Joseph Awuah-Darko, known online by the alias Okuntakinte, skyrocketed to social media fame in late 2024 with a dramatic personal narrative of mental illness and an impending assisted suicide journey. Billed as “Britain’s first euthanasia influencer,” the 28-year-old Ghanaian-born artist cultivated hundreds of thousands of followers by tearfully announcing his plan to end his life via legal euthanasia in the Netherlands . His Last Supper Project – a series of paid dinner meet-ups with strangers before his supposed final day – drew widespread attention and even celebrity endorsements, positioning Awuah-Darko as a poignant advocate for mental health struggles. Yet beneath the viral Instagram videos and emotive storytelling, evidence has emerged of exploitation, fraud, and manipulation that call his entire persona into question .
This investigative report presents a detailed, chronological account of Awuah-Darko’s rise to prominence through mental health advocacy and the subsequent unraveling of his narrative. We will delve into key controversies – from alleged art scams and charity fraud to the misuse of assisted suicide narratives and monetization of vulnerable followers – all supported by documented evidence. We will also dissect the tactics of manipulation he is accused of employing, including gaslighting his audience, reframing his story when challenged, leveraging celebrity sympathy, and fabricating content to maintain his image. Finally, we examine the broader implications for mental health discourse online, highlighting the risks of unverified influencer narratives, and propose recommendations for greater influencer accountability and platform responsibility in the face of such social media fraud. The tone is factual and formal, but the findings are as compelling as they are disturbing.
Joseph Nana Kwame Awuah-Darko was born in 1996 in London and raised in Ghana, where he first made a name for himself in creative circles . In his early career he was celebrated as a social entrepreneur and contemporary artist – known, for instance, for turning electronic waste into art – and even made Forbes Africa’s 30 Under 30 list for creatives . He adopted the stage name “Okuntakinte,” inspired by the Kunta Kinte character of resilience from Roots, as he launched a brief music career in 2016. By 2018, Awuah-Darko had also begun engaging in mental health advocacy, starring in a documentary about mental health in Africa . Notably, he has openly discussed being diagnosed with bipolar disorder as a teenager, framing his struggles with mental illness as a central part of his identity and art .
Despite these promising beginnings, Awuah-Darko’s trajectory took a controversial turn in the early 2020s. In 2021, he founded the Noldor Artist Residency in Accra, an art incubator that initially garnered praise for supporting emerging African artists . However, behind the scenes, serious financial disputes were brewing. By mid-2024, multiple artists represented by Noldor accused Awuah-Darko of withholding the proceeds from sales of their artworks – allegations that would soon spill into public view . In August 2021, for example, Awuah-Darko’s firm had contracted with Ghanaian painter Foster Sakyiamah to sell his works on a commission basis, but more than $266,000 due to Sakyiamah never materialized . Similar complaints followed from other artists, ultimately amounting to over $350,000 in unpaid earnings . By late 2024, what one Ghanaian media investigation dubbed a “Gallery of Greed” had exposed how Awuah-Darko’s art enterprise allegedly sold paintings, kept the money, and stonewalled the artists with excuses . Legal action ensued – Sakyiamah sued for the missing funds in Accra’s High Court – and fraud accusations against Awuah-Darko entered the public record .
It was against this backdrop of mounting scandal that Awuah-Darko unveiled the personal saga that would make him an international talking point. On December 6, 2024, just three days after the first news reports broke about his unpaid artists , he posted an emotional video to Instagram announcing his decision to pursue assisted euthanasia due to “treatment-resistant” bipolar depression . Speaking directly to the camera with tearful eyes, he introduced himself: “Hi, I’m Joseph. I’m bipolar. And I moved to the Netherlands to legally end my life” . In accompanying captions, he described waking each day in “severe pain” and having found life “entirely unbearable” despite years of therapy and medications . Dutch doctors, he claimed, had accepted him into a program for euthanasia on mental health grounds – a process he said might take up to four years for approval . In the meantime, Awuah-Darko declared, he wanted to spend his remaining time “creating moments and memories” rather than suffering in silence, and invited followers to join him on this journey .
