What’s it like to be gay in a country where it’s a criminal offence?

Growing up gay

When David (not his real name) first realised he was attracted to other boys, he was just a child. ‘I must have been around seven,’ he recalls. ‘I didn’t understand it at the time – it was just natural, a feeling of being drawn to people like me.’ Growing up in Nigeria, however, made that self-awareness a double-edged sword. As he became more in tune with his identity, he also became more aware of how dangerous it could be to express it openly.

From an early age, David was seen as different. ‘I was always quite feminine – the way I walked, talked, and expressed myself,’ he says. Although his family loved him, they assumed it was just a phase. School, however, was a different story. ‘I was bullied a lot. People would call me names and single me out. Even though I was likeable and social, I always felt like an outsider.’ Church, a central part of his upbringing, became both a refuge and a challenge. ‘People would whisper, asking why I acted the way I did. It was subtle, but I knew I stood out. At the same time, the church gave me a shield – I became very involved in worship, led choirs, and that gave people a reason to see me beyond just my mannerisms.’

An orchestrated backlash

As David got older, social media changed the landscape. ‘People always knew that queer people existed, but now it was in their faces. The backlash was intense – laws were enforced more strictly, people became more violent, and there was a real sense of danger.’ Nigeria’s legal system reflects this hostility. The Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act (2014) not only criminalises same-sex relationships but also outlaws any association with LGBTQ+ advocacy groups, making it illegal to even discuss queer rights openly. In northern states under Sharia law, same-sex acts can carry the death penalty. This kind of legal framework emboldens vigilantes, blackmailers, and corrupt police officers, leaving little recourse for those who are targeted.

‘Nigeria criminalises consensual same-sex intimacy under a Criminal Code imposed by the British during colonial times, and under the draconian Same Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act of 2013. The country’s northern states also criminalise same-sex sexual activity through an interpretation of Sharia law, and the death penalty, by stoning, is a possible sentence. These laws create an environment of stigma, discrimination and violence for LGBT people, and they have a considerable negative impact on the provision of public health services. It is time they were struck down and consigned to history,’ says the Human Dignity Trust.

Intimidation and blackmail

David faced increasing hostility at university. ‘There were people who just hated me for being me. They’d gossip, tease, and make me feel like I was under constant surveillance. My name became well known, not for what I did, but for who I was.’

One of his most harrowing experiences came when he was set up through a dating app. ‘I was new to that world – my queer friends at university had warned me about dating app setups, but I didn’t fully understand the risks.’ On his birthday in 2020, he arranged to meet someone, unaware that it was a trap. ‘The moment I arrived, there was an entourage waiting for me. I was robbed, my accounts were emptied, and they took my phone. They even called my parents, demanding money.’

His parents, who were already aware of his sexuality but still hoped it was a phase, sent what they could. ‘I was lucky. Others have had it worse – some are beaten, tortured, stripped naked and video recorded while being made to confess to being gay, then blackmailed, even killed. The fact that it was my birthday probably saved me from more violence.’

 

Nowhere to turn

Unfortunately, his experience is far from unique. Organisations like The Initiative for Equal Rights (TIERs) have documented many cases of queer Nigerians being entrapped through social media and dating apps. Blackmail, extortion, and physical violence are common outcomes, yet victims often have nowhere to turn due to the law criminalising their very existence.

Another encounter left him with physical scars. While travelling at night, he was stopped by vigilantes. ‘They called me “boy-girl” and told me to leave the road. One of them followed me, searched my phone, and then the assault began. I was beaten with belts, punched, humiliated. My left ear was damaged, and my money was stolen.’ That night, he made a decision. ‘I realised I had to make changes – not for them, but for me. I started going to the gym, not just because I was attracted to masculinity, but to protect myself. I learned to carry myself differently, to blend in more.’

A brighter future?

Despite the risks, David remains hopeful. ‘There’s progress. There are organisations in Nigeria fighting for our rights – NGOs providing legal support, human rights groups stepping in to stop setups. There are even police officers within the community who work to take down these extortionists.’ Queer visibility is increasing, particularly in entertainment and fashion. ‘We see people expressing themselves more openly, attending events, wearing what they want. Even straight people are embracing queer culture in some ways.’ However, this progress is social, not legal. ‘The laws are still there. You have to be smart – know where to go, who to trust, and how to stay under the radar.’

His workplace, an inclusive international organisation, has given him the freedom to be himself. ‘At first, some colleagues had their biases – this is Nigeria, after all. But I was always open, always expressive. Over time, people warmed up. Now, they joke that I bring sunshine to the office.’ He recognises that his experience is a privilege not shared by all. ‘Many queer people in Nigeria do not have that safety. But at least now, we have each other. We have safe spaces, we have networks of support, and that’s something.’

When asked whether he feels safer now compared to five years ago, he hesitates. ‘I think I’ve learned to adapt more than anything. I know how to navigate the dangers better. But the threats are still there. People still get attacked, harassed. I still see the stares when I walk down the street.’ Yet, he remains resolute. ‘I won’t let fear define me. I’ll keep living, keep thriving, and keep supporting my community. Because we’re not going anywhere.’

Acceptance not tolerance

His story is one of resilience in the face of adversity, a testament to the strength of Nigeria’s queer community and the hope that one day, true acceptance will replace mere tolerance.

Our CEO, Marcus Watson, who has been a champion of LGBT+ equality for nearly four decades, reflected, “Through decades of hostility, criminalisation, and violence, the LGBT community has stood unshaken—choosing love over fear, courage over silence, and resilience over oppression. In places like Nigeria and beyond, where injustice still seeks to erase your existence, your love is resistance, and your truth is an unbreakable force for change. The fight for dignity and equality is far from over, but history bends towards justice—and you are its authors.”

Inclusivity is paramount

As an organisation we pride ourselves on being inclusive, providing colleagues like David with a work environment where they can be themselves without fear of intimidation. As LGBT+ History month draws to a close, as an employer we’re committed to ensuring everyone is welcome, 12 months a year. It doesn’t start or end in February!