy. Her stance aligns with a growing cohort of younger women leaders who reject political gatekeeping and resist outdated expectations of female leadership. 

However, sustaining this momentum requires more than isolated acts of courage. We must intentionally bridge the generational divide, especially now that struggle comes at an even steeper cost.  

In a startling development, Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan recently learnt through the media that the Nigerian government is suing her for defamation. This legal action follows her public allegation that Senator Akpabio and former Kogi State governor, Yahaya Bello, had plotted to ‘eliminate’ her—allegations both men have denied. Rather than prompting investigation or institutional introspection, Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s disclosures have led to retaliation. Her case serves as a sobering reminder that in many political spaces, women who speak out are not protected, instead they are punished. This raises an urgent question: what might be possible if figures like Tinubu and Senator Giwa stood in solidarity with Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan, alongside young feminist activists and established voices like Dr Ezekwesili, who are already calling for justice? Now more than ever, we are reminded that women’s political representation in Nigeria must go beyond occupying hard-won seats. It must also involve a deliberate dismantling of the hierarchies and gatekeeping that undermine women’s solidarity and suppress the potential for unified, transformative action

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