Sex is still a taboo topic in urban Kenya, even in an age where the world feels more open and connected than ever. Behind this silence lies a growing, often unspoken epidemic: the quiet but steady rise of porn consumption. The boom began in the early 2010s, when cheap smartphones and faster internet arrived on the scene. Suddenly, content that was once hidden behind closed doors became available at the tap of a screen. But this is not where the story starts.
Before the internet age, porn in Kenya was a secretive affair. It came through imported magazines like Hustler and Penthouse, or through the dimly lit cinema halls that screened softcore films; places like Cameo in downtown Nairobi or Eastlands Cinema along Jogoo Road. By the late 1990s, the VHS tape revolution had begun. More homes owned video cassette recorders (VCRs), and with them came an unrecorded surge in private porn viewing. Video libraries, inspired by the famous Blockbuster chains in North America, mushroomed across urban centers.
Then came the 2000s, and with them, VCDs and DVDs. As computers became common, pirated films, from Hollywood blockbusters to explicit material, flooded the market. By the time the 2010s rolled around, the internet had changed everything. Pornography had gone global, and Kenya was not left behind.
During the COVID-19 lockdown, Pornhub data showed that Kenya ranked among the top three porn-viewing nations in the world, behind only the UK and the US. Platforms like OnlyFans and Stripchat, now featuring local content creators, have taken things a step further. Social media, particularly Instagram, has blurred the line between influencer culture and online sex work, drawing in many young, economically vulnerable women.
The sex trade has evolved too — from the streets of Luthuli Avenue to the high-end brothels of Kilimani, and now, to discreet online escorting. Yet, few dare to name what drives much of this transformation: Kenya’s quiet obsession with pornography.
Unlike in many Western countries, where mental health and sexuality are discussed openly, Kenya has little local research on the psychological and social effects of porn. Cultural shame has kept conversations about masturbation, same-sex attraction, trauma, and addiction under wraps. Without such discussions, addiction festers in silence.
For millennials who grew up in the shadow of the HIV/AIDS crisis of the 1990s, sex was something to fear. Government campaigns warned of death, not desire. Porn became their unintended teacher. For Gen Z, sex is less of a taboo, yet many have developed dependency on porn, with some slipping into full-blown addiction.
The Church and mainstream society have been slow to respond, often labeling the topic “un-Christian” or inappropriate for public discourse. Yet the effects are visible everywhere: in the rising cases of sexual dysfunction, broken relationships, and distorted ideas of intimacy.
On social media, a new generation of “red pill” influencers promises to help young men escape addiction. But critics say these efforts only scratch the surface. The deeper problem, they argue, is a warped cultural relationship with sex itself, one built on secrecy, shame, and silence.
While memes and online banter may make sex seem less taboo, what’s really happening is the slow erosion of traditional values and the rise of a detached, desensitized view of intimacy. Kenya’s silent porn epidemic is not just about technology or morality; it’s about a society still too afraid to talk openly about what everyone secretly knows exists.
Until that conversation begins, the silence will continue to feed the addiction.
John Maina Githinji is a Socio-Economic and Political Analyst
