When your favourite influencer suddenly drops two dress sizes and blames it on “discipline and hydration,” you might want to look closer.
In Nairobi’s salons, high-end gyms, and influencer WhatsApp groups, a new kind of secret weapon is trending – the jab.
It is called Ozempic, a diabetes drug that has somehow morphed into the latest status symbol for Kenya’s body-conscious elite.
From TikTok tutorials to hushed clinic visits in Lavington, Kileleshwa, and Kilimani, “Ozempic” has become shorthand for effort-free weight loss. Marketed online as the miracle jab that melts fat without sweat, it is the new code among the fit and fabulous.
But behind the glossy before-and-after photos lies a darker cocktail of counterfeit pens, health risks, and quiet desperation. As regulators raise alarm, doctors scramble to control shortages, and psychologists warn of collapsing self-worth, one thing is clear – Kenya’s body image war has entered a pharmaceutical phase.
Welcome to Ozempic Body where vanity meets science, and where beauty is now measured in millilitres.
Take Pritty Vishy, one of Kenya’s most outspoken digital personalities. After years of body shaming and online bullying, the 22-year-old decided she’d had enough.
“I was tired of being called fat, lazy, or unfit. People made jokes about my body every day,” she posted on her socials.
In October 2024, weighing 112 kilograms, she began weekly Ozempic (semaglutide) injections alongside workouts and a nutrition plan. Her target was cut to 60 kilogrammes.
Her transformation has been dramatic, and divisive.
“People are happy for me, but others accuse me of taking shortcuts. They don’t understand what it feels like to hate your reflection every day,” she says. “Ozempic helped me focus — but I still worked hard.”
The injectable drug, meant for diabetes patients, works by mimicking a natural hormone that controls appetite and blood sugar. Users report feeling full faster and eating less.
But that effect, which was supposed to help diabetic patients manage their diet — has now become a shortcut to slimness.
Vishy’s honesty captures the dilemma of a generation raised on filters, likes, and body goals: where wellness often disguises pressure, and self-improvement becomes performance.
Natalie (not her real name) a mother of three and a former model confessed that she felt a little embarrassed when she first started the medication.
“Like, ‘Oh my God, I have to inject myself just to control my eating. Other people can manage without it, so why can’t I?’ At the start, my decision to keep it to myself was based on a bit of shame,” she noted.
She hated the fact that she was overweight and any time she went out for the occasional dinner with her expatriate husband, she would catch people giving her unwarranted glances, making her more uncomfortable.
Although she had success with Ozempic, Natalie was clear that she was not trying to dispense medical advice to anyone.
“It’s what’s working for me currently. That’s why I’ve been somewhat hesitant to talk about it, as I don’t want to suggest that I’ve solved the issue for good. I haven’t. I didn’t even tell my husband what I did but luckily he was abroad,” she explains.
In private clinics across Nairobi, doctors quietly admit that the demand for Ozempic has skyrocketed — and not from diabetic patients.
“It started with one or two clients asking about it,” says a Lavington-based endocrinologist who requested anonymity. “Now, every week, someone walks in with a TikTok video asking, ‘Can I get this shot?’”
The price tag? Between Sh35,000 and Sh50,000 per pen, depending on the clinic. A single pen can last a month, depending on dosage.
“The popularity of the drug has skyrocketed and this market surge has now come with quack doctors who end up messing and at times, fatal outcomes for people whose only mistake was a quest for a better body,” the endocrinologist tells The Nairobian.
At high-end pharmacies in malls and hospitals, supplies are running low. Some buyers, desperate to keep up with their regimen, turn to unregulated online sellers, opening a floodgate for counterfeit products.
The Pharmacy and Poisons Board (PPB) has already sounded the alarm.
“Fake Ozempic pens are circulating in the market,” warned the board in a recent statement. “Unsupervised use exposes people to serious risks — from low blood sugar and intestinal obstruction to vision problems and even death.” The PPB reminded Kenyans that semaglutide is only approved for treating Type 2 diabetes, not for weight loss. Yet the marketing both online and offline, suggests otherwise.
“People see it as a miracle,” says Dr. Rosslyn Ngugi, a Nairobi-based endocrinologist. “But what they don’t see are the side effects. The nausea, the vomiting, the fatigue, the digestive distress. Your body is basically in shock.”
Dr. Ngugi explains that Ozempic works by slowing down how fast the stomach empties. This helps control appetite, but can also cause acid reflux, gallstones, or pancreatitis.
“It’s a powerful drug with legitimate medical uses,” she says. “But it should never be used as a shortcut. Self-prescription is dangerous — and sadly, that’s what’s happening.”
If the medical risks don not scare users off, perhaps the psychological ones should.
“What we’re seeing is not just a health fad — it’s a symptom of something deeper,” says Dr. Paul Njogu, a clinical psycho-sociologist based in Nairobi.
