Recently, we woke up to Nigerian men on X (Twitter) spreading lies that immigrant wives in the UK will be deported if they report domestic violence or leave abusive marriages.
For context, this fearmongering sits against the backdrop of women in the UK often being able to access justice for domestic abuse much faster than happens in Nigeria. And so, every now and then, these warnings circulate amongst some Nigerian men online: “If you sponsor your wife to join you in the UK, she can report you, take your house, and get you into trouble.”
To start with the facts, this is false. And it is important to debunk it loudly and repeatedly because real women experiencing abuse may see these lies and decide to stay silent out of fear that reporting violence could affect their immigration status or lead to deportation. The UK’s Migrant Victims of Domestic Abuse Concession exists specifically to support survivors of abuse, not punish them for speaking up.
But the more sinister part of this story is not just the misinformation itself but the economy around it. Most of these posts come from verified accounts. They receive thousands of likes, reposts, comments, and engagements. In other words, people are making money from misogynistic falsehood. The conversation about content monetisation is urgent.
Content monetisation, which essentially involves social media platforms rewarding content creators from ad revenue, was supposed to democratise opportunity. For many Africans, especially young people, it has. Social media platforms have created entirely new job roles and economies, with young people now earning money from comedy skits, influencer work, livestreaming, commentary, lifestyle content, and political engagement. Women and girls have used digital platforms to build businesses, communities, and visibility in ways that were previously impossible.
Unfortunately, the same monetisation is increasingly rewarding, even incentivising harm, especially against women and girls and other vulnerable groups.
Across Nigeria and the continent, we are witnessing the monetisation of outrage, humiliation, misogyny, and violence. Content creators are learning, sometimes very quickly, that the more extreme the content, the higher the engagement. The higher the engagement, the higher the payout. At TechHer, we are seeing this shift in the causation of tech-facilitated gender-based violence (TfGBV) in real time. Women are being targeted not simply because someone dislikes them, but because harming them has become profitable.
A private image leaked online becomes “content.” A woman being trolled publicly becomes “cruise or bants.” A deepfake sexual video becomes “viral material.” People are claiming relationships with people they have never met for “agenda”, using AI to generate false images of celebrities, publishing sexual acts with partners without their consent, and even forging fake medical reports, all for content. We are watching intimate partner violence and non-consensual image abuse on screens in real-time, with perpetrators coordinating entire harassment campaigns solely for monetisation and creator payouts.
What’s even more sinister is that, thanks to the ubiquity of the internet, harms are no longer confined to a single platform. They spread across WhatsApp groups, Facebook pages, TikTok commentary videos, Instagram Reels, and comment sections; essentially, wherever people gather. They become “gist,” “advice,” or “wetin pesin go take guide.” They become “evidence” for people already predisposed to distrusting or harming women. And because platforms reward visibility rather than safety, criminality is challenging criminality and increasing harm for women and girls.
So, these ‘creators’ continue earning, and there is no justice because our legislation, enforcement, and judicial understanding are barely crawling when they should be flying.
Nigeria’s legal framework still struggles to adequately define and address many forms of TfGBV. Questions around deepfakes, AI-generated abuse, non-consensual intimate image distribution, cyberflashing, and coordinated harassment are either poorly addressed or absent from legislation. Police officers often lack the training to identify TFGBV, meaning that survivors are re-traumatised when reporting. Where cases are established, they move slowly, costing the survivor time, money, and peace of mind, and they tell the perpetrators they can get away with criminality. In many instances, survivors are forced to fit new harms into outdated legal categories that were never designed for the realities of digital life. At TechHer, through KURAM and our Volunteer Lawyer Network, we continue to see the scale of this crisis growing.
At a recent learning session on tech for safety, joy, and resistance, I spoke about how perpetrators are innovating and increasingly using artificial intelligence to bypass safety mechanisms. Hashing systems, which serve as digital fingerprints to prevent harmful intimate images from being re-uploaded, are now being circumvented by AI-enabled image alterations. Perpetrators slightly modify images, create variations, or remix content to slip harmful material past detection systems. Which means that takedowns are no longer enough, and survivors are exposed to repeated circulation of the same abuse.
Technology is evolving rapidly, as is harm. We urgently need laws, enforcement systems, and judicial understanding that keep pace with these changes. We need laws that explicitly recognise technology-facilitated gender-based violence. We need stronger, transparent platform accountability frameworks. We need justice systems trained to understand online harms, digital evidence, AI-generated abuse, and coordinated harassment campaigns. Even more urgently, we need political will that strives for the elimination of all forms of gender-based violence. Not windy speeches on International Day or rehashed pledges during 16 Days of Activism.
The internet was supposed to be a place of possibility. For millions of women and girls across Africa, it still is. But possibility without safety is not freedom; it is risk that deepens exclusion from the digital economy and the public sphere. Until platforms are held financially accountable for the harms their systems incentivise, until our laws catch up with the realities of digital life, and until survivors are treated as people deserving justice rather than as inconveniences in a system built around someone else’s profit, we will keep having this conversation. At TechHer, we will continue to sound this alarm until something changes.
Chioma Agwuegbo is the executive director at TechHer, an organisation that helps women and girls access, understand, and use technology safely and meaningfully. She writes from Abuja.
