She Called Me Woman|Azeenarh Mohammed, Chitra Nagarajan, Rafeeat Aliyu
Photo: Shayera Dark
She Called Me Woman is a portrait of 25 queer Nigerian women. Their anonymised, first-person accounts cover family dynamics, childhood memories, earliest sexual encounter, religion, physical abuse, and personal struggle with their sexuality. The women also reflect on their past and current romantic relationships and—with the exception of two narrators—what it’s like living as a queer person in Nigeria.
The first story “She Called Me Woman” details a transgender woman’s trials as she navigates the stifling confines of a transphobic society. Initially, JP’s “effeminate” mien doesn’t bother his mother until people began talking about it. And when JP casually mentions to her that she wants a sex change, their relationship takes a turn for the worse.
“The once beautiful mum who was my angel became my demon and my brothers became her bulldogs, her emissaries,” she said. “There was no day they didn’t beat me, their first-born brother.”
Life at home becomes unbearable for JP, but she finds refuge in university among tolerant students and lecturers who protect her from harassment. A stranger gives her the first piece of literature she reads about a transgender person, which prompts her to search online for more information regarding her orientation.
To date, JP doesn’t have a rapport with her mother but has reconciled with one of her brothers.
For many, coming out to kith and kin is an extremely daunting affair, and it’s no surprise some of the women in the book choose to keep their identity private or, like NS, inform some family members but not others.
“I cry when I think about coming out to my dad,” said the Nigerian-Jamaican whose mother and siblings are accepting of her queerness. “I fear that it may cut me off from a more intimate relationship with him and with my Igbo-ness.”
Meanwhile, a different narrator with supportive parents is advised by her politician father to keep her sexuality private so opponents don’t use it as ammunition against him. In Nigeria, homosexuality is punishable by fourteen years in jail.
Passed in 2014, Nigeria’s anti-homosexuality law legitimises the discrimination of members of the LGBTQ community, some of whom have lost their jobs because of their identity or left the country to live freely with their partners.
Religion, a preoccupation among Nigerians, is a recurring subject in She Called Me Woman. Though some are conflicted because of their faith’s teaching on homosexuality, others are at peace with God.
“I do not believe God is going to smite me for loving another person,” said OF. “If you kill somebody, steal from somebody or do something without a person’s consent, then that is wrong. But love is not wrong.”
In a similar vein, one woman declares heterosexuals have no moral authority over queer people since they themselves engage in pre and extramarital sex, acts proscribed by the Koran and Bible.
One of the book’s most interesting revelations is the implications of adopting traditional gender roles in same-sex relationships. For instance, one woman lamented that some of her dates expect her to pay for their meal because of her masculinity, while another expects a submissive partner.
“I count myself as the man in the relationship,” she said. “I’m the one to dictate what happens in this relationship. No matter how busy you are, you have to tell me in advance that you are going out.”
She goes on to say that if she couldn’t provide as the “father of the family,” her girlfriend might “look for another person outside.”
Although She Called Me Women features mainly the experiences of middle class women between the ages of 20 and 42, shortcomings the editors acknowledged, it offers a rare glimpse into Nigeria’s LGBTQ community.
Most admit the anti-homosexuality law has not impacted their lifestyle, and that the internet has helped them connect to members of the community. However, physically meeting new people remains dangerous as there have been reports of police officers arbitrarily arresting suspected homosexuals. As a precaution, some rely on the community for background checks before showing up or accepting invitations to gay parties.
Still, the threat of a jail sentence is real, and some queer Nigerians have resorted to marrying the opposite sex (gay or not) or acting homophobic for the sake of self-preservation as in the case of KZ’s married, bisexual friend. Others avoid the LGBTQ community due to fear of exposure, leading to further isolation.
In light of this grim reality, KZ warns Nigerians like herself to keep a low profile.
“Until [heterosexuals] realise that we’re not going anywhere, that we’re as normal as they are, stop exhibiting yourselves,” she said. “Because if someone reports you to the police, they will either rape you or ask you to bring money.”
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