
When 24-year-old Caroline’s TikTok video in a sleek white jumpsuit went viral, her followers were stunned by her visibly slimmer face and snatched midsection, her confidence radiating.
Her bold caption: “30 kilos down. No gym. No greens. Just science. #ozempic” sparked immediate demand. “You’re glowing!” “Need your plug!” “Is this the jab?” Dozens of women flooded her inbox, eager for her secret.
Caroline had joined a growing number of Kenyan women using Ozempic, an injectable diabetes drug now popular for weight loss and she was open about it. “I just wanted the weight off. I was tired of being a joke,” she said.
Ozempic contains semaglutide, mimicking the GLP-1 hormone that controls appetite and blood sugar. Weekly injections suppress hunger, creating a feeling of fullness.
Globally, Ozempic and similar drugs like Wegovy and Mounjaro have gained attention, especially with celebrity endorsements. In Kenya, urban women seeking noticeable results without intense exercise are rapidly embracing this trend.
Upscale Nairobi clinics now discreetly offer monthly packages, some costing up to Sh60,000, including consultations, tests and weekly semaglutide injections. Some pharmacies even provide the drug without requiring a diabetes diagnosis.
For Caroline, who had long struggled with her weight, Ozempic was transformative. “I had tried everything: diets, detox teas, skipping meals and rigorous exercise, always ending in bingeing. This jab gave me unexpected peace with food.”
She began her treatment at a private wellness clinic and her cravings drastically reduced within two months. “I’d eat just half a plate. It felt like magic.”
- One home, two worlds: Raising children with different fathers
- Does your child dislike you?
- Giving your children the sex talk
- Can you be friends with your children and still guide them?
Keep Reading
Five months later, having lost over 30 kilograms, Caroline saw a shift. Fashion brands that once ignored her now sought collaborations. Comments changed from insults to compliments. This validation was also unsettling.
“There’s pressure now,” she admitted. “People expect me to stay this way. Gaining back even two kilograms would feel like failure.”
The dangers
Dr Edward Kinuthia, a clinical officer in Kisumu, acknowledges Ozempic’s popularity for weight loss but warns, “It alters appetite regulation, causing people to eat less naturally. It was never intended for casual slimming.”
Side effects can include nausea, dizziness, fatigue and gastrointestinal issues. Long-term use may also lead to muscle loss without proper diet and exercise.
“We’re seeing purely aesthetic use,” Dr Kinuthia notes. “When they stop, appetite and, often, weight return.”
Dr Nassim Nkatha, a psychologist specialising in body image, sees this interest in weight-loss injections as part of a larger psychological pattern.
“We’re seeing more body dysmorphia, where women fixate on perceived flaws, often minor, impacting their self-esteem,” she explains. “Social media amplifies these insecurities, constantly comparing oneself to curated, unrealistic bodies.”
Dr Nkatha points out that online bullying, fat shaming and unattainable beauty ideals, often Westernised, fuel this. “The online ideal is often filtered, photoshopped and not designed for the African woman,” she says.
She cautions about the real consequences: “Girls as young as ten are bullied about weight. Women are bleaching their skin, getting cosmetic surgeries, starving themselves and even altering their genitals. Constant negativity leads to self-belief.”
While acknowledging that appearance-enhancing procedures can sometimes boost self-esteem, Dr Nkatha stresses, “Healing is internal. You can inject weight off, but if self-perception isn’t healed, insecurity remains.”
Unregulated procedures carry significant physical risks, including cardiac problems, infections, hormonal imbalances and even death.
“Intention is key,” Dr Nkatha states. “Are you doing it for yourself or external validation? No injection can heal that kind of hunger.”
While Ozempic has boosted confidence for women like Caroline, it highlights uncomfortable truths about Kenya’s beauty culture.
Social media is saturated with fitness journeys and before-and-afters, intensifying pressure to conform to a slimmer ideal, especially for public figures.
“I’m not ashamed,” Caroline says. “But I wonder if people like me, or just the thinner version? Am I just another influencer pushing unrealistic standards?”
This latest craze reveals not just a change in weight management for Kenyan women, but a deep yearning to feel seen, wanted and worthy. As Caroline says, “I don’t regret it. But I wish someone had told me that shrinking doesn’t always mean healing.”