On May 15, 2026, the Democratic Republic of Congo’s political landscape was shaken by deeply sexist and misogynistic remarks made from the National Assembly’s rostrum. A widely circulated video captured Deputy Micheline Mpundu concluding her informational motion before leaving the podium. Shockingly, the second vice-president, Christophe Mboso, who was presiding over the plenary session, publicly commented on her physical appearance and beauty from his tribune, stating: “Thank you, colleague, she is very beautiful… indeed.”
He then continued in Lingala: “Look at her yourselves,” laughing heartily and miming the deputy’s body shape with his hands, adding: “God created her,” and “these are another’s possessions.” The remarks were met with visible laughter and applause from within the assembly hall, and the session proceeded as if nothing untoward had occurred.
It was only after significant outrage from various political figures, social actors, and human rights activists, coupled with internal pressure from his hierarchy, that Deputy Mboso eventually offered an apology several days later. Notably, no sanctions were imposed following the incident.
This recent instance of sexism and verbal aggression compels a critical re-examination: when will African parliaments, particularly those in the Democratic Republic of Congo, cease to be hostile environments for the very women they are meant to represent?
An in-depth analysis of masculinities within Congolese legislative bodies, viewed through a comparative African lens, reveals this video is not an isolated misstep but rather indicative of a structural problem. It highlights the stark disparity between the commitments made by Democratic Republic of Congo authorities on paper and the daily realities faced by elected women.
A comparative analysis: a phenomenon not exclusive to the DRC
Parliamentary violence is a widespread form of aggression experienced by women in politics, both in the Democratic Republic of Congo and globally. Prior to the video involving Deputy Mboso circulating in Kinshasa, numerous other instances of sexism had already been documented. These occurrences underscore the severe nature of a phenomenon that impedes the full political participation of women at all levels of decision-making.
Female political involvement saw a significant increase in the early 1990s, with waves of democratization sparking genuine hope and propelling an unprecedented number of women into African legislative chambers. The count of female legislators tripled between 1990 and 2010. For a long time, there was a persistent illusion that simply gaining access to elected office would transform institutional culture. This illusion quickly shattered, as this increased presence, paradoxically, was perceived as a direct challenge to the established system.
Consequently, it encountered profound structural resistance, often originating from male colleagues, regardless of whether they belonged to the opposition or the same political party. Some openly assert that politics is a male domain, where women are unwelcome or simply do not belong.
The Inter-Parliamentary Union, a global organization of national parliamentarians founded in 1889, has rigorously documented this issue. Its 2016 global survey, involving female parliamentarians from 39 countries across five continents, revealed that over 65.5% of elected women reported experiencing repeated verbal assaults and insults during their tenure. These statistics are alarming and shed considerable light on parliamentary realities.
A significant portion of this violence emanates from male colleagues. The study also remarkably highlights society’s particular perception of elected women. Their political achievements are rarely scrutinized; instead, their very right to be present is questioned and debated in the media. They are evaluated not on their political contributions but on their appearance, marital status, or adherence to traditional roles as educators or mothers.
Sexism, unfortunately, does not halt at the doors of Parliament. It enters with elected officials, becomes entrenched, and at times, is openly displayed from the rostrum itself, as recently witnessed in the Democratic Republic of Congo. A regional study conducted jointly by the Inter-Parliamentary Union and the African Parliamentary Union in November 2021 on African parliaments confirmed the persistence of this reality, noting insufficient progress in the effective political participation of women.
The applause heard in the video is far from innocuous. It reveals that the problem extends beyond Mr. Mboso; it is the system itself that generates and condones such behaviors. Australian philosopher Kate Manne analyzes this as a control mechanism designed to maintain women in subordinate positions, even within supposedly democratic institutions. This control doesn’t always manifest as physical violence. Gestures, words, and laughter from the rostrum – what Mona Lena Krook, an expert on violence against women in politics, terms ‘semiotic violence’ – are sufficient to remind elected women that, in the eyes of some colleagues, they remain bodies first and legislators second. This reality was strikingly illustrated by Mboso raising his hands to mimic his colleague Deputy Mpundu’s physique.
The concept of the coloniality of gender, developed by feminist María Lugones, explains this naturalization of gender hierarchy as a colonial legacy. It helps illuminate the contradiction where female parliamentarians are elected by the same voters, through the same ballots, under the same constitutional texts as their male counterparts. Yet, they remain subjected to patriarchal control systems that reduce them, even from the highest office, to something other than legislators. They possess equal rights on paper, but experience inequality within the legislative chamber.
African case studies
Upon viewing the Mboso video, many undoubtedly recalled similar incidents in other African nations, such as Senegal. In 2022, during a plenary session, a pregnant Deputy Amy Ndiaye was slapped and kicked in the stomach before cameras. In 2025, Nigerian Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduagha faced suspension, not for professional misconduct, but for daring to expose the sexual harassment she endured from the Senate President.
It is no mere coincidence that Ndiaye, Akpoti-Uduagha, and Mpundu – three women from three distinct countries – experienced such acts of violence. These events unequivocally demonstrate that while African parliaments may tolerate the voices of women, their dignity is far from fully respected.
Congolese incidents
On April 30, 2020, Thambwe Mwamba, the former President of the Congolese Senate, publicly disparaged a woman during a plenary session, a scene broadcast on national television. He disclosed details of their secret meetings, alleging that Senator Bijoux Ngoya had approached him to solicit support for her candidacy for the position of questor in the Senate Bureau. He subtly implied she had made advances towards him. The plenary session descended into chaos, marked by the indignation of several elected officials.
Then, on July 15, 2021, as Deputy Christelle Vuanga effectively dismantled a colleague’s arguments during a constitutional debate, Nsingi Pululu interrupted her with the sole Lingala phrase: “You are a woman.” This was a blatant attempt to diminish her capacity to speak publicly on a sensitive issue simply because of her gender.
The Mboso affair, therefore, comes as no surprise. The Democratic Republic of Congo has ratified international conventions, enacted laws, and signed commitments, yet within its legislative chamber, little has fundamentally changed. The disparity between legal texts and practical implementation is not new and has been well-documented. What is new is the continued pretense of ignoring it.
Ongoing reflection
French feminist activist Simone de Beauvoir wrote in 1949 that women were defined as “the other.” In 2026, this ‘otherness’ persists within the Congolese Parliament: elected female deputies continue to be reduced to their physical bodies rather than their political discourse.
These incidents signal that the patriarchal system erodes democracy from within. As long as sexist behaviors remain unpunished, as demonstrated by the applause in the video and the absence of any sanction against Mr. Mboso, the Congolese Parliament will remain a misogynistic environment. This is despite being tasked with representing the women who sit there – currently 65 out of 477 deputies, barely 13% of the assembly, in a country where women constitute nearly 51% of the population. Their underrepresentation in no way justifies tolerating such conduct.
Other parliaments have explored solutions, such as the #NotTheCost (NDI) and #NotInMyParliament (European Parliament) campaigns, which prove that cultural change is achievable through concrete sanctions and victim protection. The Democratic Republic of Congo possesses commendable laws; the bill on violence against women, examined by the Senate in October 2025, serves as an example. However, a law without implementation remains merely an aspiration. Silence is no longer an option. The failure to sanction Mr. Mboso sends a clear and discouraging signal to all Congolese women contemplating a political career.
