GEN Z CORNER: Toxic masculinity growing online

The first time I heard a 22-year-old guy in my neighborhood say, completely seriously, “Women are the problem with modern society,” I nearly closed my eyes in resignation. Not because it was shocking (honestly, it’s becoming predictable) but because of how confidently he said it, like he’d just quoted scripture.

We were leaning against a kibanda, dust swirling, matatus hooting in the background, and this guy, *Ryan (not his real name), was reciting lines he clearly hadn’t invented himself. That’s when it hit me: This wasn’t just Ryan talking. This was the Internet talking through Brian.

Welcome to the manosphere. If you’ve spent even five minutes on TikTok, YouTube or X lately, you’ve probably stumbled on it. The manosphere is this loose, chaotic online ecosystem of influencers, podcasts and forums, where masculinity is being redefined loudly, aggressively and often dangerously.

It sells a version of manhood built on dominance, emotional detachment, money worship and a deep suspicion, sometimes outright hostility, towards women. Think alpha male energy but stripped of nuance and turned into a hustle.

And Kenyan Gen Z men are not just watching. They’re buying in.

I’ve seen it in small, everyday moments. Like the time I was in a Bolt ride, heading to Thika Road Mall. The driver, probably 25, started playing a podcast where a man was explaining why “high-value men” shouldn’t date women who earn more than them. The driver paused it mid-ride, turned to me, and said, “You see, nowadays wanawake wameharibu system. A man must lead.” I asked him what “leading” meant. He shrugged. “Just… being the man.”

That vagueness is part of the problem. The manosphere packages masculinity as something obvious, natural, unquestionable. But when you scratch the surface, it’s mostly recycled insecurity dressed up as philosophy.

To be fair, not every young man buying into this is malicious. Some are just… lost. The pressure is real. Unemployment is high. The cost of living in Nairobi is brutal. Traditional markers of masculinity — provider, protector, head of household — feel increasingly out of reach. So when someone online says, “You’re not the problem. Society is rigged against men,” it lands. Hard.

Carlton Omondi, 23, told me this straight up one evening at a nyama choma joint in Kahawa West. “At least those guys are honest,” he said. “They tell you to focus on money, gym, discipline. Not this soft life nonsense.”

I get that. Structure is appealing. Direction is attractive. Especially when everything else feels uncertain.

But here’s where I start side-eyeing the whole thing. Because alongside the gym motivation and financial advice is a steady drip of something darker. A quiet rewriting of relationships into transactions. A suspicion of women that borders on paranoia. A belief that vulnerability is weakness.

I’ve watched guys I know, funny, kind, thoughtful guys, slowly morph into people who talk about women like they’re business deals.

One 25-year-old friend, *Kinyanjui, used to be the guy who’d walk you home after a night out just to make sure you were safe. Now he sends voice notes about “female nature” and how “you can never trust a woman fully”. It’s like watching someone slowly download a new personality.

And the scariest part? It’s algorithmically reinforced. The more you watch, the more extreme it gets. What starts as “work on yourself” quickly spirals into “women are your competition”.

Not everyone agrees, though. Jemimah Mukasa, 19, a university student I met during a volunteer programme in Juja, put it bluntly: “These guys are scared. They act tough online, but in real life, they don’t even know how to talk to women normally.”

That might sound harsh, but there’s truth there. A lot of this hyper-masculinity feels like a shield, something to hide behind.

Still, I don’t think mocking these men is the answer. That just pushes them deeper into the echo chamber. If anything, we need more honest conversations about what masculinity actually looks like in 2026 Kenya. Because right now, the loudest voices are the most extreme ones.

For me, masculinity has never been about control or dominance. It’s been about showing up. Being reliable. Being kind without feeling like you’re losing something. I’ve seen men, including my uncles, older cousins, even random guys in my estate, embody this quiet strength that doesn’t need an audience or a podcast.

The manosphere doesn’t leave room for that kind of masculinity. It’s too subtle. Too human.

And maybe that’s why it’s so tempting. It offers certainty in a confusing world. Clear rules. Clear enemies. Clear goals. But real life, especially here in Kenya, isn’t that neat. Relationships aren’t power struggles. They’re messy, complicated, and, when done right, actually beautiful.

So yeah, when I hear *Ryan at the kibanda talking about how women are the problem, I don’t just hear him. I hear an entire digital pipeline feeding him lines. And I can’t help but wonder: If we don’t start questioning this trend now, what kind of men are we raising, and what kind of society are we building?

Because if masculinity becomes something you learn from an algorithm instead of from real, lived human experience, then we’re in deeper trouble than we think.