This story may describe an actual event, but real names were not used, except for the author.
Surviving Nigeria as a gay person is probably one of the toughest things to do in the world.
When I was 20 years old and had just accepted what I could not change, I joined a group of friends to attend a “gay wedding” in Nigeria. Yes, you heard that right—a gay wedding in Nigeria! This sweet young couple (they were so sexy, by the way—especially the taller, quieter one) were so drowned in love that they rented a hall in a hotel in a remote village and invited friends (no family for obvious reasons) to celebrate what was supposed to be the acknowledgement of their commitment to each other.
The location had taken about three hours to get to. The hotel looked dead, despite being surrounded by so much space and free land—almost looking like a resort. Probably one of those “money dump” investments where the owner had come by so much money suddenly (possibly through dubious means) and needed to stash some off by building this resort-like hotel in a very remote town people hardly visited.
The event did not start until about 12 am in the morning—a very strategic move to ensure that all coasts were clear of any eventualities, considering the gravity of the act being committed. A gay wedding in Nigeria! Imagine that!
In a strange twist, the occasion quickly turned into a one-of-a-kind event. It was like the queer mecca the eastern gay community never knew they needed! Gay men of different colours and mannerisms were trooping in their numbers.
There were amateur crossdressers in flowy gowns, aggressive makeup and flamboyant hairdos; older gays who seemed to have lived it all (we called them mothers); the daddies too (older masculine-presenting gay men who had married a woman they hardly slept with; and the younger, muscular gays perching on the thin line between effeminacy and masculine behaviour. The fine gays with their smug faces looking like they were forced to come, like they were doing everyone a favour by being present. The not-so-gay-looking ones from Aba or Onitsha wearing checked shirts and blue jeans and leather slides, looking for who to invite to their 2-bedroom apartment where they have turned one room into a mini-bakery or printing press—whatever business they run. And the slim, confused gays like me still drowned in insecurities and didn’t quite know where they belonged yet.
You could see from the small container of rice and a few cartons of drinks that the couple hadn’t prepared for such a crowd. It was also evident on their faces when they exchanged greetings with some of the attendees—that hard-set smile that did nothing to cover the other thoughts underneath. Faces asking “who invited this one too?” while their lips did not move.
“That boy’s dick is massive,” my friend, Somadina, said beside me, moving his nose and mouth to mean he was referring to the other half of the couple—the taller, quieter one.
“Shh!” I said immediately, startled by how loud his voice had been. But then I leaned to him and said quietly: “How did you know?”
Somadina rolled his big eyes at me and hissed. “I thought you weren’t interested.” He had applied Mary Kay lightly over his face, and in his short hair and stud earrings, he looked like one of those village aunties in their forties or fifties without a husband.
“He stays in Enugu, near Ekulu, I think. If you see dick ehn.” Somadina sighed, as if both amazed and wishful of something that never happened. “Na better top sha!” he added.
“Hmm,” I said. “How did you know? Did he top you?”
“No o, but you know that macho Mary guy from UNN. I have seen him f*ck him.”
“You were there?”
“It happened in my house!”
“How?! Since when did you start living in Enugu?”
“Rest. Alexandra was at mine and invited him. It’s been long sha, but that night was fire.”
“You mean Alex?”
Somadina rolled his eyes at me again, now clearly pissed. It was common for gay people to use feminine versions of names to address each other. Alex was Alexandra, and sometimes I was Daniella. Alex was muscular and had an amazing body but was slightly effeminate, especially when around us. He returned a scathing curse whenever we called him macho Mary.
The idea of feminising names and using code words was not merely for fun but also for safety—considering how dangerous living gay in Nigeria is. Two gay people could have an hour-long conversation and no non-gay third party could understand what or who was being referred to.
In our friend group, we often called each other sisters, though this sisterhood had to survive constant banter that sometimes bordered on full-on shaming, all in the name of playful humour. Every now and then, an intended joke crossed the line, and sisterhood was briefly forgotten as someone fought to recover their personal dignity.
As I grew older, I began to realise that this kind of abrasive banter was not really necessary, especially considering how traumatised many of us already were.
Somadina stared at the couple chatting with some friends some distance away. “That boy na better ashawo sha. I can assure you before this night is over, he would have fucked over four guys.”
“HA! Somebody that is getting married.”
Somadina kissed his teeth. “Which wedding? He is only with that boy because his parents are rich. Na Senator Abby’s son na.”
“Wow. His partner is a senator’s son?”
“Yes, his wife is Senator Abby’s son!”
I laughed.
