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The piece explores how Nigerian queer individuals use fashion, digital activism, and cultural reclamation as radical acts of resistance against colonial-era heteronormativity, redefining gender, identity, and visibility within a repressive society.
For most of my life, I went to church simply because my family did. I grew up in Lagos, Nigeria, with my uncle and his wife, and church became part of my routine. I enjoyed it because the sermons often focused on loving God and financial prosperity, allowing me to connect without relying too much on the moral dictates of the ancient text known as the Holy Book. That perspective stayed with me until I was outed. When I was outed in church, the institution believed that my finger rings and hand bangles were a sign of gay rituals (initiations).
The current Nigerian history is rooted in colonialism and imperialism. Heteronormative ideals have become naturalized in Nigeria, and institutions like the Church are used to indoctrinate and discipline young minds. Queerness is an act of resistance, not just to these ideals, but to this history of colonialism that erased past modes of dress and lifestyles. Thus, reclamation becomes part of this resistance. In this piece, I write from my position as a Nigerian cultural historian and through the lens of queerness.
In Nigeria, where LGBTQ+ identities are criminalized, queerness as resistance is expressed in both lifestyle and fashion. On the streets of Nigeria’s most populous city, queer individuals defy expectations through their fashion presentations. They decolonize and resist during fashion festivals, art exhibitions, raves, and entertainment events, wearing outfits that symbolize the reclamation of cultural power by drawing from what their ancestors once wore. In contemporary Nigeria, local fashion expression is often misrepresented as the promotion of Western ideas of gender and sexuality, despite these concepts being deeply rooted in the country’s own culture. While Nigerians in digital spaces promote decolonial thought, these perspectives are often drowned out by conservative narratives. Queerness, therefore, stands as a radical mode of existence.
Many Nigerian LGBTQ+ individuals identify as “queer” as a form of resistance. Following the publication of “Under the Udala Trees” by Chinelo Okparanta in 2015, numerous conversations about queerness emerged in the Nigerian art and entertainment space, often framed as cautionary tales. The Nigerian environment seeks to stifle any visible gender non-conformity in individuals because heteronormativity is deemed paramount. The film industry of the early 2000s portrayed queerness as a moral warning, churning out weekly evangelical films that depicted demonic possession and witchcraft. Led by Evangelist Helen Ukpabio, late 1990s and early 2000s Nigerian society routinely labelled any mention of fluidity as witchcraft.
Homosexuality has been portrayed as antithetical to African culture, notes researcher Monika Raul. She argues that such societal opinion, although not grounded in fact, overlooks the complex historical and cultural realities of diverse African societies. Gender presentation, for instance, has always been diverse, offering rich and layered expressions of gender across different cultures. In Igbo Nigerian society, “wrapper wearing” is a practice that is equally applicable to both men and women. Beads are worn by anyone, regardless of gender identity, as a part of ritual, chieftaincy, and celebration. Yet in contemporary Nigerian society, some strands of Abrahamic religion frown upon flashy beads, labelling them as symbols of homosexuality, such as my finger rings and handle bangles.
Similarly, Yoruba culture has a wrapper (ìró), widely worn by women but also tied by men. The headwrap culture, known as “gele,” which is now largely associated with women, was traditionally tied by men during festivities. This shift reflects how Abrahamic religions, upon arriving, reinterpreted and gendered people’s cultural practices, then gendered the outfits, rendering anything worn predominantly by one gender as exclusive to that gender. In Hausa culture, bàbban riga, a flowing gown, is traditionally worn by men, while women wear long gowns and wrappers. In Western contexts, trans women are slurred as “men in dress,” with “dress” reduced to a marker of femininity. Yet, in many African cultures, including Nigerian ones, “dress” has never been exclusive to women. Among the Efik, Ibibio, Bini, Tiv, Nupe, and many other Nigerian groups, clothing has not historically been a rigid quantifier of gender. Queer Nigerians who resist through fashion are therefore not only resisting, but also reclaiming traditions that their ancestors have long practiced. For those ancestors, gender was often viewed as spiritual and psychological, rather than merely physical (genital).
Colonialism and imperialism reshaped Nigerian life, not only in how gender and sexuality were structured. Imported religion displaced indigenous ones, yet LGBTQ+ Nigerians continue to reinterpret Abrahamic faiths in ways that affirm queerness. In 2006, a Nigerian gay man, Reverend Jide Macaulay, recognising the exclusion by traditional churches, established “House of Rainbow” where queer people could gather to exercise their faith. By 2025, while Revd Jide Macaulay had sought asylum in the United Kingdom, queer Nigerians continued to worship in small gatherings. Some of the country’s mega Gen Z churches are undergoing redefinition. They might not explicitly endorse “gay rights,” but they increasingly welcome people of diverse identities, reflected in the ways congregants present themselves through fashion and accessories.
Colonialism and imperialism brought little benefit to Nigeria’s economy, instead leaving a legacy of exploitation and indoctrination that entrenched religious fanaticism into the fabric of our society. According to the University of Jos Journal of Political Science, colonialism imposed political systems and ideologies from the West upon Nigerian culture. Through its many branches, colonialism indoctrinated Nigerians, embedding foreign practices so deeply that they persist even in “naming” conventions. In Nigeria, queerness encompasses identities beyond the LGBTQ+ spectrum. To be queer is to live and behave outside the box of imposed boundaries, whether in terms of gender, sexuality, or fashion expression.
Digital activists on social media platforms promote the reclamation of cultures that were disrupted by the Victorian-era ideals and the imposition of cis-heteronormativity. As a child, I was already made to choose gender expressions based on set rigid rules. Today, through social media and academic texts, activists are educating people about indigenous gender diversity and its various expressions. For example, in Igbo culture, there exists the system known as the “female husband.” Here, “queerness” as an act enables LGBTQ+ Nigerians to reclaim identities in ways that extend beyond sexual practices. In that sense, “queerness” has become a radical assertion of their existence in itself.
Fashion has emerged as one of the most accessible means of expressing gender non-conformity in Nigeria. In the country, public displays of same-gender affection, such as holding hands, are often unsafe. Yet, LGBTQ+ individuals can still express themselves through clothing not traditionally aligned with their outward gender without necessarily attracting mob violence, though not without stares. Sexual and gender fluidity is also increasingly visible in Nigerian celebrity culture. Brands such as Orange Culture, founded by Adebayo Oke-Lawal, are gaining international recognition for gender-conscious designs. While embraced locally by Nigerian celebrities, the brand also achieved global visibility when American actor Brian Tyree Henry collaborated with it for the Met Gala. It highlighted Ni