Khaby Lame’s comment section has gotten pretty brutal lately. “Fall off is crazy.” “Your time is over, bro.” “Just put the fries in the bag.” All of which have appeared in just the last few months, each one landing like a small, sharp stone aimed at a man who once seemed untouchable. Why has this pretty likable TikToker—someone who built his entire brand on wordless frustration and universal relatability—suddenly had his entire audience turn on him with the kind of collective fury usually reserved for politicians or disgraced celebrities?

Well, judging by another comment reading, “Why did we make him the most followed person on TikTok?” people are starting to think that he doesn’t really deserve the crown he wears. He gained 162 million followers by repeating a pretty simple formula: find ridiculous videos of people exerting too much effort on the most basic tasks, then show how to do it in a much easier way. A shrug here, a flat stare there, a wave of the hand that somehow communicates more than paragraphs of explanation ever could. “Can’t believe he got that big just from reacting to humans being dumb,” one user wrote, capturing the simmering resentment of an audience that had begun to question the very foundation of his fame.

Even Khaby Lame himself stated, “My videos are simple and easy, but achieving a point of simplicity was actually very difficult.” And he wasn’t wrong. Simplicity, true simplicity, is often the hardest thing to master. But try explaining that to a generation raised on instant gratification and algorithmic perfection.

He gained just nine views and only two followers during his first month on TikTok, a number so small it’s almost humiliating for someone who would eventually become the platform’s undisputed king. He only grew to 4,300 followers after posting a crazy amount of volume. “I was posting like six or seven videos a day,” he recalled, a pace that would break most creators but that he maintained with the relentless determination of someone who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

His main type of content was widely relatable skits, little slices of everyday absurdity that anyone could understand. But they were limited by a language barrier, as Khaby Lame only spoke Italian. “I don’t understand what he’s saying. Someone translate it please.” “I love your videos but can you please do them in English?” These comments followed him like a shadow, a reminder that his voice alone could never reach the global audience he craved.

Khaby therefore devised a simple solution: only make videos where he didn’t need to talk. “The fact that it’s not spoken makes it a universal language,” he explained. “Every kid, every person around the world can see the video and get a laugh simply by watching the images.” It was a stroke of genius, a recognition that humor transcends words, that a well-timed sigh can be understood in any language, that the human experience of watching someone do something unnecessarily complicated is a universal truth.

Unfortunately, Khaby was now basically limited to mocking cringey videos. His range shrank. His canvas narrowed. He became, in many ways, a prisoner of his own success, trapped in a format that worked so well it became impossible to escape.

Although this worked unbelievably well as he began to celebrate milestone after milestone: 300,000, 400,000, 600,000. His numbers climbed like a fever, each passing week bringing new records, new accolades, new confirmation that his silent formula was resonating with millions. Whilst his ability to silently clown on others only got better and better, he began taking already viral videos and had an unexpected stitch to make them even funnier, leading to his first properly viral video roasting a girl for her non-existent haircut.

The clip was simple. A young woman with perfectly fine hair pretended to give herself a dramatic makeover, only to reveal almost no change at all. Khaby’s reaction—a slow turn, a dead-eyed stare, a gentle shrug—captured exactly what every viewer was thinking. It was relatable. It was funny. It was, in its own modest way, perfect.

Khaby’s respect from the audience was building higher and higher, leading to a further 60 million views after roasting another TikToker for his strange shaving video. This then doubled to 130 million when he joked about a factory worker eating his chocolates, a moment so absurdly simple that it almost defied explanation. However, it was this video that changed his life forever: mocking a stupid life hack gained him 250 million views. He repeated this in four other videos which followed a similar premise, each one more successful than the last, each one cementing his reputation as the king of common sense.

Suddenly, every video was gaining at least 30 million views, whilst his moves were being copied by famous soccer players who incorporated his signature shrug into their goal celebrations. Khaby was called “the wisest man to ever live,” a title both tongue-in-cheek and strangely sincere. As one commenter put it, “You say so much without saying anything.” He celebrated a million followers on the 22nd of February, which by the 23rd of May had grown to 50 million. The growth was exponential, almost absurd, the kind of meteoric rise that happens maybe once in a generation.