The response was explosive. The post went viral almost instantly, and within days Awuah-Darko’s follower count swelled by the hundreds of thousands . Strangers from around the world flooded his inbox with support and invitations, moved by his vulnerability and the idea of celebrating life before death. By his own account, over 100 people offered to host him for a farewell dinner . Capitalizing on this outpouring, Awuah-Darko launched “The Last Supper Project” on December 9, 2024 – a self-described “worldwide dinner tour” in which he would travel and dine with different groups of followers as a series of final meals . He began crisscrossing Europe, sharing carefully crafted photos and videos of these dinners on social media. Within a few months, he boasted of having completed dozens of intimate dinners in cities like Paris, Milan, Brussels, and Berlin, with over a hundred more meet-ups scheduled before his supposed end date in late July 2025 . Media outlets picked up the heart-wrenching story – People magazine ran a feature titled “Man, 28, Chooses Euthanasia Rather Than Live with Bipolar Disorder, Documents His ‘Last Supper’ with Thousands of Strangers” – further amplifying Okuntakinte’s fame. Overnight, Awuah-Darko had reframed himself from embattled art dealer to a symbol of mental health resilience and candor, attracting both sympathetic admirers and donations from those who wanted to support his mission.
Despite the initial wave of positive publicity, it was not long before holes in Awuah-Darko’s story and serious ethical red flags began to surface. In this section, we chronicle the major controversies that have engulfed Okuntakinte’s digital persona – spanning legal, social, and ethical domains – and document how each came to light.
The earliest controversy predates the Last Supper Project but continues to cast a shadow over Awuah-Darko’s credibility. As mentioned, multiple artists have accused him of running an art sales scam through his Noldor Residency program. Investigations by African media detail how Awuah-Darko’s company sold artworks by emerging artists and failed to pay the artists their share, accumulating an estimated $360,000+ in owed payments . Artists like Foster Sakyiamah, Ishmael Armah, and Elizabeth Sakyiamah (Foster’s siblings) have come forward with evidence that Awuah-Darko repeatedly made and broke payment promises, issued dubious excuses (such as “bank transfer delays” or claiming his accounts were frozen), and even tried to dissuade them from taking legal action . In one case, he allegedly went so far as to hold a solo exhibition of an artist’s work in Amsterdam without the artist present, then kept the proceeds . By July 2024, the scandal had reached international art media; ArtNet ran a story on the lawsuit, noting it “followed previous concerns” about Noldor’s financial dealings . Rather than address these accusations transparently, Awuah-Darko appeared to double down. In a June 2025 interview with the Dutch newspaper de Volkskrant, he dismissed the artists’ claims as acts of “greed” – insinuating that they were trying to extort him because of his wealthy family background – and showed little remorse, stating his parents were covering his legal fees . Such statements only intensified critics’ view of him as a fraudster who had leveraged the goodwill of aspiring artists for personal gain. The legal case in Ghana is ongoing, but the damage to his reputation in art circles was already done by the time he reinvented himself as a mental health influencer.The cornerstone of Okuntakinte’s fame – his public euthanasia plan – has itself become a source of intense controversy and skepticism. In theory, Awuah-Darko claimed to be undergoing a legitimate, albeit rare, process: euthanasia for unbearable psychological suffering, which is legal in the Netherlands under strict conditions. However, critical details of his story began to unravel by mid-2025. In June 2025, de Volkskrant published a bombshell investigative article revealing that Awuah-Darko had not even initiated the official euthanasia procedure in the Netherlands . He admitted to the Dutch reporters that he had not seen a psychiatrist in over three years and was not on any prescribed medication for his bipolar disorder – despite such medical oversight being a fundamental requirement for euthanasia approval in mental health cases . In other words, the influencer who claimed to be on the verge of a physician-approved death had not completed the basic steps that Dutch law mandates for anyone seeking assisted dying on psychiatric grounds. This revelation cast serious doubt on whether Awuah-Darko ever truly intended (or was eligible) to go through with the euthanasia he had so publicly advertised. It suggested that the narrative of a “scheduled death” might have been at best premature and exaggerated, or at worst a complete fabrication engineered to gain sympathy.
Compounding matters, Awuah-Darko’s logistical circumstances didn’t add up. He had moved to the Netherlands on a temporary visa and, by his own later admission, lacked legal residency status there . In fact, Awuah-Darko disclosed that he was briefly detained at the German border in 2025 because his paperwork was not in order, underscoring that he was essentially undocumented in the EU . This fact made his portrayal of seamlessly accessing Dutch euthanasia services even less plausible – as one Reddit commentator wryly noted, “No country wants to administer MAiD (Medical Aid in Dying) to a non-citizen without getting in some legal drama” . Dutch medical guidelines are indeed rigorous: a candidate must prove extensive, exhaustive treatment history and meet residency and referral requirements . Awuah-Darko’s own statements that he tried only one mood stabilizer (lithium) before deeming his condition untreatable raised eyebrows in the psychiatric community . Many saw his claim of “treatment-resistant bipolar” as self-diagnosed and unsubstantiated – a narrative constructed to justify a sensational project rather than a reflection of medical reality .
