As I looked out of the plane window down at the country I was leaving behind, I couldn’t help but cry.

I had no idea when I’d be coming back to Nigeria, but I needed to leave for my own safety. 

More than three years later, I still haven’t been able to go home – if I do, I’m terrified I’ll be killed for being gay.

Looking back, my childhood was relatively normal and easy. I have fond memories of growing up with my immediate family and cousins, celebrating Christmas (still my favourite time of the year) with new clothes and visiting friends and neighbours. 

There were low moments too, like losing loved ones and pets, and moving to a new school and city – but on the whole, I had a happy young life.

But when I realised I was gay, it was the elephant in the room that should never be addressed.

When I was about eight or nine, I lived and dreamed in colours – I was different as I did not like traditional sports like other boys, who played football all day long. 

Growing up in a Christian culture meant toxic heteronormativity and excessive order. In my teenage years, I had no interest in women and could not relate to what my teacher said in biology classes. 

There was no one to confide in, and I couldn’t be open in such a religious society either. 

In hindsight, what felt like a happy childhood for me was, in fact, a façade masking a private despair, a stolen life, a happiness that never existed. 

Being less than honest about a core part of me meant acting every single day year after year, and that is no way to live.

So, social justice became my escape and my attempt to repair damages and make peace with my situation. It is something I’m very passionate about. 

Seven years ago, I started campaigning for refugee rights in Nigeria.

Social media gave me a new power to talk about forbidden topics and I fought tirelessly for causes close to my heart on Twitter. Looking at my journey it just makes sense why I have this fire for positive change. 

But in 2019, I realised it was time to speak out against the injustices of LGBT+ people in my home country, too.

I felt a sense of duty to myself – if I was to live my life moving forward, I had to be my most honest and authentic. I wanted to start living life on my own terms and make peace with my conflicting identities fighting to be honoured.

So, along with eight other people, I decided to organise the first ever Pride event in Nigeria.

Garnering the strength and courage of LGBT+ icons who came before my generation such as Bayard Rustin, Bisi Alimi and Lady Phyll, and being lucky enough to know a few in my generation through social media, we organised a series of protests in 15 monumental locations across the country – including Abuja and the megacity of Lagos. 

Among us, there was a sense of fear, anger, sadness, passion, courage, laughter, pain and above all love.

However, in the lead-up, my eight allies pulled out of the protests because of valid personal reasons: danger to their safety and the impact on families and friends. 

Still, my mind was made to come out so it was decided that this event would be a ‘solo Pride’. I would be the willing face of this LGBT+ protest, while the others would be involved and support from behind the scenes.

The night before the first day was a sleepless, peculiar night. My heart was racing and it felt like the end of a journey to freedom (or so I thought). 

I chose my Pride Dr Martens, Pride clothes and my Pride Swatch – for every protest, my outfits had bold messages. And that was the confidence I needed; nothing else mattered when I wore those. 

There were no placards as I was the placard. My Dr Martens and clothing did all the talking, alongside the three Pride flags: LGBT, Bisexual and Trans.

My Pride flags and apparel drew so much attention from passers-by as well as the authorities. On the days of the protests, I feel like I died and was reborn many times from being both petrified and empowered. 

It seemed like I stood alone but had the support and power of all my allies and LGBT+ icons both living and dead.

We were there to protest different issues affecting the LGBT+ community in Nigeria – particularly highlighting the dangers of the Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act (SSMPA) and calling for the urgent need for repeal. 

This law, passed in 2014, prohibits same-sex marriage and ruthlessly punishes LGBT+ people in Nigeria. In addition to prohibiting same-sex marriage, the law legitimised oppression and was used by authorities to justify persecution. 

Citizens can also carry out ‘jungle justice’ without repercussions; lynching and murder of LGBT+ people is a common occurrence. The protest aimed to get the draconian law repealed, educate and humanise the LGBT+ experience.

Our Pride event culminated in a month-long protest at the National Assembly in Abuja, where the draconian law had been officially enacted five years prior. 

We protested four times a week and members of the public were mostly supportive! 

Every day was not without its challenges though, and we constantly felt the threat of being lynched – especially in Lagos, where it nearly did happen before my allies managed to pacify the situation.

At the end of it all, I was very proud to have been part of such a movement for social change. However, the fallout was serious and our group discovered that we’d become ‘persons of interest’.

We had made it into the Senate building to protest when sympathetic people at the National Assembly warned us that we needed to go into hiding. We had been seen on CCTV and it was known that we were there to protest for LGBT+ rights. 

For standing up for what was right, I faced persecution from both the Nigerian authorities and religious bodies. 

My home then called me, saying that the police were asking strange questions about my life and activities. 

Within days, it was unsafe for me to stay in my own country, so I had to flee my home to seek safety. There was no time to say goodbye. 

I could have gone to the USA or Canada, but the UK was familiar to me as I had visited before, and since time was against me, I did not have the luxury of renewing or processing visas.

I’d thought all my worries were behind me as soon as I got on the flight to Britain.

I arrived in the UK on 5 November 2019 and upon my arrival at the airport, I spoke to the UK authorities and told them that I was here because my life was in danger.

After a painful 11-hour wait, they told me that I was to be thrown into an immigration detention centre. 

I was anxious yet numb. The silver lining was safely escaping being hunted and the toxic situation I’d been in. 

In detention, there was no protection or safeguarding. I am not ready to share the details of hostility and mistreatment that I experienced there but what happened to me is a far cry from being an isolated case.

It haunts me to know that others have experienced the same – many friends of mine who have gone through similar ordeals in detention are simply too scared to speak out.

After being detained, I was placed somewhere that did not have people like me in mind. 

I was with hostile heterosexual people and existed as a punch bag and object of ridicule for my colour, sexual orientation and mannerisms. Try as I may, I could never disappear for I am a black LGBT+ non-binary asylum seeker in Britain.

Since coming to the UK, life has been unpredictable – not least because just a few months after my arrival, Covid-19 emerged.

The pandemic has pushed asylum seekers like me further and further into limbo: living in precarious accommodation and austerity, as well as experiencing poor mental, emotional and physical health.

Humanity is once again being wronged by a small number of decision-makers and gatekeepers

But I was blessed to be put in contact with nonprofits like Albert Kennedy Trust and Safe Passage International, which relentlessly came to my aid – and who have helped countless other people before me.

AKT was my first home and still is. For the first time, I met openly LGBT+ brothers and sisters and it was like Pride every single day. AKT also made sure I was well looked after mentally, emotionally and physically, like registering me with a GP.

Safe Passage connected me with other stories of journeys to safety and supported me to advocate for safe routes for child refugees. I joined the first cohort of Young Leaders, where we learnt how to lobby MPs and campaign, built up confidence and capacity within ourselves, and discovered our strength.

Thankfully, I was granted refugee status a year after my arrival in the UK. Getting this news gave me immense joy.

The Government is pushing through the Nationality and Borders Bill at the moment, which will likely make things much worse for those who are forced to flee their homes in the way I was. If passed, this Bill will severely punish those who are forced to take a dangerous journey to the UK, even if that was the only way to reach sanctuary.

This Bill isn’t just about me or my own experiences – it’s about all of us. It defies the right to sanctuary, which is a right that belongs to all humans, irrespective of how someone has to travel to seek it.

We are living in an era of heightened uncertainty with the pandemic – a time when love ought to take centre stage. Yet, humanity is once again being wronged by a small number of decision-makers and gatekeepers.

This issue is personal to me – it is an attack on humanity. If this Bill was passed before I came to the UK, I probably wouldn’t be here to tell my story.

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