The Compass Always Points North

 “Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman.” – Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns

Happy Valentine’s.

Or is it “post” Valentine’s? 

It’s the month of love. Red hearts. Yet here we are once again having to drag accountability into a room that keeps saying, “We’re not ready for this conversation.”

When will we ever be ready if nobody starts it?

So let’s start.

Over the weekend, social media in Kenya erupted over a saga involving a Russian man who allegedly leaked intimate videos of Kenyan women. You’ve seen it. You’ve read the threads. You’ve seen the screenshots, the hot takes, the moral lectures.

And as usual predictable as sunrise, who carried the heaviest blame?

The women. Don’t act surprised. You knew it before I even typed it.

They were called cheap. Promiscuous. Gold diggers. “These Kenyan women.” Every insult imaginable was thrown at them. Mostly by men. Some disguised their contempt in think pieces about morality. Others masked it as concern about femicide. One even built an entire argument that sounded progressive on the surface, only to circle back to the same tired conclusion: Why would you put yourself in that position?

There it is.

Like a compass that points north, the accusing finger finds a woman.

One of my favorite books, A Thousand Splendid Suns, which I highly recommend, captures a truth so harsh it stings because it’s undeniable. I will borrow some lines that are hard to accept but reflect what we often ignore: “A man’s heart is a wretched, wretched thing, Mariam. It is not like a mother’s womb. It won’t stretch and bleed to make room for you.”

Think about that for a moment. That is not just a story; it is a mirror of our society. How many times are women asked to bend, to forgive, to swallow their pain quietly while the men who hurt them walk away unscathed? Endure the shame. Endure the whispers. Endure the comments. Endure the violation. Endure the lectures about how you should have known better. Endure being told your body, your choices, and your voice are problems to be managed.

And yet, those same men rarely feel the weight of accountability. Their hearts, in this system, rarely stretch to absorb the damage they inflict. They rarely pause to feel the fear, the humiliation, the erosion of trust, or the anxiety that follows women home at night. They rarely consider how their actions ripple through lives, leaving scars that aren’t visible but are permanent. They rarely weigh the cost of stolen dignity, of privacy violated, of consent ignored. And when confronted, the world bends over backward to excuse them, while the women are left to carry the broken pieces, silently or in public shame. Their hearts do not stretch. They do not bleed. They do not even notice.

Now let me be clear: yes, we live in a dangerous society. Yes, women have to take precautions. Yes, we must be aware of risks because too many men still do not understand words like consent and no. But when caution becomes the only language we speak to women while silence shields men, something is deeply broken.

And as if that weren’t enough, the world will find a way of shaming you no matter what you do as a woman. You are shamed for everything. Every choice, every accomplishment, every failure is judged, dissected, weaponized. No matter how careful or moral you are, society always finds a way to make it your fault.

And so, the burden of endurance falls on women, endlessly. It is relentless. It is exhausting. And it is unjust.

These women consented to sex.

They did NOT  consent to being recorded.
They did NOT consent to having their privacy violated.
They did NOT  consent to being exposed to the internet.

Read that again.

Consent to intimacy is not consent to exploitation.

But somehow, in the court of public opinion, that nuance disappears. Instead, the narrative becomes: Why were you there? Why were you with him? Why were you naked? Why didn’t you know better?

As if women’s bodies are public property the moment they choose pleasure. And this is where the hypocrisy screams. If roles were reversed, if a Kenyan man had been recorded by a foreign woman, do we honestly believe the conversation would look the same? Or would we see praise? Jokes about “skills.” Applause for “bagging a white lady.” Quiet admiration disguised as banter?

We know the answer.

This saga didn’t just expose individuals. It exposed the society we live in. A society deeply shaped by patriarchy. And let’s be honest: patriarchy does not only harm women. It harms men, too. It teaches men that entitlement is natural. That desire must be acted on. That boundaries are negotiable.

The compass points north.

The victims in those leaked videos have received more backlash than the man who violated their trust. They have been blamed for not being cautious enough. Accused of being desperate in a country struggling economically. Shamed for being sexual, as if sexuality belongs exclusively to men.

You would think by now we would have made peace with being blamed every single time. It’s still a stab. Because beneath the tweets and the think pieces are real women. With families. With futures. With dignity.

We cannot keep saying, “We’re not ready for this conversation.”

Because this is the conversation.

The conversation about how quickly society forgives male violence but never forgives female sexuality. The conversation about how we preach about femicide but still ask women what they were wearing. The conversation about how we demand women protect themselves from men instead of demanding that men control themselves.

Love cannot exist in a culture that excuses harm. And maybe that’s the irony of Valentine’s this year.

We flood timelines with “love wins” while women’s privacy is weaponized for entertainment. We post roses while accountability withers. So here’s the uncomfortable truth: until we stop treating women’s autonomy as recklessness and men’s misconduct as inevitability, this will keep happening.

The compass will keep pointing north.

And the accusing finger will keep finding a woman.

The question is not whether we are ready for this conversation.

The question is: how many more women have to bleed online and offline before we finally decide to have it?