Crucially, mental health experts and advocacy organizations grew alarmed at how Awuah-Darko was portraying suicide and euthanasia. The UK charity Bipolar UK (whom Awuah-Darko had name-dropped as a beneficiary of his project) publicly distanced itself from his views. In a statement reported by Clara Gaspar for Daily Mail, Bipolar UK emphasized that assisted suicide is not a solution they endorse for people with severe bipolar disorder and criticized Awuah-Darko’s “Last Supper” initiative as “very triggering for the bipolar community” . The charity revealed that they had tried to engage with him – inviting him to a meeting after one of his art exhibitions – but he never showed up or responded . Moreover, Bipolar UK was so troubled by his conduct that they refused to accept any donations from his fundraiser, writing to him that they did not want to be associated with his project even if he “miraculously” decided to give money . This was a stunning rebuke: a mental health charity essentially branding his high-profile advocacy as harmful. Likewise, de Volkskrant noted that several health professionals warned of the romanticization of suicide in Awuah-Darko’s content, which could mislead vulnerable followers about the arduous reality of assisted dying and possibly encourage suicidal ideation . In one stark instance of real-life consequence, community discussions surfaced an unverified report that a person who hosted one of Okuntakinte’s dinners later took their own life, which if true would underscore the dangerous contagion effect such narrative can have . While that specific claim remains anecdotal, the consensus among experts was clear: Awuah-Darko’s approach to mental health was ethically questionable, potentially glorifying suicide as a spectacle rather than treating it with the gravity and care it demands.
Okuntakinte’s journey was monetized and how his followers – many of whom are themselves struggling with mental health issues – may have been exploited for financial gain. On the surface, Awuah-Darko often spoke about meaning, connection, and creating a legacy before he “leaves Earth.” Yet a closer look shows that nearly every aspect of his project was behind a paywall or price tag . To start, the Last Supper dinners were not free gatherings of friends, but rather structured events with fees. Prospective hosts or attendees were charged up to £130 per person to participate in these intimate meals . While Awuah-Darko and his team claimed they made no profit from the dinners – insisting that only a “portion of the proceeds” would go to charity – this claim is dubious . In reality, with roughly 15 supper clubs held by mid-2025 and an estimated £10,000 earned, it’s unclear where the money went, since no donations were ultimately made to Bipolar UK (which, as noted, explicitly rejected his contributions) . Dutch authorities also have strict regulations on food service and business operations; Awuah-Darko’s collaborator in the Netherlands – the chef who cooked for these events – reportedly lacked proper permits, raising questions about the legality of these paid dinners altogether . Complicating matters, Awuah-Darko’s visa status meant he was not legally allowed to work in the Netherlands, so any income from these events would violate immigration rules .
Beyond the dinners, Awuah-Darko sought to monetize his following via subscriptions and sales. He maintained a Substack newsletter (titled Purgatory Is Not a Place) where he published his writings, poems, and reflections – but crucially, much of this content was behind a subscriber paywall . Followers who wanted deeper insight into his mind or more frequent updates were prompted to pay a monthly fee. Many did. As one critic observed, “he has built an empire off of his misery,” turning his personal trauma into a brand that fans financially support . This dynamic raises an ethical dilemma: vulnerable people, drawn in by what they believe to be a terminally ill man’s inspirational journey, are essentially paying for access to what might be fictional or performative content. Awuah-Darko also floated other revenue-generating schemes – at one point hinting at an art exhibition in London’s Shoreditch tied to his farewell tour, and selling limited edition artworks and merchandise as mementos of his story . Each venture was steeped in the narrative of “this is my last chance” or “legacy project,” thereby urging followers to open their wallets before it’s too late.