Although with somebody calling this “a big L for TikTok”—a comment that suggested the platform’s priorities were fundamentally broken—there were people who weren’t happy with Khaby Lame’s fame. Judging by “46.2 million followers for what?” and “8.8 million likes for what?”, people thought there was too much reward for too little effort, which can often turn into a person becoming hated. Take for example the “Hawk Tuah” girl: she’s not disliked because she’s a rude or terrible person. She’s disliked because her success hasn’t been earned in the traditional sense. She became famous for a single, accidental moment, and her subsequent career felt unearned.

Without seeing his history on the platform, without understanding the months of grinding, the six or seven videos a day that went absolutely nowhere, the two followers and nine views of those early, desperate days—viewers might perceive Khaby in a similar way: as a low-effort TikToker who makes $750,000 per post for holding out his hands in a 20-second video. The main joke is that Khaby gained over 100 million followers by doing nothing. On the “Unpopular Opinion” subreddit, a forum where people go to voice thoughts they know will be controversial, one user wrote: “Khaby Lame is boring, not funny, predictable, low effort, and famous just because he uses other people’s content. 90% of his TikToks are low effort. He has a few quality vids but that’s it. He shouldn’t deserve the recognition he’s got right now. I really have nothing against the guy, just that there are some people who put real effort and can’t get through, and I don’t think that’s fair.”

Others didn’t like him simply because they thought he wasn’t funny. “It hurts me cuz these just aren’t good and he has so many likes.” “Honestly I’m glad I’m not the only one who didn’t find him that funny.” These comments were not born of malice, necessarily, but of confusion. How had this man—this silent, shrugging, one-note performer—become the most famous person on the platform? What did it say about the state of content creation? What did it say about us?

But there’s a much stranger reason that people began to hate him. A reason that had nothing to do with his content and everything to do with the treacherous waters of online activism.

Khaby posted a simple Instagram story: “Say no to racism,” a message so anodyne, so universally agreeable, that it seemed impossible anyone could object. It was posted with a separate video in which he’d help a white person pull a sword out of the ground, a strange, almost allegorical image that seemed to suggest unity and cooperation across racial lines. It was captioned: “In a racist society, it’s not enough to be non-racist. We must be anti-racist.” The quote, borrowed from the activist Angela Davis, was a call to action, a reminder that neutrality in the face of injustice is complicity.

But after this, Khaby made a brand new story, one that would ignite a firestorm. “I’m seeing a lot of comments where people says ‘I unfollowed you because you did this video.’ I don’t mind guys, we are almost in 2022 and people still use racism because they have nothing to do in their life. You can also unfollow me. I don’t care about the numbers. I care about your hearts.”

It was a bold statement, a refusal to apologize for taking a stand. But in the world of social media, where nuance is often the first casualty, such boldness can be dangerous. Some saw it as virtue signaling, a performative act designed to burnish his image. Others saw it as a betrayal, a sign that he had become too political, too serious, that he had violated the unspoken contract of the funny, relatable guy who never talked about anything controversial.

This was followed by another post reading: “Instead of wasting your time writing negative comments criticizing, try to help people.” The message was clear: Khaby was done engaging with the haters. He was moving on.

Although this controversy only ended after being overshadowed by a brand new scandal, one that would pit him against the most powerful fan army on the platform.

Comments began to appear on his videos: “I hope this man beats Charli.” “Khaby’s more talented than Charli.” “I have a feeling that he might pass Charli.”

Charli D’Amelio was TikTok’s most followed person, the original queen of the platform, a teenage dancer who had parlayed her viral fame into a media empire. Although Khaby was right behind her with only 4 million less, the gap was closing fast. Charli losing her title therefore became a possibility, resulting in a war between the two creators. It was David versus Goliath, the silent underdog versus the establishment queen, the relatable everyman versus the polished professional.

People began devising strategies to make him the most followed. “If you want to help start commenting ‘Khaby to number one’ on every video that you see on your FYP.” The campaign was organic, decentralized, and ferocious. It tapped into something deeper than mere fandom. It was about sticking it to the establishment, about proving that the people, not the algorithm, could decide who wore the crown.

