Nigerian prostitution: an institutionalized form of violence driven by young women’s pursuit of economic freedom, at the intersection of sexual exploitation, migratory abuse, and systemic oppression

Oloturé reveals the burning fate of young women whose quest for economic emancipation leads them into the entrapment of a precarious social system, where violence is institutionalized through sexual exploitation and trafficking

Oloturé portrays the fiery fate of young women whose pursuit of economic freedom often leads them into the trap of a precarious social system marked by institutionalized violence in various forms, such as sexual exploitation and trafficking.

Oloturé is a young Nigerian journalist working undercover for The Scoop, determined to expose a cross-border sex trafficking network. To trace the operation, she poses as a sex worker on the streets of Lagos. She quickly becomes part of the daily life of young women exploited under abominable conditions, housed in squalid squats under the control of pimps. She forms a bond with Linda, another prostitute who dreams of leaving Nigeria for Europe seen as a promised land. Linda aspires to a better life for herself and her family and plans to bring her younger sister from the village to join her on this perilous journey. But what is presented as a stepping stone to freedom turns into a nightmare. Linda is violently killed after being caught with a phone, violating the network’s strict rules.

Behind this tragic story lies a much broader reality. The film highlights the social institutionalization of violence through a structured, organized, and profitable system. In this system, women’s bodies become currency, products, commercial capital enriching pimps, mafias, and even complicit institutions. Women are dehumanized: no longer seen as individuals, but as sources of profit. Their pursuit of money often the only way out of systemic poverty makes them vulnerable and manipulable. Every aspect of their daily life is monetized: food, housing, clothing… everything is charged, everything becomes debt, everything becomes pressure.

What is striking in this system is that femininity itself is weaponized. It no longer represents well-being, inner strength, or a space for self-construction, but becomes a tool for sexual appeal, calibrated to please, seduce, and sell. In this context, displaying femininity doesn’t mean self-love or celebration, but optimizing one’s body as a commercial product to meet constant demand clients willing to pay more for younger, more « docile, » more « exotic » bodies. This logic reinforces a vicious cycle: femininity becomes transactional. It no longer serves the woman herself but a patriarchal and capitalist system that exploits her body for profit. This is the paradox of these women who, in seeking emancipation, find themselves trapped in a new form of slavery.

This violence doesn’t operate on the fringes of society; it is socially normalized. It is known, tolerated, sometimes even justified. Society as a whole participates consciously or not in this acceptance. People look away, convincing themselves that « it’s the price to pay » to escape poverty, to succeed. This form of prostitution, generating billions annually worldwide, is not just a news item; it’s a structural, political phenomenon deeply rooted in global economic dynamics. It shows that modern slavery indeed exists it has merely changed its face.

The fundamental question then becomes: how can we awaken a femininity that is no longer transactional? How can women reconnect with their bodies, not as tools for survival or performance, but as spaces of grounding, freedom, and joy? And if the greatest strength of women lies in their femininity? Yes, but how can one believe in one’s own value when every act of self-love has been conditioned by oppression or commodification? How can one rebuild when everything in society tells you that your body doesn’t truly belong to you, that it must first serve someone else?

Rethinking femininity means claiming an identity freed from commercial injunctions; it means refusing to yield our power to those who would only profit from it. Nigerian prostitution is not a free choice: it’s a silent cry against a society that makes survival a luxury and women’s bodies a commodity.

Linda’s tragic journey in Oloturé is not mere fiction but a brutal reflection of a globalized system that instrumentalizes women’s bodies under the guise of economic freedom. This illusion of choice, fueled by poverty and hope, reveals a society where femininity is constantly distorted to serve the interests of a masculinized power: a useful, docile, consumable femininity. In the face of this, rethinking femininity becomes a political act. Not a femininity for sale, but a femininity to inhabit. A femininity that doesn’t seek to please the dominant gaze but to reconnect with the body as a space of dignity, gentleness, and strength. It’s not about fleeing femininity because it has been sullied, but about revaluing it as a personal power capable of cracking systems of domination.

Revaluing this femininity opens up a feminist field of action too often ignored: one that affirms that tenderness, care, inner beauty, or intuition are not weaknesses but forms of resistance. It also asserts that women’s liberation will not solely come through tools forged in virile logics but also through a radical redefinition of what it means to be a woman, beyond the commercial gaze, beyond the chains of performance. And if, at the heart of horror, humiliation, and exploitation, the true revolution begins by awakening a femininity finally returned to itself? What if the power you hold lives in your femininity?