Several incidents illustrate how Awuah-Darko’s interactions with followers could cross into manipulation and selfishness. In one documented case, a young woman (pseudonymously called “Charlotte”) invited him to her home for a Last Supper, genuinely hoping to bond over shared experiences of mental illness . Before arriving, Awuah-Darko claimed he was injured and unable to walk, pressuring the host to pay £50 for his taxi fare – an amount she reluctantly covered . When he did arrive, Charlotte noted there was no sign of any injury – he seemed to have fabricated the ailment simply to avoid paying his transport . During the 4–5 hours he stayed at her home, he spent most of the time on his phone or talking about himself, barely engaging with the hosts who had cooked for him . He left much of the meal untouched and showed little interest in their stories. Yet later on Instagram, Awuah-Darko posted a highly edited recap claiming they had a “long and full discussion about death” over dinner . Charlotte felt profoundly disillusioned, recalling that in reality they spoke about the subject for barely five minutes and that “things weren’t as they seemed on Instagram.” This discrepancy between the constructed narrative and the actual behavior speaks volumes. It suggests that Awuah-Darko was willing to manipulate sincere followers, extracting money and hospitality from them, only to turn their kindness into content that aggrandized himself. The pattern of self-centered and transactional behavior – taking from those who sympathize with him while giving little in return – led detractors to label him not a hero of mental health, but a “scam artist” .
As scrutiny of Okuntakinte’s story increased, Awuah-Darko responded not with transparency, but with further narrative shape-shifting that many have described as gaslighting his audience. A prime example involves the focal date of July 30, 2025 – the day he had long insinuated would be his assisted death. In numerous posts and interviews, he repeatedly referenced “July 30” as the scheduled end of his journey . However, as the date drew nearer and skepticism grew, Awuah-Darko began to subtly reframe its significance. He suddenly claimed that July 30 was actually the euthanasia date for a friend named “Emmanuel,” a fellow sufferer he had supposedly met along the way . This was perplexing: up until then, Emmanuel had never been seen or independently verified (critics doubt he even exists) . By planting the idea that “July 30 was never for me, it was for my friend” – as Awuah-Darko later asserted – he attempted to rewrite the narrative history and cast those who expected his own death as misunderstanding him .
Observers argue this was a calculated ploy to escape accountability: if/when Awuah-Darko did not end his life on that date, he could gaslight the public by saying they got it wrong. Indeed, social media analysts noted how he had strategically made multiple mentions of July 30 tied to others, so he could later point back and claim he never said it was his date . This kind of retroactive reframing is a classic gaslighting tactic – making people question their recollection of what was stated plainly. It erodes trust and muddles the truth, buying the manipulator time and plausible deniability.
By late July 2025, the inevitable occurred: Joseph Awuah-Darko did not go through with any assisted suicide. Instead, in an abrupt about-face, he announced he had “found new meaning in life.” In a Substack essay titled “Dear Mummy, I’m Engaged,” published around the very time he was supposed to be departing the world, Awuah-Darko revealed that he had asked his partner to marry him . The once-dying man now proclaimed that love and “mutual vulnerability” had given him a reason to live, and that he had “changed [his] mind,” which he asserted he was allowed to do . Along with this news came practical considerations: he mentioned plans to meet an immigration lawyer with his new fiancé – an odd bucket-list item, but one that underscored his intention to legally remain and build a future in the Netherlands . To many, this development was the final proof that the entire saga had been a lie or at least a gross embellishment. After all the dramatic farewells, tears, and paid tributes, Awuah-Darko was not only alive and well, but starting a new chapter. Some supporters celebrated his decision to choose life, but many followers felt betrayed, confused, and even used. The unverified influencer narrative they had invested in emotionally (and in some cases financially) had shifted beneath their feet. As one mental health advocate put it, “we all have a right to change our mind about suicide, but when you’ve charged people money and built a brand on dying, simply walking it back raises serious ethical questions.”