Charli’s fans fought back, writing: “There’s no way people actually support Khaby Lame. He’s literally racist and sexist. He body shames people. We all know damn well that if Charli did one of these things her career would be over.” A different video added: “So basically Khaby did something so bad he body shamed a girl.”

But what were these TikToks even talking about? What had Khaby done to earn such serious accusations?

Well, an account named “cancelingkhaby.lame” re-uploaded one of his videos with the caption: “Why is this man obsessed with body shaming girls?” It showed three examples of Khaby reacting to women poorly. In one, he appeared to mock a woman’s outfit. In another, he laughed at a girl’s hairstyle. In a third, he gestured dismissively at a woman’s appearance. The clips were taken out of context, of course, stripped of the ironic framing that made them work. But context, as they say, is for people who aren’t trying to start a mob.

This was paired with another video of him joking about a dude’s obesity, a clip that was, admittedly, in poorer taste. People then discovered Khaby telling women to “wash the dishes,” a comment that, when removed from its sarcastic framing, sounded genuinely sexist. The result was a perfect storm of outrage, a manufactured scandal that spread across the platform like wildfire.

Mainstream news articles picked up the story. “Body shaming is so disgusting.” “Ew, that’s so rude.” “I can’t believe he’d do that.” The comments piled on, each one angrier than the last.

As a result, Khaby lost 400,000 followers before the day was over. It was a stunning reversal, a reminder that in the world of social media, the mob can turn on you in an instant.

Although people then recognized what was going on. The timing was too convenient, the accusations too flimsy, the coordination too suspicious. “They’re canceling Khaby because he’s going to pass Charli,” one user wrote, capturing the sentiment that was spreading through the comment sections. It was a conspiracy, a last-ditch effort to stop the inevitable.

Khaby therefore regained 1.5 million followers the very next day, the backlash to the backlash proving even more powerful than the original outrage. Ironically, the failed cancellation helped him become the most followed TikToker, pushing him past Charli D’Amelio and into the history books.

Although Khaby Lame’s reputation has been trending downwards ever since that day. The victory felt hollow to many. The crown he had fought so hard to win seemed, almost immediately, to weigh heavily on his head.

“Bro disappeared from my FYP after he became the most followed on TikTok.” “Ever since he passed Charli he’s not been on my FYP.” Also being noticed by Noah Glenn Carter, a popular commentary YouTuber who makes videos about internet culture: “He’s basically done nothing since becoming number one. Like he never even made a video celebrating or acknowledging that he was now the number one most followed TikToker.”

And it was true. The silence was deafening. Where other creators would have milked the achievement for weeks, posting celebration videos, thank-you messages, behind-the-scenes content, Khaby simply moved on. It was as if the milestone meant nothing to him, as if the numbers were just numbers, as if the whole race had been a distraction from his true ambitions.

And since becoming number one, he’s posted maybe once or twice a week. As mentioned, Khaby went from making six or seven videos per day to basically never posting. The volume dried up. The channel that had once been a firehose of content became a trickle. He instead began to state: “I want to make films. This is my main objective. I’ve wanted to make movies since I was a child,” almost implying he was better than his TikTok audience, that the platform that had made him famous was merely a stepping stone to greater things.

When he did post a video, it was often just an ad. Khaby did promotions for Airbnb, Hugo Boss, even Facebook. The authenticity that had made him famous began to feel manufactured, commodified, cynical. And by disrespecting his audience with loads of different ads, the audience would also lose respect for him. It was a vicious cycle: the less he posted, the more he relied on ads; the more he relied on ads, the less his audience trusted him; the less his audience trusted him, the less they watched; the less they watched, the less he posted.

“He used to be so famous. How did bro get forgotten?” The question, once unthinkable, was now being asked openly.

People started posting TikToks such as: “Maturing is realizing that Khaby Lame was never funny and that whole race for him to Charli was lame as well as broke.” And: “We all agree that Khaby Lame wasn’t even funny, we just wanted him to pass Charli D’Amelio in followers,” which on its own gained almost a million likes. “I mean sometimes he was lowkey funny but it got old real quick.”

The comment reflected a growing consensus: Khaby’s success had been less about his talent and more about the collective desire to see someone else take the throne. He was a vehicle, not a destination.

