Coming out is often portrayed as a single, dramatic moment. But for many Nigerians, queerness isn’t a sudden realisation. It’s a slow, complicated journey — pieced together over years, shaped by silence, shame, religion, family, and fleeting moments of clarity.
For Pride Month, we spoke to five queer Nigerians about when and how they realised they were queer. They share how they came to terms with who they truly are and what it cost them.
“I’d force myself to kiss boys, just to convince myself I wasn’t ‘like that’” — Vera*, 26, Lesbian
Vera’s queerness bloomed in the one place her parents thought would “protect” her. She finds it funny that Nigerian parenting often creates the very thing it’s trying to avoid.
“I went to an all-girls Catholic boarding school because my parents wanted to protect me from boys and sin. The joke was on them because we made do with ourselves. It was normal to crush on each other, and we would hold hands, exchange love letters, and hide in dark corners to kiss. My first sexual encounter was in SS1, with a senior girl who made me feel everything at once, but the guilt afterwards was horrible. It went against everything I had been taught.
So I tried to correct it by chasing boys over the holidays, but it never worked. I didn’t like them. By university, I was tired of pretending. I admitted to myself that I was a lesbian and told a few close friends. The acceptance I got gave me the courage to tell my brother, who is just indifferent.
My parents don’t know yet. But I’ve started playing the ‘bad daughter’ card. I got tattoos, piercings, and changed my dressing. I figured if I soften the blow in layers, it won’t shock them as much. I’ve even hinted to my mum that I like girls. She laughed it off, but one day I’ll say it plainly. They may not accept it right away, but I have a feeling they’ll come around.”
“One drunken kiss with my guy changed everything” — Usman*, 33, Bisexual
On a random night out with a friend, the last thing Usman expected was to realise that he liked men. Since then, his journey to finding a safe space has been anything but random.
“I was drunk when I discovered I liked men. My guy and I had gone to the club to pull girls. We were goofing around and somehow, we kissed. It wasn’t a quick one, but a full-on makeout session. I pulled away after a while, but I didn’t hate it.
The next day, I wasn’t sure it had even happened. He acted like nothing was wrong. Days passed, and I finally texted him about it. He said I had forced myself on him, even though I remember him pulling me close and placing my hand on his hard-on.
We blocked each other, but the feelings didn’t go away. I started exploring with threesomes and casual hook-ups. Slowly, I accepted I was bisexual. I left my girlfriend at the time because I felt guilty for cheating and hiding this from her. I needed to figure myself out.
After three years of being single, I dated a guy briefly. It didn’t last, but it helped me grow. I’m now in a relationship with a woman who’s also bisexual, and honestly, it’s the best relationship I’ve ever had.”
“My mum noticed I didn’t fit in, so she sent me abroad for therapy” — Josh*, 25, Genderqueer
Josh always knew they were different, even before they had the words for it. But growing up in a world that demanded they “act like a man” made life feel like a performance. Their story is a raw look at how toxic masculinity stifles identity.
“I’ve always been soft and effeminate. The way I talked, walked, and expressed myself made people see it before I did. My dad hated it. He kept telling me to behave like a man, but I never wanted to. I loved women — not romantically at first, but in the way I wanted to be them.
Makeup fascinated me. I told my mum I wanted to be a makeup artist just to be closer to it. She was reluctant and didn’t understand. Nobody really did.
In secondary school, the boys called me ‘Risky’, after Bobrisky. I was bullied constantly. So my armour was to lean in and play the character. Still, it was lonely. I wasn’t sure where I fit in. Girls treated me like one of them. Boys avoided me entirely. I was never seen as a romantic possibility. It got to me, and I fell into depression. My mum noticed and fought with my dad to send me abroad for therapy.
I’ll always be grateful to her because she saved me. Being abroad and in a space where I wasn’t considered abnormal helped me accept myself fully. Now, I identify as genderqueer. I’m still discovering myself and healing, but I’m happier than ever.”
“I thought I was just being womanist — until I wanted her all to myself” — Bisola*, 22, Bisexual
For the longest time, Bisola told herself she just admired women because she was a feminist. But eventually, that admiration started to feel a lot like desire.
“I’ve always told myself I just really admire women. I’d hype their Instagram posts and stare a little too long at random pictures of women. But I chalked it all up to being a good womanist. That’s what I believed.
Then one day in class, I hugged Stella, a girl I wasn’t particularly close to. But the hug felt different. I felt something like electricity stir in me. She must’ve felt it too, because later that night, we met up and made out.
Even then, I convinced myself it was just a one-time experiment out of curiosity. I was in a relationship with a guy at the time, so I couldn’t let myself think too deeply about it. But it didn’t stop there.
I eventually talked to a friend about what happened with Stella, and she casually suggested we try a threesome — I, Stella, and my boyfriend. The idea made me nauseous. I couldn’t bear the thought of him touching Stella. That was when my feelings for Stella dawned on me.
That moment unravelled everything I thought I knew. I realised I wasn’t just admiring women. I wanted them. Since then, I’ve explored more and come to terms with the fact that I’m bisexual.
I haven’t come out to my parents. They’re extremely religious, and I already know they won’t take it well. I’ve made peace with the fact that they may never fully know who I am. I barely go home, and staying closeted feels safer. But I know I’m more scared of finding out if their love is as unconditional as they say.”
You’ll enjoy reading: “My Parents Love And Accept My Partner” — Queer Nigerians On Having Supportive Parents
“Men sucked the joy out of me, but women made me feel giddy” — Ulomma*, 23, Lesbian
For Ulomma, it was less about a moment and more about finally choosing to stop performing. It tells us that self-acceptance is often a slow, liberating undoing.
“Looking back, I think I always knew I was queer. I didn’t have an exact experience, but what took time was accepting I didn’t like men, at least not the way I thought I was supposed to. I’d be around women and feel giddy and flirty, but with men? I was tense and irritable. Still, for years, I tried to convince myself I liked them because it seemed easier.
I came out for the first time when my cousin tried to set me up with a guy. I told her it wouldn’t work because I like women. She just shrugged, then offered to set me up with a girl instead. I told her I already had a girlfriend. Her only concern was that I was being safe. Her reaction helped me be more confident.
Since then, I’ve come out to almost everyone in my family. My mum took the longest. She had those ‘you can’t be gay!’ moments, but she eventually admitted she always suspected and wasn’t as shocked. Now, I lie less and show up more fully as myself. No one can hold my queerness over me because there’s no secret to weaponise. My family knows and loves me — and my gay ass — as I am. That’s a privilege I don’t take for granted.”
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