Awuah-Darko’s controversies are not just a series of unfortunate coincidences; rather, they reveal a pattern of manipulative tactics that he allegedly used to build and protect his digital persona. Understanding these tactics is key to evaluating how he managed to mislead so many for so long. Below, we highlight the most salient strategies Okuntakinte employed, with examples of each:
Awuah-Darko’s Gaslighting the Audience
Awuah-Darko is accused of gaslighting his followers – meaning he made them question their own perception of his statements and reality. The shifting significance of the July 30, 2025 date is a prime example. He pre-planted misleading information by frequently associating that date with others’ stories, then later insisted that he never claimed it for himself . By retroactively editing captions and pointing to those earlier posts, he tried to convince everyone that any confusion was in their minds, not due to his deception . This deliberate obfuscation allowed him to escape accountability when his promised “end date” passed without incident, leaving many followers perplexed and doubting their memory of his original words. Narrative Reframing & Diversion: Each time Awuah-Darko encountered pushback or a threat to his image, he would reframe the narrative to divert attention. Notably, his entire euthanasia announcement in Dec 2024 can be seen as a grand act of reframing – coming just on the heels of the art fraud revelations . By suddenly making the conversation about his personal suffering and mortality, he effectively shifted public focus away from his victims and onto himself. Many critics believe this timing was no accident: the emotive story of a troubled young man seeking dignity in death overpowered the art scam story in the media , stymieing the criticism with a wave of sympathy. Additionally, when allegations of lying and grifting mounted in mid-2025, Awuah-Darko again reframed his story – this time into a redemption arc. By announcing his engagement and newfound will to live, he attempted to recast himself from possible fraudster into someone who bravely reconsidered suicide because of love. This can be viewed cynically as an effort to salvage his brand: rather than being caught in a lie about ending his life, he portrays the change of plans as inspirational growth. Such narrative pivots are a form of image management and manipulation, steering the public discourse away from inconvenient facts and towards a storyline he can control. Emotional Exploitation & Love-Bombing: Awuah-Darko’s social media presence was suffused with emotional content designed to engender trust and empathy. He frequently posted tearful videos, poetic musings, and heartfelt confessions that created a parasocial intimacy with followers. This can be seen as a tactic of “love-bombing” the audience – overwhelming them with vulnerability and profound sentiments to lower their skepticism. For instance, he shared raw accounts of his depressive episodes and existential dread, often accompanied by melancholic piano music and artful cinematography. These posts made many followers feel like they knew him and had a stake in his fate. Scammers often use such emotional appeals to bond with their targets. In Awuah-Darko’s case, it cultivated a support network so devoted that some defended him even as evidence of deceit mounted, while others were willing to pay to be part of his journey. It’s important to note that sharing one’s struggles is not wrong in itself; what makes it manipulative is if those struggles were exaggerated or performative, aimed at eliciting sympathy that can be converted to clout or cash . The manufactured “feel-good narrative” of healing through dinner conversations is one example: it presented a simplistic, almost storybook solution to deep-seated trauma – something mental health experts warn can actually trivialize the complexity of mental illness . Selective Storytelling and Fabrication: Another tactic was Awuah-Darko’s careful curation (and at times fabrication) of content to maintain his chosen narrative. He was adept at showcasing only the aspects of encounters that fit his story. From the misleading portrayal of the Charlotte dinner (where a brief chat was spun into a profound discussion on death) to sharing glowing testimonials from dinner guests while ignoring or deleting negative feedback, he presented a highly filtered reality. There is evidence he even staged or faked certain elements: for example, the mysterious friend “Emmanuel” who was supposedly facing euthanasia on the same date may have been entirely fictional, used as a narrative device to build suspense and later deflect questions . Similarly, Awuah-Darko posted about a charitable art auction and funds raised for mental health, but never provided transparency on those funds – an omission that suggests the charitable angle was more PR than substance . This selective honesty extended to his past; when the Wikipedia article about him was updated to include the art residency scandal, anonymous attempts were made to delete those records, presumably to keep new followers unaware of his history . By tightly controlling the narrative – highlighting inspirational or tragic elements and erasing contradictory information – Awuah-Darko fabricated an online persona that was more myth than reality. Silencing and Discrediting Critics: Finally, Awuah-Darko employed direct tactics to silence dissent and scrutiny. On social media, he was quick to block followers who asked difficult questions about the artists’ payments or the euthanasia timeline . Entire communities (such as a subreddit dedicated to discussing his actions) have sprung up where blocked individuals congregate to compare notes, revealing a pattern where any critical comment on his Instagram would promptly disappear along with the user who posted it . This curation gave remaining followers the false impression that few people doubted him, reinforcing the echo chamber of adulation. When confronted by journalists or inquirers, Awuah-Darko sometimes played the victim of harassment, suggesting that the only reason people questioned him was stigma or ill will against a person with mental illness. For example, he characterized the artists suing him as malicious opportunists attacking him due to his privileged background . Positioning legitimate critics as bullies or greedy detractors is a classic deflection tactic that seeks to discredit the source of allegations rather than address their substance. By painting himself as the target of unfair attacks, he rallied his supportive followers to his defense and shifted sympathy back onto himself. In doing so, he avoided answering the actual questions at hand – about the money, the authenticity of his claims, and the well-being of those who believed in him.
