Another month, another viral BKChat moment. But this one cuts deeper.

Ginga Jay, a 34-year-old comedian and influencer born in Leeds but based in London, recently used the platform to launch into a misogynistic tirade against Black women, claiming they have “bad attitudes”, “wear fake hair” and “don’t know their place”.

This wasn’t just one man venting—it was misogynoir in its rawest form: the intersection of racism and sexism aimed squarely at Black women, given airtime and amplification. Ginga, whose real name is Jahzeiah Francois, framed his decision to date outside of his race as a matter of survival. He said Black women “did him dirty,” cheated and expected too much of him. At one point, he argued: “I don’t date Black women because you don’t like to get put in your place. You’re not men… I’m never gonna be in your pum-pum ever again.”

It’s hard to watch without recognising there’s trauma at play. During the BKChat panel discussion, Ginga spoke of prison time, broken trust and feeling unworthy in past relationships. He also seemed a little tearful when recalling his mother, who raised three sons alone: “I never found a Black woman that could step in my mother’s shoes.” Yet when pressed about his mum (he was asked if she doesn’t emulate the undesirable behaviours he’s talking about in Black women), his irritation spiked, which is a telltale sign of unresolved issues.

In a behind-the-scenes clip that went viral, his vitriol escalated and he appeared to contradict himself, shouting: “How can I hate Black women when I just told you I come from one and my mum’s an Empress. I don’t like the way my mother moves, so why would I pick a woman that moves like my mother?” As he slapped hands with a fellow Black man who agreed with him, Ginga continued hollering: “Black women don’t fucking behave themselves. Sit the fuck down, shut up! I’m talking to you… You Black bitch, sit the fuck down!”

He had carte blanche to slew Black women and run his mouth, even backstage, and no one checked him. And that is a problem. Ginga is clearly in pain and in need of counselling, but pain is not a free pass to unleash misogyny on millions of Black women. But here’s the bigger problem: BKChat aired it without context. They packaged his anguish, self-confessed “triggers” and open disgust for Black women as entertainment.

Women members of the panel tried to push back as Ginga spiralled further and further out of control. Ms Cookie asked bluntly: “How can countless Black women do something to you and there’s no problem with you?” At times, her approach to Ginga felt a little loaded, but the overall framing turned his breakdown into spectacle and I don’t like that at all. I could empathise with Ms Cookie and the others’ concern that Ginga was attempting to package his decision to date Asian women as a genuine preference and not a decision born of contempt for Black women and white supremacist attitudes.

Black women of a darker hue are, by and large, tired of being subjected to ridicule, rejection and abuse by, well, everyone—including the boys who we birth, march for and consistently show up for. Remember that Black British girls around the country went to school with Black boys like Ginga, you know. Back in the day, for those of us in secondary school during the early 2000s, it was open season on Black girls in the playground, mi love. We were in the trenches, dealing with studies, puberty, trying to find our place in a Eurocentric society while forging our paths in society and, oftentimes, dealing with attacks from our own.

Darker-skinned girls were regularly maligned as “blick” (a warped exaggeration of the ‘black’ descriptor to mark us as undesirable) and therefore “butters” or “clapped”, in contrast to the prized “lighties” (lighter-skinned or mixed-race girls) who were, by default, “buff” or “choong”. For the many Black boys who didn’t directly disrespect us, silence was the choice, while we—or those who looked like us—were insulted by their friends time and time again. The BKChat male panellists’ failure to reprimand or challenge their peer felt all too familiar and triggering. Nuff of us either went to counselling as a result of what happened to us in school, or need to go; the entire dynamic of the show was a nauseating throwback, honestly.

Sherine Green, a mixed-race woman who insisted she was Black and dismissed her white privilege by proximity, said in her confessional after the crash-out: “A lot is going on right now. Too many people are triggered. I’m not just gonna put it on Ginga—the girls, everyone’s triggered right now. I’ma keep eating my popcorn (laughs).” Popcorn and giggling while darker-skinned Black women are being torn down? How apt. How… secondary school.

BKChat had options. When a conversation spirals into outright bigotry or hate speech, a responsible platform steps in—not just for optics, but for safeguarding. A moderator could have interrupted when the language crossed into abuse, setting a clear boundary that this wasn’t acceptable. In the edit, they could have cut the most violent rants instead of packaging them as viral highlights. At minimum, a disclaimer or trigger warning could have framed the episode: “These are harmful views that don’t reflect the platform’s stance.”

Beyond production choices, BKChat could have turned the tension into a teachable moment. Bringing in a psychologist, counsellor or social commentator to respond in real time would have shifted the focus from shock value to reflection. I was interested to see in the credits that there’s a team member who’s in charge of welfare. During and after filming, BKChat owed panellists and audiences—especially women—proper aftercare.

After Ginga fled the set and left his peers reeling, Gabz, a fellow male panellist, said: “Maybe this show and this platform, with the characters that’s here, wasn’t the space to be open and have a (this) conversation… But this is BKChat, motherfuckers!” Another male panellist, Chyna, admitted: “This is not a safe space,” and I’d agree. In short: they could have challenged, contextualised or cut the whole thing.

Now, I’m fully aware that BKChat may claim they’re simply holding up a mirror to society, exposing uncomfortable truths, but a mirror can still distort. Broadcasting misogynoir without proper challenge doesn’t just “show reality”—it risks normalising abuse against Black women and reducing trauma into a viral clip. Black media is so important and we need more of our own platforms but, damn it, we’ve got to do better than this.

“Ginga-gate” matters because it reflects a wider culture where Black women’s dignity is treated as negotiable. Ginga Jay’s words need accountability and the backlash he’s receiving including losing work opportunities, though devastating for him, is an L he has to hold. BKChat, meanwhile, ought to ask itself: is it in the business of facilitating meaningful conversation, or exploiting misogynoir for clicks? For over half a million views on YouTube, was it worth this?

Platforms have choices, and so do people. This time, BKChat and Ginga Jay made the wrong one.