Trigger warning: Sexual abuse
Charles* (30) and his mum were friends. She knew he was queer. She never accepted it, but it wasn’t a problem. She loved him, and they spent time scrolling through TikTok together. But after her sister died, things got bad, and she wanted to pray the gay away. It didn’t go well — and led him to block her everywhere.
This is Charles’* story, as told to Dennis.
In January last year, I sat with my mum in the sitting room. The television was on, but no one was watching. The rugged floor was dusty, and we were both glued to TikTok. We loved doomscrolling together on Sundays when she didn’t go to work. We were friends— the last of our family in Nigeria—and TikTok was a bonding ritual. Sometimes, queer content would come up. My mum would sigh, but that was all.
Things started to change after her sister died three years ago.
We’ve been through a lot together as a family. Ten years ago, I went to a party with friends. A friend of a friend who knew my sister recorded me at the party and sent her the clip. It was a queer party, and it wasn’t the kind of content I would have shared with my family. My sister showed the video to my mum, who then shared it with her sister. Her sister shared it with the family, and that was when my troubles started.
First, my mum insisted on a visit to the pastor. She said I needed deliverance. Then her sister said prayer wouldn’t solve it and brought in soldiers. They beat me for hours. “We will beat the gay away,” one of them said. After that, an uncle paid sex workers at a brothel to have sex with me. All of this happened in the same week. I was just 20.
Two weeks later, I attended another party.
When you’re young, stubborn and queer like I was, you don’t see the big picture. You want the instant gratification. But I’ve learnt that sometimes, you need to suffer today to live the life you want tomorrow.
My dad had lived in the US for years. In 2015, my family started the process to join him. My sisters left, but I didn’t. My mum seized my passport and held on to it until my visa expired. My father supported her. People told them that if I moved, I’d marry a man and never give them grandchildren. Everyone filled their heads with nonsense, and they believed it.
Once, I went to the market with my friends, and a fight broke out with the vendor who tried to cheat us. When I got home, my mum accused me of fighting over a man. She’d heard the lie from someone before I got home, and believed it. There were other instances where she listened to hearsay that made her grow paranoid.
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She started stalking my social media. She would go on Facebook and scroll through my friend’s list and ask questions about people that followed me and that I followed. Once, she saw a friend’s photo and asked why he wore makeup. I didn’t even know he did. She’d dive into comment sections, take screenshots, and bombard me with questions. She wanted to know why they dressed the way they did. If they posted clips from a party, she wanted to know if I was there.
She investigated my friends online and expected me to explain their personal choices.
When Instagram began to explode, she asked why I wasn’t posting on Facebook anymore. I told her people had moved to Instagram, so she asked me to set up an account for her. I did, and her stalking resumed with more vim.
Instagram was nothing like Facebook for me. I had more followers, and a post could garner over 300 comments. Under my posts, followers said things like “Period bitch,” “Yes queen!” My mum would go through them and send screenshots. She demanded I tell them to stop. She wanted me to cut them off. She even complained about how overwhelmed she felt by the number of comments and followers. When she asked why there were so many, I told her people liked me because I was cool.
If feeling overwhelmed was meant to deter her, it only strengthened her resolve.
Her social media stalking became a full-time job. She started sending screenshots every hour and demanding I delete comments.
So I blocked her on Instagram and Facebook.
She must have noticed because she soon wanted to know if I’d left Instagram. I told her I was still online but not active, but she wasn’t satisfied. Instead, she demanded to check my phone. So, I registered a fresh account, posted three pictures, and shared the new username with her.
Eventually, she realised that her stalking, the brothel and soldier solutions didn’t do anything, so she focused on prayers. It was almost as if she succumbed to destiny and comforted herself with the knowledge that God would heal my queerness. That was how we went back to being friends.
It was a dramatic change in our relationship because she went from being against my choices to defending me. When her sister visited and said homophobic things, she would raise her voice at her, even though she was younger. “Don’t say those things about my son,” she’d say. My friends started visiting with no judgment passed on them. We never addressed the change; we simply carried on like we used to, doomscrolling TikTok together and laughing together.
But this was short-lived. After her sister died, she made it her mission to unite the family, and that meant opening our home to other siblings, including some whom she didn’t speak to anymore. One of them was the uncle who took me to the brothel. He once duped my dad ₦16 million, and my mum had to repay the debt. She had cut him off from her life. But in the confusion of grief, she allowed him back in.
They started telling her things about me again. They told her about pastors who could cure me, and she believed them. They gave me soap to bathe with, a concoction to drink that would “cure” my queerness.
Soon enough, whatever semblance of a healthy relationship we’d tried to rebuild crashed again. We stopped scrolling through TikTok together. She knew who I was, but she never accepted it. One day, she invited a pastor to our house. He claimed he could cure me, and she believed him. But I refused to see him.
Then, she did something she never does — she came into my room. Usually, she’d stay outside by the door. But that day, she claimed she was looking for a broom. I suspected the pastor had told her the devil was in my room with me as they spoke.
When she walked in, she saw my friend and asked them to leave. I told her not to, but she embarrassed the person and raised her voice at them. She raised her voice at me, too. I started crying and left the house.
I moved in with a friend. A few days later, she sent a voice note from the pastor. He said God had told him I was an animal and that I would die on November 10, 2024, if I didn’t change. She kept calling, so I blocked her number. I blocked her on WhatsApp as well. It was the last social media platform she still had access to. If she needed to reach me, she would go through my sisters. I never moved back to the house. Instead, I rented a house.
In December, one of my sisters came to Nigeria and tried to smooth things out. My mum didn’t apologise. Instead, she blamed me for painting her badly in front of my dad’s family. She said they would say her son left her house because she was a bad mother.
She didn’t apologise, but I did. I still haven’t unblocked her number, but I unblocked her on WhatsApp. Now, before she calls, she sends a text to ask if she can. Moving out and creating boundaries around our relationship forced her to respect me. Sometimes, she calls to ask where I am. I don’t tell her, but she tells me to be careful and not to trust anybody.
I like the dynamics of our relationship better. I think it’ll stay like this for a long time.
The real name of the subject has been changed to protect his identity.
