When Liber, a 22-year-old trans woman in Lagos, posted a video online about her experience accessing hormone replacement therapy (HRT), she didn’t think it would go viral. She was just trying to speak her truth, to show how hard it is for trans people to get basic care in Nigeria. But the fallout was quick and painful.
Already living independently and navigating a city that’s hostile to anyone who doesn’t conform, she suddenly found herself exposed. What followed was violence, rejection, and a desperate escape. But also, resistance. Softness. And the quiet power of choosing herself, again and again.
This is Liber’s Story as told to Princess
I was six when I first realised I wasn’t like other kids. It started with the smallest things. For one, I was left-handed, which my very Muslim and traditional grandmother already had issues with. I also remember watching romantic scenes in movies and always imagining myself as the woman. That felt completely natural to me. I didn’t have the language for it then, but I already knew who I was.
My biological family is not just religious, they’re royal. That made things even more complicated. At one point, I even convinced myself that maybe my parents had lied to me about being a boy. It sounds ridiculous now, but that’s how warped the messaging around gender was. It’s almost darkly funny because even when I began transitioning at 19, the noise around who I was “allowed” to be never really stopped.
Growing up, no one around me made my queerness a big issue. I was expressive, sheltered, soft…just me. It wasn’t until I got into secondary school that people started trying to correct me. Teachers and classmates would ask, “Why do you walk like a girl? Why do you move your hands like that?” It was confusing because no one had ever told me that the way I moved was wrong. That’s when I started learning to shrink myself.
By 13, I’d already made up my mind to play along until I could leave. I heard how my parents spoke about queer people. I knew I wasn’t safe to be myself, so I stopped trying. And then I got out.
I left home two years ago. These days, I barely see my parents — five days in December, maybe. That’s it. I started living on my own, supporting myself, doing everything I could to stand on my own terms.
Last year, they found out I was trans because of a video I did for a company talking about how inaccessible hormone replacement therapy (HRT) is in Nigeria. My mum saw it. She was upset, confrontational, and it got messy. We haven’t spoken since. She threatened to tell the rest of my family, and I told her to go ahead. She never did.
It was my foster father who actually ended up raising hell. He saw my socials and responded with violence. Literal violence. He locked me in a room for 3 days and tried to force me to stay there. Then he called my biological family and outed me to all of them. It was chaos. Eventually, I jumped a fence. I made it out. I had to. But that was the moment I fully understood what it meant to be unsafe just for simply existing.
Living in Lagos as a trans woman means being hyper-aware all the time. I don’t use public transport. I don’t go to the market. I structure my entire movement — what I wear, where I go, how I speak — with my safety in mind. It’s exhausting.
I don’t think I pass or don’t pass as a cis woman, but I do know that once someone sees me as trans, there’s danger. When I was in school, I’d be verbally abused. Sometimes it turned physical. Even when I wasn’t being targeted for being trans, misogyny still found me. So I just cut it off. I stay in spaces I know. I move with a strategy.
The hardest part about being a trans woman in Lagos? Everything. The way people look at you, how they second-guess your presence, how you start to second-guess yourself. It’s exhausting to constantly manage how you’re perceived.
Housing is hell. I’ve moved so many times. I work in the creative space now, producing, consulting, and designing. Before this, I did 3D game work, writing, and modeling. I love the work, but it’s unstable. My friends are my chosen family. They’re what keep me going.
Healthcare? I don’t even bother. There’s no queer or trans-affirming care here. I do what I can: eating right, working out, but even that is survival. Even joy is strategic.
I’ve had moments that affirmed my womanhood, like seeing my mother and grandmother in my face, realising how much of them I carry. But intimacy? That one is layered. I’ve felt love, yes. But it comes with so much tension. Men think being with a trans woman makes them gay. Some of them can’t handle the attraction and project all their confusion on you. It’s dehumanising.
Still, there was one person who really made me feel seen. What stood out to me was how carefree they were about loving me. Like, everywhere, in public, in private — just showing love without shame. Very soft, very intimate. And it jarred me at first. I was like, wow, okay… so someone can actually love you, and not hide it? That moment shifted something for me. It was real.
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Beauty? I’m learning to define that for myself. It’s in the little things. It’s not about mainstream standards; it’s about seeing the art and softness in myself, in others, in how I exist.
Freedom is doing whatever the fuck I want, when I want to. But I’ve had to fight for that. Against myself, against family, against society. I know freedom isn’t a fixed thing. It’s fluid, like beauty. It’s about being able to choose. Even if it’s the wrong choice, it’s mine. That’s why I love wigs. Every day, I get to decide who I want to be. That autonomy is everything.
If I could talk to younger trans girls in Nigeria, I’d say: Trust yourself. That’s it. Trust your feelings, even when you’re confused. Confusion is part of it. Find people who really care — not just any community, but one that holds you. You are loved. You are beautiful.
What does safety look like to me? Just being. Feeling every part of myself, joy, fear, softness, rage, and still existing. Still being allowed to exist.
I’m just one version of transness. I don’t speak for everyone. I never want my story to become a rulebook for the community. I’m speaking from my life, my pain, my joy. That’s enough.
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