Some partygoers are choosing to abandon the city clubs altogether in search of more private spaces.
Picture this: you walk into your favourite club on a Friday evening, hoping to unwind after a long week. The music is fine, the drinks are cold, and everything feels easy, but just as you settle in, a sign on the wall catches your eye, a disclaimer saying, “by entering the premises, you consent to having your photos taken and shared on the club’s social media pages.”
At first, it might not seem like a big deal, and even if you do, you might be drunk. Come Monday morning, while you’re in a meeting with your boss or a client, photos of you dancing sensually or dressed skimpily surface online, doing rounds on Instagram or X.
In recent years, several Nairobi pubs have adopted this “social media visibility” strategy to market themselves, turning unsuspecting revellers into content. But as complaints rise, and even lawsuits emerge, some partygoers are choosing to abandon the city clubs altogether in search of more private spaces.
For Sheilah Muthoni, 33, clubbing used to be her way of winding down. Friday night outs with her female friends along Ngong Road were the perfect way to unwind. She loved the music.
But with time, she says, the photos feel like a breach of privacy.
“When I first started going out, the photographers weren’t such a big deal,” Sheilah says. “They’d take photos here and there, but they always asked first, or at least made eye contact. Nowadays, they just snap away. You can be in the middle of a conversation, and someone’s flash goes off. It’s intrusive.”
One night, she spotted herself on a club’s Instagram page, a picture she never knew was taken.
“It was a random photo, nothing wild,” she says. “I was just sitting at the bar talking to a friend. But I didn’t like that it was posted without my consent. So I DMd the page and asked them to take it down. They did, which I appreciated, but there’s another photo from like three years ago that’s still up. I’ve reported it a few times, but it’s just there. It’s frustrating because it reminds you that once something’s online, it’s not really yours anymore.”
On whether the clubs have consent to just post someone’s image, the Office of the Data Protection Commissioner (ODPC) notes that “consent by the data subject must be based on an understanding of the processing activities and its implications on the rights of the data subject.”
Sheillah says taking photos in clubs has changed how she views partying.
“It made me feel exposed,” she says. “I’m a pretty private person. I don’t like the idea of strangers scrolling through photos of me or judging how I look, what I’m wearing, or what I’m drinking. You might not think it’s a big deal, but in Nairobi, people talk. Someone screenshots, shares it in a group, and suddenly you’re being discussed by people you don’t even know.”
Some partygoers are choosing to abandon the city clubs altogether in search of more private spaces.
After that, Sheillah quietly stopped going out.
“Now I just buy my drinks and chill at home,” she says. “I light a candle, pour a glass, and play my own music. Sometimes a friend comes over, sometimes I just relax alone. It’s peaceful, and I’m not worried about ending up in the background of someone’s photo.”
She admits she sometimes misses the buzz of nightclubs.
“But I’d rather have peace than pictures,” she says. “People underestimate how uncomfortable it can be when your face ends up somewhere you didn’t approve. I’m not against photography; I just think clubs should respect people’s boundaries.”
Will she ever go back?
“Maybe one day,” she says. “But only if the cameras take a break too.”
But there is also the question of whether these photos actually help the clubs market themselves, or whether they simply expose the revellers, especially women, to cyberbullying and objectification.
A recent post by a popular Nairobi club ignited nasty comments online. In the photo, a woman in a blue, revealing dress poses for a photo. One person commented, “Maybe the club should open a gym next door.” Another quipped, “Is this Koinange Street? That dress says it all.” And then came the cruelest jab, “Tumbo inatoshana kama mbogi yangu,” a streetwise way of saying her belly is as big as his crew.
Nightlife marketing has become a familiar theatre of misogyny, where the female body becomes a public spectacle; mocked, and moralised.
Innocent photos misinterpreted
Jennie, who preferred we use one name, is a C-suite executive. The 29-year-old says that after work, nightlife was once a familiar rhythm.
“My clubbing routine started when I joined university,” she says. “I used to go out almost every weekend, from Friday all the way to Sunday sometimes. At one point, I even worked as a waitress in a club, so I got used to that whole nightlife vibe.” When she joined the corporate space, club photography began to bother her. “The photographers are everywhere,” she says. “I understand that they do it for their social media pages to attract more customers. But it’s also unfair, especially to women. Most of the time, they don’t ask before taking your photo. Then you wake up the next day and your face is on their Instagram or Facebook.” Seeing her photos online without consent left Jennie uneasy.
“Social media never forgets,” she says. “And when you go to a club, you don’t wear like you’re going to church. You’re dressed to have fun. But now someone takes your photo without asking and uses it for PR, to promote their club, and you’re not even paid. Basically, they’re selling your face to the public for free.”
