IShowSpeed’s Zimbabwe visit: Stop measuring women by male attention

When IShowSpeed came to Zimbabwe, the internet erupted, but not for the livestream itself. Instead, it erupted over which women he did or did not notice.

Shashl, Yahya Goodvibes, Lyshanda Moyas – they suddenly became the subject of memes, jokes, and a brutal lesson in conditional visibility. A global spotlight became a local morality test, and the joke was on the women who dared to be seen.

The online backlash revealed more about social anxieties than about Speed’s chaotic livestream. The posts mocking the influencers contrasted them with a so-called “random girl elsewhere”, turning a fleeting moment into a morality play.

It suggested that women’s worth, visibility, and legitimacy in public life could be measured by male attention. This is not analysis. It is social discipline. It polices ambition by tethering it to external validation and punishes those who fail to receive it.

The structure of the jokes is telling. If Speed did not compliment or acknowledge you, your beauty, relevance, or status was rendered fraudulent. If he complimented someone else, that person was crowned authentic.

What makes this logic particularly hollow is the misunderstanding of the medium itself. IShowSpeed is not a judge in a pageant. He is a chaotic livestreamer whose brand thrives on impulse, randomness, and spectacle.

Attention in that space is not earned through merit, effort, or presence. It is accidental. To retroactively assign meaning to who he did or did not notice is to mistake noise for judgement. Yet that mistake becomes convenient when the goal is to humble women who dared to occupy space confidently.

The women named in these posts are not anonymous bystanders. Shashl, Yahya Goodvibes and Lyshanda Moyas are public-facing figures who have built followings through fashion, music, lifestyle, and online personality. Their visibility is precisely what invites projection.

In a country where opportunity is scarce and recognition uneven, influencers become symbolic lightning rods. They represent aspiration without permission. When a global spotlight passes through and does not affirm them, the backlash rushes in to reassert local control.

The gendered asymmetry is impossible to ignore. Male influencers and male hangers-on at the same event were not subjected to body-based ridicule or worth tests. No-one asked whether they were complimented. No-one used their lack of attention as proof of fraudulence.

The ridicule landed almost exclusively on women who present themselves confidently and stylishly. Humour became a mask for misogyny, allowing the trolls to claim it was just a joke while the target absorbed the humiliation.

The respectability trap is doing heavy work here. It suggests that women must be chosen publicly by a powerful man to justify their presence in elite or global spaces. Fail that test, and you are exposed. Pass it, and you are validated. This is old logic dressed in viral language.

It reduces women to contestants in a game they did not design and judges them by rules that change with the mood of the crowd. It assumes women’s agency is conditional. Their confidence, effort, and influence are irrelevant unless ratified by external attention, preferably male.

Class undertones are equally evident. Influencers are often accused of being superficial, of benefiting from aesthetics rather than labour. When a post mocks them for not being noticed, it reassures the audience that social mobility through visibility is fragile and revocable.

No matter how polished these women appear, they can be cut down with a single viral comparison. That reassurance may comfort some, but it is corrosive to a culture that claims to value confidence and creativity.

Worse still, this attitude reduces a potentially meaningful event into spectacle devoid of insight. Speed’s visit could have sparked conversations about how Zimbabwe is viewed globally, how digital fame intersects with tourism, and how young people navigate attention economies.

In fact, IShowSpeed’s Zimbabwean livestream attracted more than 2.8 million views on YouTube in just 24 hours. With over 47 million subscribers on the platform alone, his audience extends far beyond a single channel, reaching viewers across multiple social media platforms in real time.

This moment underscores the power of the digital economy: attention can be built globally, monetised instantly, and sustained across platforms through content, personality, and engagement.

It also raises an important question: what lessons does this offer about leveraging the internet, building audiences, and turning digital influence into income? For Zimbabwe and the continent, it is a reminder that digital attention can amplify local voices far beyond national borders, offering opportunities for creators, businesses, and even tourism in ways that traditional media cannot replicate.

Yet the same digital attention can also become a tool for policing visibility, particularly for women.

Ironically, the very act of mocking confirms the influence of the women being targeted. If Shashl, Yahya and Lyshanda were irrelevant, they would not need to be disciplined. The moment reveals an unease with women who occupy space without apology.

It seeks to remind them that confidence is conditional, that it can be withdrawn by a man with a camera or a crowd with a caption. Visibility is treated as a privilege, not a right, and women are warned that it must be managed according to external approval.

The cultural implication is deeper than one viral post. Social media humour has become a tool for policing behaviour, especially for women in public spaces. It enforces norms silently, invisibly, through ridicule rather than dialogue.

Viral posts act like modern-day moral arbiters. The laughter they provoke is never innocent. It is a lesson in who can occupy space, who can aspire, and who can be punished for trying.

In Zimbabwe, where public spaces are already fraught with social hierarchy, digital policing replicates and amplifies existing inequalities.

Young women striving to build brands and communities online are navigating a minefield: every move is subject to evaluation, every visibility a potential flashpoint. Influence is both empowering and dangerous, depending on who decides to comment, tag, or meme.

At the end of the day, this was never about IShowSpeed. It was about control, hierarchy, and conditional visibility. It was about who gets to be seen, who gets to aspire, and who is punished for daring to occupy space confidently.

When online humour becomes a tool for enforcing old hierarchies, it is worth asking not only who benefits from the laughter but who is being taught a lesson at the expense of visibility, ambition, and agency.

The challenge for Zimbabwean society, and for online spaces everywhere, is to recognise and reject this pattern. Women like Shashl, Yahya and Lyshanda have earned the right to exist publicly without conditional approval.

Their visibility should be celebrated, not weaponised. Until we do that, every livestream, every event, and every viral moment will be a battleground for social policing disguised as humour.

Gabriel Manyati is a Zimbabwean journalist and analyst delivering incisive commentary on politics, human interest stories, and current affairs.