HER SPACE with Bridget MENSAH: The quiet revolution: Ghana’s digital feminists are changing the conversation

There is a generation of Ghanaian women using social media not for vanity metrics but for sustained advocacy. Their platforms have become classrooms. Their posts are policy critiques. And their followers are learning to question systems that have gone unchallenged for too long.

As a public relations professional working in a media house, my activism has taken a different shape. I work to ensure no manels dominate our programming, push for women to lead and write articles highlighting achievements of women who might otherwise be overlooked.

It is quieter work, institutional work, the kind that happens in boardrooms and editorial meetings rather than in comment sections and viral posts. But I have been watching. And learning.

Over the next few weeks, Her Space will spotlight women whose digital activism is reshaping how we talk about gender, politics and justice in Ghana. Today, let us start with two women who have taught me that advocacy can be as diverse as the women practising it; Dr. Efe Plange and Bashiratu Kamal-Muslim.

One is dismantling political hypocrisy from America, the other is proving faith and feminism can coexist without contradiction. Both are essential voices for anyone trying to understand where Ghana’s gender equity conversation is heading.

Dr. Efe Plange describes herself as an “Academic Slay Queen (Fiercely committed to my liberation)”. An Assistant Professor at St. John’s University in Queens, New York, though she was based in Texas for five years until her recent move to New York in 2025, Efe has built a following of over 10,000 people across Facebook and TikTok.

Her attention remains firmly fixed on Ghanaian politics and gender issues despite the distance. She posts beautiful travel photos from Kwame Nkrumah’s mausoleum one day, then systematically dismantles political hypocrisy the next. What I appreciate most about Efe is how she translates complex gender theory into accessible commentary without diluting the message. That is a skill.

In November, Efe published a critique of the NDC’s decision to platform men with documented allegations of sexual misconduct as thought leaders. While others whispered their concerns privately, she said it publicly and clearly.

“To position men with documented histories of sexual misconduct allegations as thought leaders is to implicitly excuse, normalise or minimise the importance of consent, power abuse and gender justice.”

This is what Efe does best: she gives language to the frustration.

Her recent commentary on the Daddy Lumba marriage saga was equally sharp. She reframed the entire debate, arguing the real issue is not polygamy but how African women’s contributions to men’s success are routinely erased once those men achieve wealth or status.  “Too many African women give the prime of their lives, their youth, labour, bodies, dreams, to men who become better because of them. Only to be replaced once those men become ‘somebody.’ Women are not stepping stones for male greatness.”

But here is what makes Efe particularly refreshing: she does not pretend advocacy is all serious business. When a troll commented on her profile picture demanding she “cover your breasts, old woman,” she burst out laughing, then turned the incident into a teaching moment about technology-facilitated gender-based violence.

 “This one clicked on my profile picture, saw beautiful shape and beautiful breasts and didn’t know what to do with all that anger. So, he had to settle for age-shaming. Is it my fault that I still have beautiful breasts as an old woman?”

She then calmly directed her followers to SHE Helpline for support with digital abuse. That is the Efe formula: turn harassment into education, laugh at the trolls, and keep it moving.

She also addresses something young women worry about constantly: can you be educated, opinionated and still have a good life? Efe’s answer, based on her own experience, is a resounding yes.

 “Higher academic credentials is a repellent for stupid men. Go and get it, please! If a man is intimidated by your PhD, that’s not your problem to solve, that’s his inadequacy announcing itself.”

If Bashiratu Kamal-Muslim’s Facebook bio does not immediately win you over, check your pulse. It reads: “My SPACE. A SAFE SPACE. Intersectional FEMINIST. I won’t make lemonade out of your lemons!” With 5000 followers, Bashiratu has built a community that appreciates her refusal to compromise. Not on her faith. Not on her feminist convictions.

She is a practising Muslim, a unionist and an unapologetic advocate for gender equity. But digital feminism is just one of the many things she does. Bashiratu’s activism extends far beyond social media posts. As a celebrated member of the Network for Women’s Rights in Ghana (NETRIGHT), a network of civil society organisations and individuals working together to advance women’s rights, she has become one of the country’s most effective mobilisers for gender justice.

Her power to mobilise became evident when discrimination against Muslim girls wearing hijabs in some senior high schools threatened their right to education. Bashiratu did not just post about it online. She mobilised Muslim groups and leaders to take a collective stance against the discrimination. She understood what many others missed; wearing the hijab is an identity, not merely a religious practice that can be negotiated away for institutional convenience.