She explains that in today’s world, even innocent pictures can be misinterpreted.
“You could be drinking soda or juice, but because it’s in a club setting, people assume,” she says. “And imagine if you’re applying for a job somewhere and they start Googling you or checking your online presence, those photos can come up. It can ruin your reputation or make people question your character for no reason.”
Jennie also points out that in the heat of nightlife, people don’t always have full control of how they appear.
Customers dance as South African amapiano dancer and singer Kamo Mphela (unseen), Amapiano Artist of 2021, performs at a nightclub in Johannesburg, on February 26, 2022.
“Sometimes when people are under the influence, they might act out of character. Maybe dancing too hard or just being silly. Then someone captures that moment, and before you know it, you’re on TikTok or Instagram. Everyone has a camera now, and once it’s online, it’s out of your hands.”
Her discomfort came to a head one night on her birthday, when she discovered her pictures on a club’s page.
“It was my birthday, and I’d gone out with friends to celebrate. The next day, I was just scrolling, and boom, my photos were on their page,” she recalls.
“I hadn’t even realised someone took them. I felt so violated. So I DMed the club photographer directly and told him to pull them down because I hadn’t given permission. He did, thankfully. But still, the fact that it happened without my consent really annoyed me.”
She sighs, reflecting on how easily moments of joy can be turned into public content.
“These photographers don’t understand that they’re playing with people’s lives and reputations,” she says. “We’re not paid models. If they want content, they should focus on their promoters, their hosts, people who are actually hired for PR. Not random revellers just out to relax.”
Jennie believes that clubs should introduce stricter rules about photography.
Lawyer’s take
Catherine Kamau, a partner and head of data privacy, tech and corporate governance at Ashitiva Advocates LLP, says many clubs hide behind blanket disclaimers to avoid responsibility, but in the eyes of the law, that is not enough.
“Of course it’s valid, but it’s general in the sense that it’s not adequate,” she says. “When you just put a general disclaimer at the entrance saying that by entering the club, you consent to photos being taken, it doesn’t explain what exactly that consent covers. Are the photos being used for personal use, for commercial promotion, or for advertising? How are they being stored, who has access, and how long will they remain online?”
She explains that under Kenya’s Data Protection Act, a nightclub qualifies as a data controller and must therefore handle personal data, including photos, in a lawful, transparent way.
“A club should be able to give details as to what the content is for, where it will be used, and provide a way for someone to opt out,” she adds. “That general disclaimer alone is not enough. It’s often a way of avoiding liability.”
Ms Kamau also notes that consent isn’t a one-time thing; it must be continuous.
“Someone who is intoxicated cannot give consent,” she explains. “You might have entered the club sober and agreed to photos being taken, but once you’re intoxicated, your state changes. You may no longer be comfortable with that, yet the photographer can still capture a moment that embarrasses you.”
She points out that such situations have led to real legal consequences.
“There’s a 2023 case — Perpetual Wanjiku vs Casa Vera Lounge — where a woman’s photos were posted on Facebook and Instagram without consent. The Office of the Data Protection Commissioner fined the club Sh1.8 million,” she says.
Several Nairobi pubs have adopted this “social media visibility” strategy to market themselves, turning unsuspecting revellers into content.
“In another case, Musya vs Hornbill Pub, an injunction was issued against the club. Damages in such cases can go up to Sh1.5 or Sh2 million.”
Even taking photos in public doesn’t make it automatically legal, she adds.
“Whether it’s a public or private space, the contents of that photo determine if you’re in breach,” Ms Kamau says. “Posting someone’s photo without their consent, even if taken in town, violates their privacy.”
If a club refuses to pull down an image, the next step is to file a complaint.
“You can go to the ODPC or take civil action in court,” she explains. “Often the ODPC will issue a compliance notice or a fine, while a court can issue an injunction.”
Kenya’s Constitution, under Articles 28 and 31, protects the right to dignity and privacy, she says, while the Data Protection Act goes further by safeguarding personal data.
“Unauthorised publication of photos, especially in club settings, can be embarrassing or undignified,” Kamau says. “That’s why these laws exist, to protect identity and ensure someone’s image isn’t misused.”
She recommends that clubs adopt simple systems to protect patrons’ privacy, like photography-free zones or colour-coded wristbands to show consent levels.
“If you’re wearing a red band, it means no photos; green means you’re okay with it, yellow maybe only in certain contexts,” she explains. “Other clubs abroad even have digital consent forms that patrons fill before entry.”
Still, she believes ethics play just as big a role as law.
“Photographers should avoid chasing viral moments that embarrass people,” she says. “It’s about respecting privacy and dignity, because posing for a photo doesn’t mean you’ve agreed to it being posted.”
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