Through these tactics – gaslighting, reframing, emotional manipulation, selective truth-telling, and silencing opposition – Joseph “Okuntakinte” Awuah-Darko was able to weave a compelling yet deceptive narrative for many months.
Awuah-Darko’s saga forces a hard examination of the ethical landscape surrounding mental health discourse on social media. At a time when mental health awareness is paramount and online communities often rally around personal stories of struggle, the Okuntakinte case demonstrates how easily that empathy can be weaponized by bad actors. The implications are manifold:
Okuntakinte’s Impact on Vulnerable Individuals
Perhaps the most pressing concern is the effect on followers who themselves live with depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety, or suicidal ideation. Many such individuals were drawn to Okuntakinte’s story, seeing it as a raw and honest account of someone “like them” making an agonizing choice. By presenting suicide (via euthanasia) as a palatable, even enlightened option, Awuah-Darko’s narrative risked normalizing self-harm as a solution for mental illness. Health professionals have warned that suicide contagion is a real phenomenon – hearing about someone taking their life (especially in a seemingly “noble” or glorified context) can increase risk of suicidal thoughts in impressionable audiences. In Okuntakinte’s case, the danger was that his followers might view medically assisted death as a preferable alternative to treatment, even when treatment avenues remain. This concern was echoed by Bipolar UK and others, who noted that his romanticized portrayal of euthanasia could “lead to misunderstanding and potential harm” for vulnerable followers . The ethical principle of “do no harm” was arguably breached by Awuah-Darko’s content, which lacked the cautionary frameworks typically used when discussing suicide (such as trigger warnings, crisis resource information, or balanced perspectives on treatment). Indeed, while his posts often included flowery philosophical musings, they rarely included robust mental health resources or disclaimers. (By contrast, journalistic coverage of his story – even the sympathetic kind – often added suicide helpline info as a safeguard .) This discrepancy underscores how unverified influencer narratives may not abide by the ethical standards that professional media or advocates do, thereby putting their audience at greater risk.
Another consequence is the potential erosion of public trust in genuine mental health advocacy and storytelling. Awuah-Darko positioned himself as a champion of mental health awareness – using hashtags, partnering with charities (in name at least), and speaking about destigmatizing mental illness. If that persona is now revealed to be a grift, it could lead to increased skepticism towards others who share their mental health battles online. As one petition starter remarked, cases like Okuntakinte’s “exploit trust” and “downplay the struggles” of those with real mental illness, undermining the credibility of future advocates . People who followed him in good faith may come away feeling duped and cynical about mental health campaigns. This is deeply unfortunate, because it only becomes harder for legitimate voices to break through and be believed. Mental health discourse relies on a certain level of authenticity and goodwill; scams and frauds in this space are a betrayal of the community’s trust. They also provide ammunition to those who opposed Awuah-Darko’s platform from the start, who might now generalize that many mental health influencers are suspect. In short, his actions risk tainting the ecosystem of online mental health support, which is an ethical violation of the community he claimed to serve.
Okuntakinte’s rise was propelled by uncritical media amplification of his story. Outlets from BBC and The Times to People magazine covered his journey, often taking his claims at face value and omitting the troubling context (like the fraud allegations) . This raises questions about journalistic responsibility in the age of viral personal narratives. Reporters understandably found Awuah-Darko’s tale compelling: it combined human interest, taboo topics (suicide), and a touch of hope via the Last Suppers. But many early articles failed to fact-check his background or consult mental health experts for critical insight. For instance, the idea that a 28-year-old foreign national with a single medication trial could be approved for euthanasia in the Netherlands “in four years” went largely unchallenged in press coverage . In hindsight, that claim was dubious, and its uncritical repetition gave it undue legitimacy. The ethical implication is that media must exercise greater diligence and skepticism when confronted with sensational influencer narratives – especially those involving life-and-death matters. In the rush to tell a viral story, some outlets inadvertently lent credibility to a possible fraud, thereby misinforming the public.
On the other hand, the eventual debunking of aspects of Awuah-Darko’s story by investigative journalists (like Clara Gaspar’s piece and the Volkskrant investigation) shows the corrective power of good journalism . However, these corrections came only after the false narrative had been allowed to spread for months. The case illustrates a need for media ethics to evolve when dealing with influencers: verifying claims, providing context (e.g., mentioning the ongoing lawsuit which was highly relevant to his credibility), and consulting independent sources should be standard practice, not optional, in such high-stakes human interest stories.
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