Yet Bashiratu’s position on hijab is more nuanced than many expect. She believes fiercely in religious freedom for Muslim women, including the freedom to choose whether to wear hijab or not. This stance has brought her backlash from within the Muslim community itself, where some believe every Muslim woman should wear hijab without question.

But Bashiratu has never been one to shrink from difficult conversations, even when they come from her own community. Her feminism demands that women, including Muslim women, have agency over their own bodies and choices.

She is also a strong user of traditional media and mainstream platforms, understanding that real change requires working across multiple channels. While her social media presence is influential, she knows that policy changes and institutional shifts often require the legitimacy that comes from traditional media engagement and formal organising structures.

Bashiratu has figured out how to navigate the intersection of faith and feminism without apology or contradiction. She observes Ramadan. She prays five times daily. She wears her faith visibly. And she still manages to write some of the most incisive feminist commentary in Ghana today.

Her approach is practical rather than theoretical. In her union office, everyone knows where her prayer mats and abayas are kept. She does not make her faith a burden on others, but she also does not hide it to make anyone comfortable.

When the Gey Hey secondary school controversy erupted over Muslim students being prevented from praying, Bashiratu’s response was characteristically grounded.

“One thing about us Muslims is we do not always need specific places earmarked to manifest our religion. We make do mostly with the spaces available without discomforting anyone.”

She was not asking for special treatment, she was asking for basic respect.

What makes Bashiratu compelling is her range. She publishes in academic journals, mentors emerging activists and writes about labour rights. But she also posts funny videos and memes, and this is deliberate strategy. She knows people may not read long posts, but they will watch a funny video, share a clever meme and absorb the message within it.

Humour advocacy achieves the same impact as formal academic writing, sometimes reaching even further because it travels faster and lands softer. She understands that advocacy does not require you to be miserable, and faith does not require you to be docile.

Bashiratu is also intentional about mentorship. She counts herself fortunate to have been mentored by pioneer activists, advocates and feminists who shaped her own understanding of what feminist organising looks like in Ghana.

Now she pays that forward. In November, she celebrated Agnes Ama Ayittey, a young advocate she mentors, who spoke at an international convention in Sydney. That warmth, that genuine investment in the next generation, is what sets Bashiratu apart. She is not just occupying space, she is actively creating it for others. And she is showing young Muslim women that they do not have to choose between their faith and their fight for justice.

My activism looks different from Efe’s and Bashiratu’s. I work within institutions, pushing for structural changes that often take years to materialise. Following them has taught me several things. There is no single way to be a feminist or an advocate.

We need women working inside systems to change them, and women working outside systems to pressure them. Education does not have to be boring to be effective. And young women are hungry for models of how to live fully, not compartmentalised lives where faith goes in one box and ambition in another.

Ghana’s gender equity conversation is unfolding online, in real time. Efe and Bashiratu are not offering easy answers, but they are offering something better: proof that you do not have to choose. You can be intellectually rigorous and stylish. You can be a practising Muslim and a feminist.

You can challenge men’s behaviour without hating men. Their work challenges every lazy stereotype about feminism in Ghana. What they actually reject is a system that tells women to accept less, expect less and demand less. And they are teaching a generation of young women to reject it too.

Irrespective of who you are, where you work or what your own activism looks like, you will benefit from following Dr. Efe Plange and Bashiratu Kamal-Muslim. Women like them are not waiting for permission to speak. They are building audiences, creating content and shaping discourse on their own terms.

They are writers, advocates, mentors, and they are doing all this while navigating digital harassment and bad faith attacks that every woman in public life endures. They are exactly the kind of role models young Ghanaian women need right now, and exactly the kind of voices all of us should be learning from.

So if you are not already following them, this is your assignment for the new year. Read their posts. Share their work. Learn from their approach. Because the future of gender equity in Ghana is being written right now, on social media, by women who refuse to whisper. The least we can do is pay attention to what they are saying.

About the author

Bridget Mensah is a PR, Marketing & Communications professional and General Secretary of the Network of Women in Broadcasting (NOWIB). A dedicated feminist and advocate for women in media, she champions workplace excellence while empowering voices and building bridges across the industry. Bridget is passionate about amplifying women’s stories and driving positive change in Ghana’s media. She can be reached via email at [email protected]

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