She wants to sleep with 100 men. Not for love, not for money, but for a Guinness World Record. In a country where young Nigerians are building apps, winning awards, and changing the world, one woman has chosen shock over substance—and the nation is watching, horrified, amused, and strangely fascinated, Adedayo Adejobi writes
When the news broke that a young Nigerian woman, Mandy Kiss, whose real name is Ayomiposi Oluwadahunsi Adefolarin, a Nigerian social media personality, digital influencer, model, skit maker, had vowed to sleep with 100 men in pursuit of a Guinness World Record, the internet gasped, groaned, and then laughed. Memes sprouted overnight, WhatsApp groups lit up with voice notes, and Twitter timelines turned into pulpits. Some were scandalised, others shrugged, but almost everyone had an opinion.
Nigeria is no stranger to spectacle. From jollof rice feuds with Ghana to who wore what at Davido’s wedding, we live for headlines. Yet this particular quest, what some have christened a “bedathon,” struck a raw nerve.
In a country where young men and women are coding apps, winning global science fairs, and storming Afrobeats stages, one woman has chosen a path that evokes the biblical shadows of Sodom and Gomorrah.
But why? What makes someone wake up and decide that their ticket to history is through 100 sets of bedsheets? Is this about fame, sexual appetite, money, or something deeper?
The Guinness World Records have always had their oddballs. The man who ate a plane, the woman with the longest fingernails, the chap who wore 260 T-shirts at once. Bizarre feats are the bread and butter of the brand. Yet, there’s a line between eccentricity and scandal.
“I doubt Guinness will even recognise such a record,” chuckled Dr. Adim Okolo, a clinical psychologist in Lagos. “But that’s not the point. For this young woman, it’s not about Guinness. It’s about being seen. She is screaming to a society that often ignores young women unless they are saints or sinners. She has chosen the latter role because it guarantees attention.”
Okolo’s analysis cuts to the marrow. In an age of TikTok fame and Instagram reels, visibility itself has become currency. A million likes can mean brand endorsements; trending on X (formerly Twitter) can land you an influencer deal. For some, notoriety is no less valuable than fame. As the psychologist noted, “It’s not the record that matters, it’s the virality.”
But can this also be about sexual satisfaction? A whisper of Freudian speculation lingers in the public mind. After all, why choose a feat that requires intimate exposure?
Dr. Ifeoma Danladi, a mental health expert and trauma therapist, is cautious about reducing the act to hedonism.
“We must avoid the trap of assuming this is purely about sexual gratification,” she said. “Often, when people use sex in such dramatic ways, it is less about pleasure and more about power, validation, or rebellion. It can be a response to trauma, to neglect, or to a deep sense of invisibility.”
Her point is sobering. In a country where mental health is still whispered about in hushed tones, such public stunts may well be desperate cries for help dressed in the costume of bravado.
Beyond psychology, there is the matter of culture. Nigeria is a society where tradition, religion, and communal values remain powerful. From Kano to Calabar, moral codes are woven into daily life.
“Sleeping with 100 men as a public project?” scoffed Alhaji Musa Audu, an elder in Kano. “In our day, such a person would be banished, not celebrated. This is against every fibre of our tradition. A woman carries the dignity of her family, not just herself. What she has done is drag that dignity into the mud.”
Harsh words, but revealing. For many Nigerians, female sexuality is not an individual matter but a collective one, tied to family honour and community standing. The idea that a woman might openly commercialise or politicise her body for fame is jarring, even sacrilegious.
And yet, one might argue, tradition itself is evolving. Just as Nollywood has blurred old boundaries of what women can do on screen, and Afrobeats has turned once-taboo lyrics into mainstream anthems, the boundaries of morality are shifting. Our young record-chaser may be less an aberration than a symbol of this restless transition between old codes and new freedoms.
Nigeria is hardly alone in this. Globally, young people are pushing the boundaries of what counts as content. From American influencers bathing in cereal bowls for clout, to YouTubers staging pranks in hospitals, shock has become a marketing strategy.
“This is the logical end of the attention economy,” argued Dr Sarah Agura, a sociologist. “When attention itself is monetised, people will push further and further to get it. Today it is 100 men; tomorrow it may be 200. The act is extreme, yes, but the logic behind it is perfectly consistent with what we see across the world.”