“People are seeking validation through their bodies because that’s where social capital now lies. Ozempic is not just a drug — it’s become a symbol of status and control. It says, ‘I have the money and discipline to perfect myself.’”
According to Dr. Njogu, the trend reflects a troubling shift in how Kenyans, especially young women, define self-worth.
“Social media has turned body image into currency. Every ‘before and after’ photo gets likes, shares, endorsement deals. But it also creates pressure, you’re never allowed to be just average,” he says.
And the irony? For many, even after the weight loss, the insecurity does not disappear.
“They think losing weight will fix everything. But once the compliments stop, the anxiety creeps back. What happens when you gain a few kilos again? That’s when the addiction to validation begins.”
The craze is not uniquely Kenyan. Across the world, celebrities have openly and sometimes controversially credited GLP-1 drugs like Ozempic and Mounjaro for their transformations.
In the United States, Oprah Winfrey admitted she had been on a GLP-1 shot, revealing it changed her relationship with food.
“For the first time, I understood that thin people aren’t always fighting cravings they just don’t feel them,” she said on The Oprah Podcast.
Whoopi Goldberg revealed that she began weight-loss injections in 2022 after being mistaken for wearing a fat suit in a movie.“A woman thought I was wearing a fat suit. That hurt,” she said. “Now, I’ve lost the weight of two people.”
Even Serena Williams confessed to using a GLP-1 shot post-pregnancy, saying, “As an athlete who has done everything right, I still struggled to lose weight. It wasn’t about shortcuts, it was about getting healthy again.”
These global stories inevitably trickle down to Nairobi’s pop culture landscape. On local timelines, hashtags like #OzempicBody, #MounjaroMagic, and #SlimByScience trend regularly, especially when a celebrity shows up looking dramatically different. But while Hollywood stars have access to medical teams and regulated brands, Kenyans often rely on grey-market imports or worse, counterfeits.
A 2022 Lancet Kenya survey found that 27 per cent of Kenyan adults are overweight or obese – 38.5 per cent being women and 17.5 per cent men.
In Nairobi, where gym culture, skincare clinics, and body sculpting spas are booming, this has birthed a lucrative “wellness economy.” Weight-loss injectables are the latest addition, and perhaps the most dangerous.
“I’ve had clients who buy it from Instagram sellers,” says Carol Mwende a nutritionist who runs a wellness centre in Karen. “They don’t know if it’s real or fake, but they’ll take the risk because the pressure to look good is huge.”
She recalls a client who ended up in the hospital after using an unverified pen. “She was vomiting for days. Her blood sugar dropped dangerously low. She did not even know what dose she was taking.”
Wanjiru sighs. “People would rather gamble with their health than face body shaming. That’s how deep this issue goes.”Kenya’s Pharmacy and Poisons Board and Ministry of Health are now investigating the growing misuse of semaglutide. But enforcement is tricky — the drug is not illegal, just misused.
PPB officials have urged Kenyans to buy medication only from licensed pharmacies, to demand receipts, and to report suspected side effects.
“In light of safety concerns, the public is advised against the off-label use of medicines,” said the agency. “Falsified products could contain harmful or inactive ingredients.”
But as one PPB insider told The Nairobian, the real challenge lies in digital marketing. “The sellers are online, the buyers are online, the entire ecosystem is invisible. By the time we trace one seller, they’ve opened three more Instagram pages.”
From gym memberships to liposuction to Ozempic, Kenya’s beauty economy has become a billion-shilling machine powered by aspiration — and anxiety. Influencers advertise detox teas, waist trainers, collagen gummies, and now, injections. “It’s not even about health anymore,” says Dr. Njogu. “It’s about performance — about keeping up appearances in a digital world.”
In a city where image often equals opportunity, many see slimness as social capital. A “snatched” look can mean better brand deals, more followers, more visibility.
“The body has become a business card,” says Wanjiru. “It’s not just vanity — it’s economics.”
But as the Ozempic craze sweeps Nairobi’s middle and upper classes, an uncomfortable truth lingers: the obsession with fast results mirrors a deeper impatience — with our bodies, with time, and even with ourselves.
In a country where 40 per cent of adults are overweight yet millions go hungry, our national relationship with food and body image is full of contradictions.As Dr. Njogu puts it: “We’ve moved from famine to filters — from worrying about food scarcity to fearing a full plate. That’s how quickly culture changes.”
Back in her Kilimani apartment, Natalie scrolls through old photos of herself — the ones that once attracted ridicule.
“I don’t regret my journey,” she says softly. “But I wish people would understand that losing weight doesn’t fix everything. You can be slim and still hate yourself. You can be big and still be beautiful.”She adds: “For me, Ozempic was just a tool. The real work was learning to love myself — injection or not.”