On May 15, 2026, remarks laced with sexism and misogyny echoed through the chambers of the Democratic Republic of Congo’s national assembly, capturing the nation’s attention. A widely circulated video showed Micheline Mpundu, a national deputy, concluding her formal motion before stepping down from the podium. As she departed, Christophe Mboso, the second vice president—who was presiding over the session—publicly commented on her appearance, stating from his dais: “Thank you, colleague, she is very beautiful… isn’t she?”

He continued in Lingala, urging others to “look at her for yourselves,” laughing as he gestured with his hands to mimic the contours of her body, adding, “God made her this way” and “these are another man’s goods.” The chamber erupted in laughter and applause, and the session proceeded as though nothing untoward had occurred.

It was only after public outrage from political leaders, civil society figures, and human rights activists—along with internal pressure from his own hierarchy—that Mboso issued a belated apology several days later. No disciplinary action was ever taken.

This incident forces a critical question into the spotlight: when will African parliaments, particularly in the Democratic Republic of Congo, cease to be hostile environments for the very women they are meant to represent?

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Through my doctoral research in political science, I examine the dynamics of masculinity within the DRC’s legislative bodies. Rather than dismissing this video as an isolated incident, I view it as a symptom of a deeper structural issue. The disparity between the commitments enshrined in DRC’s laws and the lived experiences of female legislators cannot be ignored.

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a persistent pattern across african parliaments

Sexist behavior in legislative chambers is not unique to the DRC. Long before Mboso’s remarks circulated in Kinshasa, documented cases of misogyny within African parliaments have repeatedly surfaced. These incidents underscore a systemic barrier that continues to hinder women’s full political participation at every level of decision-making.

The 1990s brought a surge in women’s representation, fueled by democratization movements across Africa. Between 1990 and 2010, the number of female lawmakers tripled across the continent. Initially, many believed this influx would transform institutional culture. That hope proved short-lived. Instead, the presence of women was often perceived as a challenge to entrenched patriarchal norms. Resistance frequently came from male colleagues, whether from opposing parties or within the same political bloc. Some openly argued that politics was a male domain, where women had no legitimate place.

Global data from the Inter-Parliamentary Union—which includes 39 countries across five continents—reveals that over 65.5% of female parliamentarians report experiencing repeated verbal abuse and insults during their terms. These statistics are not merely concerning; they reveal an unspoken reality within legislative halls. The abuse often originates from male peers, and the scrutiny faced by women extends beyond their political work. Instead of being judged on their legislative contributions, female lawmakers are frequently assessed on their appearance, marital status, or conformity to traditional gender roles.

Sexism does not merely linger at the threshold of parliament—it enters with the legislators themselves. A 2021 joint study by the IPU and the African Parliamentary Union confirmed that this culture persists, with minimal progress toward meaningful political inclusion for women.

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The applause in Mboso’s video was no accident. It reveals that the issue is not Mboso alone—it is the system that normalizes and rewards such behavior. Philosopher Kate Manne describes this as a mechanism of control that reinforces women’s subordination, even in democratic institutions. This control is not always physical. Words, gestures, and laughter—what scholar Mona Lena Krook terms semiotic violence—are enough to remind female legislators that, in the eyes of some colleagues, they remain bodies first, lawmakers second. Mboso’s gesture, raising his hands to mimic Mpundu’s form, is a stark illustration of this mindset.

The concept of gender coloniality, developed by feminist theorist María Lugones, helps explain this entrenched hierarchy as a colonial inheritance. Despite women and men being elected under the same constitutional frameworks and casting ballots in the same elections, female parliamentarians are still subjected to patriarchal control that reduces them to roles far removed from their legislative duties. They may have equal rights on paper, but not in practice.

regional echoes of systemic sexism

Mboso’s video calls to mind other African cases. In 2022, Senegalese deputy Amy Ndiaye—who was visibly pregnant—was physically assaulted on the floor of the National Assembly, receiving a kick to her stomach in full view of cameras. In 2025, Nigerian senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduagha was suspended not for professional misconduct, but for publicly naming the sexual harassment she endured from the Senate president. These incidents are not isolated. They reflect a broader pattern: African parliaments may tolerate women’s voices, but they have yet to fully respect their dignity.

the Congo’s long history of parliamentary misogyny

On April 30, 2020, Thambwe Mwamba, then-president of the DRC Senate, publicly shamed a female senator during a plenary session—a moment broadcast on national television. He revealed private meetings between them, claiming Senator Bijoux Ngoya had approached him seeking support for her bid to become the Senate’s questeur. He subtly accused her of offering sexual favors, sparking chaos and outrage among lawmakers.

On July 15, 2021, during a constitutional debate, Deputy Christelle Vuanga dismantled a male colleague’s arguments when Nsingi Pululu interrupted her with a single phrase in Lingala: “You are a woman.” The remark was a deliberate attempt to undermine her credibility simply because of her gender.

The Mboso incident is neither surprising nor isolated. The DRC has ratified international conventions, enacted laws, and signed commitments to gender equality—yet within its parliamentary chambers, little has changed. The gap between legal frameworks and lived reality is well-documented. What is new is the growing refusal to ignore it.

the cost of silence and the path forward

French feminist Simone de Beauvoir wrote in 1949 that women have long been defined as “the other.” In 2026, this Otherness persists in the DRC Parliament. Female deputies continue to be reduced to their bodies rather than recognized for their political contributions. These incidents reveal that patriarchal systems are eroding democracy from within.

As long as sexist behavior goes unpunished—evidenced by the unchecked applause in Mboso’s video—parliament will remain a misogynistic space. Women make up just 13% of the 477-seat assembly, despite comprising 51% of the population. Underrepresentation does not excuse the tolerance of such behavior.

Other parliaments have taken steps to change the culture. Campaigns like #NotTheCost (National Democratic Institute) and #NotInMyParliament (European Parliament) demonstrate that cultural transformation is possible through concrete sanctions and victim protection. The DRC has strong laws—such as the 2025 Senate bill addressing violence against women—but a law without enforcement is merely symbolic. Silence is no longer an option. Failing to sanction Mboso sends a clear message to Congolese women considering political careers.