Japan, 2009. It is a morning in August. In a parking lot in Saitama, a prefectural capital about 30kms north of Tokyo, a rental car is spotted with a man lying in the back seat. His name is Yoshiyuki Oide. It turns out that he’s not having a quick nap – he’s dead.
The cause is carbon monoxide poisoning and his death is initially thought to be a case of suicide. But the police are not convinced, so they knock on the door of the woman Oide had been dating, 35-year-old Kanae Kijima. This marks the beginning of the investigation into what would become known in the media as the “Konkatsu killer” case. The name derives from konkatsu, meaning marriage hunting.
The investigation uncovered evidence that suggested Kijima had killed three men she met on dating sites. The three deaths were initially considered suicides but were all deemed to have been staged. The court agreed and Kijima – who has always maintained her innocence – was found guilty in 2012, based largely on what was widely held to be circumstantial evidence. She was sentenced to death. The decision was upheld in subsequent appeals, and she is now on death row awaiting execution.
Kijima’s case was similar to that of Chisako Kakehi, who died in prison on December 26, 2024, while under sentence of death. She had been found guilty of murder and fraud and given the death penalty after a court found she had entrapped and swindled money from three men (including her husband) before killing them using cyanide.
But there was also a distinct aspect to Kijima’s case. From the start many media outlets focused on the defendant’s appearance rather than the heinous nature of the crime. Popular forums, newspapers and magazines buzzed with variations on the same question: How could a woman described as “ugly and fat” manage to attract these men?
There was speculation that her success lay in her “homely” qualities – the stereotype of chubby women being that they are cheerful, nurturing – and excellent cooks. It was suggested that men might prefer such a woman’s warmth and hospitality over a stylish woman’s “air of superiority.”
In Japan, somebody sentenced to death tends to disappear from the public eye. But Kijima maintained a blog where she detailed her life and relationships – and continued to post entries there during and after the trial, probably through her lawyers. She still publishes on various issues: from the kind of cookies available in the detention house to the conditions on death row, from dietary advice to reflection on the lay judge experiment in Japanese criminal procedure.
The media eagerly mined her posts to reinforce stereotypes about gender roles and appearance, but Kijima pushed back. She has sharply criticised the focus on her looks and gender over the legal evidence, using her reflections to spotlight these biases.
Telling the story
Novelist Asako Yuzuki took inspiration from Kijima’s case to create a fictional narrative for her novel Butter. It’s a story in which a journalist covering the story of a woman murderer is sucked into her swirling obsession with butter and indulgent food, exposing fat-phobia and sexism in Japanese society.
Kijima, who has published a memoir and a novel of her own, posted on her blog to express her deep discontent with the publication of the novel: “What Yuzuki and the publisher are doing is nothing short of theft. If they interfere with external communication rights, they are not just thieves but complicit in murder. They continue to use my name without permission … I truly think it’s a vulgar book.”
But, when I interviewed her, author Yuzuki insisted that, more than the details of the crime, she was interested in the implications of Kijima’s case, in how the Japanese media often sensationalize stories.
Japanese media … often reflect the perspective of powerful men.… This realization was a turning point for me. Until then, I hadn’t really questioned much or paid close attention to politics or media bias. But when it came to something I love – cooking – it struck a nerve.
Stereotypes and social expectations
In her book, Yuzuki questions some deep-seated Japanese stereotypes – particularly around women and cooking. She says that the concept of “marriage hunting” is still popular in Japan, and women who love cooking are often labelled as “domestic” or “obedient.”
But, in her experience, someone passionate about cooking is far from submissive. On the contrary, cooking is powerful, and a woman skilled in the kitchen could just as easily harm someone as she could nourish them. “There’s a fine line between nurturing and dangerous precision,” she told me.
Social media have become a powerful tool for activists and writers like Yuzuki to connect with others and amplify their voices. She has joined other authors in advocating for marginalised groups, including sexual minorities, highlighting the intersectionality of issues such as gender, class, and criminal justice.
The Kijima case – through the facts, through Kijima’s blog posts from prison and through the work of writers including Yuzuki – invites a deep reflection on the weight of societal expectations regarding gender and appearance. Beyond the question of guilt or innocence, it illustrates how female criminals are judged not only for their actions but for defying norms of femininity.
This dual scrutiny aligns with historical biases in Japan, where women who challenge societal norms are often framed as dangerous outliers. Kijima’s portrayal as an unconventional femme fatale evokes the 19th-century trope of “poison women” – dofuku. This casts women as destructive forces who upend the lives of those around them.
The severity of Kijima’s punishment — the death penalty was used not at all in 2023 and only once in 2022 — seems designed to deliver exemplary justice. In the minds of many Japanese people she was guilty not only of murder but of manipulating societal expectations of femininity while failing to conform to conventional standards of beauty and behavior.
The case has reinforced the narrative that her transgressions extended beyond the courtroom and into the realm of societal betrayal.
Martina Baradel is a Marie Curie postdoctoral researcher at the University of Oxford.
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