Hinting at Khaby’s next problem, as far back as 2021 people were already stating: “It’s the same thing every single time. I know exactly what’s going to happen to these goddamn videos.” “Honestly Khaby’s videos were funny at first but the joke got old after a while.” “He was really funny at the start but his joke is getting old. He never does anything else but these kind of videos.”

Well, now it’s three years later and the joke still hasn’t changed. The silence is still the same. The shrug is still the same. The exasperated stare is still the same. His lack of changing content becomes a lack of growth, for which the audience trashes him in comment after comment. But it’s been especially bad recently.

On the 14th of August, this person commented: “Khaby always knows how to keep it simple and hilarious.” A sincere compliment, a remnant from a time when his fans still believed in him. But only two weeks later, the same person’s now stating: “Just put the fries in the bag bro.” The phrase, a meme in itself, is used to mock someone whose best days are behind them, who should give up their pretensions and get a real job.

In the past, Khaby Lame stated: “Of course the people, they will always found something bad to you. I think it’s just part of the life.” He understood, perhaps better than anyone, that online fame is a contract that can be revoked at any time, for any reason, or for no reason at all.

And turning his back on TikTok has definitely had some benefits. He appeared in the movie “Bad Boys: Ride or Die,” standing alongside Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, a cameo that was brief but significant. He is now a judge on Italy’s Got Talent, a role that suits his calm, observant demeanor. And most notably, he’s about to release his own feature film called “Double O’Khaby,” a spy comedy that will test whether his appeal can translate to the big screen.

So what happened? How did the internet’s most beloved creator become its most divisive figure?

The answer is complicated, layered, and ultimately unsatisfying for anyone looking for a single villain or a simple explanation.

Part of it is the curse of oversaturation. Khaby’s formula, once refreshing, became predictable. The human brain craves novelty, and novelty is the one thing his content could never provide. Each video was a variation on the same theme: someone does something stupid, Khaby reacts. It worked for a while. It worked for a long while. But eventually, the law of diminishing returns kicked in.

Part of it is the curse of success. When you’re the underdog, everyone roots for you. When you’re the king, everyone wants to see you fall. Khaby’s rise was fueled by a collective desire to see the establishment disrupted. His fall was fueled by the same instinct turned inward.

Part of it is the curse of silence. By refusing to speak, by remaining mysterious, Khaby allowed his audience to project whatever they wanted onto him. For a while, they projected kindness, wisdom, authenticity. But when the winds shifted, they projected arrogance, laziness, cynicism. The same silence that made him universal also made him vulnerable.

Part of it is the curse of the algorithm. TikTok’s For You Page is a fickle god. It giveth, and it taketh away. Khaby’s videos stopped being pushed as aggressively once he reached the top. The platform, it seemed, had no interest in anointing a permanent king. It wanted churn. It wanted chaos. It wanted a constant stream of new faces to keep users engaged.

And part of it is the curse of the audience. We are, all of us, complicit in the rise and fall of internet celebrities. We build them up, and we tear them down. We demand authenticity, then punish any display of ambition. We want our creators to stay the same, then complain when they don’t evolve. We are impossible to please, and we know it.

Perhaps Khaby Lame understood this better than anyone. Perhaps his refusal to engage with the drama, his decision to move on to other projects, his apparent indifference to the hate comments—perhaps all of this was not arrogance but wisdom. He saw the trap, and he chose not to fall into it.

The internet will find someone else to love. It always does. The cycle will continue. A new face will emerge, capture our attention, make us laugh, and then, inevitably, disappoint us. And we will turn on them too, with the same righteous fury, the same justified outrage, the same self-righteous certainty that this time, our criticism is correct.

Khaby Lame will be fine. He has his money. He has his movie. He has his judging gig. He has, most importantly, his peace.

The question is not why Khaby Lame has suddenly become hated. The question is why we ever loved him in the first place—and what that says about us.

In the end, maybe the real reason the internet turned on Khaby Lame is the simplest one of all: he stopped being useful. He stopped feeding the beast. He stopped providing the endless scroll of content that keeps us distracted, entertained, numb. He had the audacity to want something more, to dream of something beyond the algorithm, to treat TikTok as a means rather than an end.

And for that, they will never forgive him.