The words ‘Ómó alè!’ – meaning ‘bastard’ in Pidgin – echoed in my ears as one of the men spat at me. It was the prelude to a horrific attack that would forever scar my life. I felt three sharp blows to my stomach, followed by a searing pain in my head. Five men, their belts unbuckled, advanced towards me. My screams were drowned out by the thud of their belts hitting my flesh. I was pinned to the ground, face down, a foot on my head, surrounded by dirt and debris. As the pounding in my chest intensified and my vision blurred, I realized the horrifying truth – I was being raped by five men. The feeling of helplessness and fear was overwhelming. The men’s faces were a mask of hatred, fueled by a deep-seated homophobia that pervades Nigerian society. This was not a random act of violence; it was a consequence of my sexuality. Growing up gay in Nigeria was like living in a constant state of fear. Homosexuality is criminalized, with a 14-year jail sentence looming over anyone caught expressing their sexuality. The weight of this oppressive reality felt suffocating. I kept my true self hidden, scared of the consequences, of being ostracized and condemned. I found a glimmer of hope in David, a man I met on Grindr, a haven for queer people in this hostile environment. David was kind, understanding, and seemed to be someone I could trust. I felt a connection with him, a sense of belonging that I had longed for. When he invited me to meet, I felt a surge of excitement, dressing in my finest clothes and spending hours preparing. But what awaited me was a nightmare. Instead of the embrace of a friend, I was met with five men, one brandishing a knife. My cries for help were met with brutality. I was beaten, dragged to an abandoned building, and left naked, robbed of everything, including my dignity. When I regained consciousness, David stood before me, his face twisted with malice. He had orchestrated the entire attack. My heart shattered as the man I trusted, the man who had seemed to understand me, revealed his true face – a face of hatred and cruelty. I was left battered and bruised, a broken shell of the person I once was. The police, often unreliable, were little help. My story is not unique. Many others have faced similar ordeals, some tragically losing their lives. This is the reality of being queer in Nigeria – a constant struggle for survival, a fight against a system that deems our existence a crime. We are treated worse than garbage, simply for being who we are. It’s time the world knows about this injustice. This is our reality, and it needs to change.