I looked at the guy getting married again and, for a weird second, imagined us behind the bush of flowers at a corner, having hot sex. I collected myself quickly. For some strange reason, I found myself saying a prayer that everything worked out for them in the end—especially for the sake of the handsome, quiet boy with his kind smile and lean body. And rumours of a big dick and amazing topping skills.
Like most gay people when they come among other gays, I was subconsciously picking the ones I liked and would ask for their 2Go usernames later. Or, to put it more honestly, entice them to ask for mine. And as it mostly happened in gay gatherings, the ones you like would never talk to you while the ones you want to go away would never do. I’ve always hated the massive discord in attraction gay people have to deal with all the time. There’s hardly anyone you like that would like you back, never in the same way at least.
People of eastern Nigeria were known for their high business acumen, so when bike riders (okada) realised something was happening in a remote hotel nobody usually visited, they came out in their numbers to serve the multitude of customers. Gay men from Enugu, Imo, Owerri, Abia, Asaba and even PortHarcourt were trooping in. It was a sight to behold. For once, I felt very safe and human, seeing so many weird people like me in one place, some looking even weirder, breathing, talking, existing. Looking happy.
But it was not to last. Soon word got out that “homo people” were getting married in a hotel in Oba, and before you know it, the owner of the hotel became aware. And as a highly connected man, it only took him a phone call (possibly) from wherever he was to send buses of policemen to the venue that early morning.
To cut a long story short, the newlywed couple slept in the police cell that morning. The couple had just finished exchanging their vows when the whole place went up in chaos. Two shots were fired in the air, and everywhere went crazy.
Chaos doesn’t quite capture the incident! The dramatic gays in their elaborate costumes were screaming at the top of their voices as they ran this way and that, some tripping over their ill-fitted high-heels. Some of them were running toward the armed policemen in the confusion. The older mummies and daddies were trying to calm everyone down but looking equally scared themselves.
But not all the gays in female costumes were dramatic. I watched in awe as some of the crossdressers switched with swift and remarkable precision—pulling off their gowns and hair to reveal chino knickers underneath, kicking off their female shoes, and dashing towards the wall on muscular legs.
Most of the gays who escaped were those who could run and climb. I saw one crossdresser scale the wall in a single go, and I thought I could do it too. I ran towards it, but had to stop abruptly when I got close enough to see how the thing towered above me like an iroko tree.
I didn’t realise how bad I was at climbing until that night. The sides of the wall were as slippery as a snail’s tongue. I would climb and fall. But I kept trying. And trying, until I couldn’t anymore.
I turned and saw police vehicle lights in the distance. I had already started rehearsing how to explain the story to my parents when they came to the police station to bail me out when I felt a hard push under my ass.
“Climb!” the voice said.
It was one of the crossdressers—his wig was off, but large purple hoop earrings still dangled from his ears. With his makeup badly disturbed, he looked like a wicked husband snatcher in a Nollywood film who had just gone mad after the innocent wife called a pastor.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Stop thanking me—move your bony ass up!”
And that was how I managed to make it to the bush on the other side, landing on my side like a sack of potatoes. Just a few inches from where I landed, there was a rusted metallic cage with jagged ends. Had I fallen on it, this story would have been different.
I was among those who managed to escape, but none of us made it out in one piece. We didn’t start checking injuries until we came out to the main road. My body was covered in bruises and scratches. One of the guys with us had a long cut across his belly. It looked scary when he pulled up his shirt to show us. Another had fallen on a broken bottle and had his thigh bleeding. One had broken his knee and could no longer walk on his own, so he had to be supported.
I lost my wallet and had no money to get home. We walked several miles till we got to a centre where we could see okada (motorbikes) straight to Onitsha. The bikes were so expensive, but I told one, if you could take me not to Onitsha, but all the way to my parents’ house instead, my parents would pay you.
“My father is rich. He will pay you,” I lied.
Luckily, he believed me and agreed, albeit at a ridiculous price.
My parents did pay him without hesitation, though.
“Gini! What happened?” my mother asked, looking very concerned.
“Armed robbers, mummy!” I said.
She hugged me tight. “My God, thank you for saving my son!”
We later heard that the senator’s son called his mother, and he was released with his husband the same day. But many others who didn’t have rich or connected parents remained there for longer, and some had such poor and evil parents and family members that they came to the station and asked the police people to keep them there for longer.
We also later heard that the groom’s mother was not a senator but a commissioner. Some said minister.
Barely a month after, rumours emerged that the couple had separated and were no longer talking to each other! And I wished I had asked the taller and quieter groom for his number when he smiled at me.
***
This story may describe an actual event, but real names were not used. Contact the DNB Stories’ editorial team if you have something worth sharing.
