A recent conversation with a friend opened my eyes to what, for me, was a surprising but not shocking fact about how the state polices the sexual freedoms of adult citizens. The import of sex toys is forbidden in Kenya. Who knew?

Why would the state be even interested in such an issue? You’d think they would have their hands full with the need to improve the economy and reduce poverty. But clearly, Wanjiku’s strap-on and Otieno’s vibrator are of vital national importance. 

This talk made me see the exploits of a businesswoman I once came across, selling adult novelties from the boot of her car to patrons at a bar I frequented, in a heroic light. She was not just making money hand over fist; she was at the forefront of a sexual revolution. Her adult novelties were tools of a resistance movement. 

In those days, back in the mid-1990s, I heard the story of someone asking her how she got her toys through customs at the airport, and she replied that she simply told the unwitting officers they were mobile phone accessories. Innocent times indeed.

While many modern travellers regard these items as fairly harmless tools for personal pleasure, wellness or experimentation, the Kenya Revenue Authority appears to regard them with considerably less enthusiasm, classifying them as prohibited imports. Which is funny, because that organisation’s natural instinct would be to slap a tax on such toys.

It would appear now that inside the bustling transit hub that is Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, amid the usual assortment of contraband, suspicious substances and things that are presumably not supposed to be in anyone’s luggage, customs officials are also keeping their eyes peeled for a rather more intimate target: sex toys.

It would appear that the Kenyan border must be defended not only against smugglers and tax evaders, but also against people who have decided that their private lives could use a little technological assistance.

The issue raises a rather awkward question: At what point does government responsibility for public morality end and an adult’s bedroom begin? I don’t believe a free society has any business policing the private choices of consenting adults. 

At the heart of the argument against moral policing is the ‘harm principle’, popularised by philosopher John Mill. In simple terms, the principle holds that the law should restrict a person’s freedom only to prevent harm to others. In my view, consensual adult intimacy conducted behind closed doors produces no obvious victim. So unless the bedside table has filed a complaint, it is difficult to see who exactly requires protection.

Meanwhile, banning imports does not eliminate demand. It merely encourages demand to find more creative routes around the law. In Kenya, owning or using an adult novelty is not itself a crime under domestic law. Personal possession may, therefore, be perfectly lawful, while bringing the object into the country is prohibited. It is a legal arrangement with all the elegance of telling people they may own a bicycle but are forbidden from bringing one through the front door.

Predictably, an underground market has emerged. This creates genuine public health concerns. Without formal oversight, consumers may have little protection against poor-quality products or potentially harmful materials. The illicit nature of the trade can also expose buyers and sellers to extortion and exploitation. 

Kenya is hardly alone in this legal paradox. Of eight prominent nations with similar import restrictions, five — Botswana, India, Malaysia, the Maldives and Zimbabwe — were colonised or administered by the British Empire. Their modern customs restrictions are, in varying degrees, descendants of Victorian-era public morality and Christian puritanical codes.

The irony is difficult to miss. Britain has long since relaxed or discarded many of these puritanical restrictions. Modern customs officials, therefore, find themselves applying legal concepts developed more than 150 years ago to products that would have been technologically incomprehensible to the Victorians.

As attitudes towards bodily autonomy evolve, the collision between Victorian-era customs laws and modern ideas about privacy is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

For now, somewhere inside the airport, a scanner will dutifully identify an object designed for private pleasure, a customs officer will dutifully confiscate it, and the state will once again demonstrate its remarkable ability to become deeply interested in what consenting adults do when nobody else is watching.