Sarah’s point reframes the narrative. Perhaps this is less about Nigeria’s supposed moral decay and more about our entanglement in a global digital economy where clicks equal cash.
But there’s another side to this circus: the impact on impressionable youths. Social media does not only amplify, it normalises. What one person does today for attention can become a template tomorrow for those who see no other paths to relevance.
“She may think it is just her life, but she is playing with young people’s minds,” warned Dr Danladi. “Teenagers are watching, and they are very suggestible. When a stunt like this goes viral, it tells them: if you want to be noticed, shock the world, no matter the cost.”
Already, copycat culture is rife online. A challenge on TikTok can leap continents in hours. A prank on YouTube can spark hundreds of imitations. The danger is not only the act itself but its symbolism: that self-worth can be built on reckless spectacle.
As youth activist Oladejo Adewunmi put it, “We fight every day to tell young people that their bodies, their talent, and their brains are enough. Then something like this happens, and it feels like ten steps backwards. Instead of celebrating coders, scientists, and creatives, we risk raising a generation that believes only in cheap shock value.”
The influence is not limited to Nigeria. Africa’s young population is the most connected in history. A scandal in Lagos today can be trending in Nairobi by morning, in Johannesburg by evening. The danger multiplies.
Behind the memes and laughter lies the unspoken risk: sexually transmitted infections, psychological scars, and the commodification of the female body.
“It is troubling,” warned Danladi again. “Sex is not a mechanical act. It leaves imprints on the psyche, especially when done under pressure or spectacle. The woman may think she is in control, but often such stunts end with regret, shame, and long-term emotional fallout.”
Public health experts, too, raise concerns. “Nigeria is still grappling with high rates of HIV among young people,” said Dr. Abdulwaris Sule, a Lagos-based epidemiologist. “A stunt like this could normalise risky behaviour and send a dangerous message to impressionable youths.”
Still, one must tread carefully. It is easy to condemn, to cast stones from the comfort of one’s own morality. Yet every spectacle has a human being at its centre.
What circumstances birthed this decision? Was it poverty, trauma, or simply an unquenchable thirst for fame? Until we know her full story, she remains both villain and victim.
And therein lies the paradox. To dismiss her as immoral is to ignore the forces of a society that equates worth with visibility. To defend her uncritically is to risk normalising recklessness. The truth lies, as it often does, in the tension between empathy and accountability.
Biblical metaphors abound, but perhaps the story of Lot’s wife is most fitting. She looked back at the burning city and turned to salt. Our record-chaser may not turn into a pillar, but she risks being frozen in time—as “that woman who tried to sleep with 100 men”—rather than remembered for any other gift she may carry.
For in the end, fame is a fragile crown. It dazzles today and evaporates tomorrow. Just ask the countless reality show contestants whose names we no longer recall. The internet devours novelty, then moves on, leaving behind wreckage.
Thankfully, Guinness World Records has swiftly clarified that they do not monitor such activities. Responding directly to the controversy, GWR stated, “This is not a record we monitor.” This unequivocal rejection underscores the necessity of aligning personal ambitions with established standards and ethical considerations. While the desire for recognition is understandable, it is crucial to pursue achievements that contribute positively to society and uphold dignity.
Perhaps the real story is not about her but about us. Why did this stunt so quickly dominate headlines? Why do we click, share, and laugh, even as we claim to disapprove?
Because, in truth, she is a mirror. Her hunger for recognition reflects our own collective thirst for distraction, our complicity in the circus of virality. She has simply carried it to its most intimate extreme.
As Okolo, the psychologist, concluded: “She is not outside society; she is its symptom. If you want fewer stunts like this, you must build a society where young people are valued for their minds, their work, their contributions—not just for the attention they can attract.”
And so, as Nigeria debates, memes, and moralises, one young woman continues her quest. Whether she reaches her target or not, she has already entered the annals—not of Guinness, but of our collective imagination.
She may not realise it yet, but history is often unkind to those who barter dignity for quick notoriety. And yet, who among us, if offered fame in exchange for folly, would not hesitate for at least a second?
In her story lies a warning, a tragedy, and perhaps, a plea: that we build a world where young women need not mortgage their bodies to be seen, nor mortgage their souls to be remembered.
Because in the end, the true record worth breaking is not 100 men, but the invisible chains of a society that measures human worth by virality.
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