Surviving as a Queer Soul in Africa

I was seventeen the first time I realized I was different. Not the kind of different that makes people admire you, but the kind that makes them whisper behind your back, the kind that makes family gatherings feel like minefields. Growing up in a small town in Africa, everyone knew everyone, and secrets were currency. My secret was heavy in my chest, pressing me down with each passing day.

I remember the first time I held her hand. It was at the riverbank, hidden behind the tall reeds where no one could see us. Her fingers were warm, her grip steady, and in that moment, the world outside didn’t exist. The way she looked at me,it wasn’t just friendship, it was recognition. A reflection of myself I’d never dared to show. For a few hours, I felt alive, untethered by the fear that gnawed at the edges of my life. But I knew that moment was borrowed, temporary, fragile.

School was a battlefield. I learned to mask every part of myself. Laughter became a shield; jokes about boys and girls, a trapdoor leading nowhere. Every compliment from my peers felt like a lie, every casual comment about “normal” life felt like a dagger. Teachers noticed the way I shrank in my chair, the way I flinched when someone touched me. But even in their eyes, there was no protection, only expectation. You either conformed or disappeared.

Home was no sanctuary. My parents, loving in their own way, were trapped in a world where love had boundaries they could not cross. When my younger brother asked if I liked girls, the innocence in his eyes broke me. I lied. I smiled. I told him what he wanted to hear. And at night, I cried myself to sleep, wishing the world could bend just enough to let me exist.

The first time I was threatened for being queer, I was nineteen. A group of men cornered me outside a market, words sharp as knives. They didn’t understand the courage it took for me to walk down the street holding my head high. I didn’t fight; I ran. I ran through alleys and streets I knew like the lines on my palm, lungs burning, heart hammering in my chest like a warning drum. By the time I reached home, I was shaking, but alive. That night, I realized survival wasn’t about living freely, it was about living at all.

Yet, even in hiding, I found fragments of hope. Online, I met others like me, voices from cities I had only dreamed of, stories that mirrored mine. For the first time, I felt seen. We shared tips for safety, stories of heartbreak and triumph, and little victories that felt enormous. We became a chosen family, bound not by blood but by understanding, empathy, and shared resilience.

Years later, I’m still surviving. Not just surviving, but carving spaces where my laughter is loud, my love is unapologetic, even if it’s hidden from some eyes. I’ve learned that survival isn’t always about bravery in the face of danger; sometimes, it’s the quiet acts of self-preservation, the daily choices to exist as fully as you can in a world that tells you not to.

Some nights, I still cry for the friends I’ve lost, for the family I couldn’t tell, for the freedom that feels so far away. But I also smile for the victories, the small joys, the connections that make life feel worth living. Being queer in Africa is not a fairytale, but it is my story, and surviving it is an act of defiance, love, and unwavering hope.

To be continued…