Asylum: A Memoir & Manifesto

Prologue

Market day, as it’s popularly known, happened once a year in my part of Nigeria.

Market day had been a tradition long before the invention of paper currency. My parents told me that trade by bartering was the only form of exchange. Most families in Southern Nigeria had a small farm where they grew fruits and vegetables to sustain their families. The small farm in their backyard sometimes sustained them—otherwise, families would have to manage their harvests and bring them to the market to barter for the food and wares they could not grow or make themselves.

On market day, there would be a mixture of regular local market shops and farmers with rice or cassava, who would exchange with fishermen or livestock farmers. Palm oil producers could exchange with those who had yams. Women might trade clothes and clay pots for food. Many did not have shops or storefronts, but instead sold their produce on the floor, which they covered with a cloth sack, or from plates balanced atop their heads.

If you had woken up next to me as a child on market day, you would have been annoyed by my excitement. I always looked forward to going with my mother to the popular Igbudu Market. The sights and sounds were like stepping into an amusement park. Though usually market day was not meant for boys to attend—in Warri, where I was raised, mostly mothers and their young girls would go. The boys had no patience for their mothers, going over each item’s price, hopping from shop to shop, sharing in conversation with the other women at day’s end. For Warri boys, going to the market meant acting like a woman—they would brag about refusing to help their mothers. But not me—I was the only child living in my parents’ home at the time, so my mother always took me to the market with her, which I secretly delighted in.

Spring ushers in the rainy season to Warri, bringing with it looming clouds and almost daily precipitation that turned the sand beneath our feet mushy and claylike. Nevertheless, this was my favorite time of year, for it meant the beginning of crab season. I loved to watch the live crabs in their baskets as the traders tried to tame and settle them. But this season also meant my mum would get us some crab at the market for stew.

We would walk around the market for about three hours on a good day, and when my mother was in her element, we spent the whole day in the market picking up raw foods or new clothes. When we were done shopping, I could see her face grow tired and weary, but she would always flash me a smile, as if to say it’s okay. The bounty was typically too much for my mother to carry, and I was still a small child then. Though boys wouldn’t go to the market with their own mothers, some of the older ones would linger on the outskirts, trying to make a hustle by helping the women carry their goods to a taxi for a small reward.

I remember one day, after we had spent hours going line by line picking items, my mother said it was time to go home to prepare the crab stew before my dad got too hungry. We waited for the boys to come pick up our goods and bring them to the taxi line. Two bald boys with muscular chests, one shirtless and the other in a wifebeater, approached us with sun-slick foreheads, sweat mingling with the foul stench of labor. When they got to us, they began arguing about who would help us in order to secure a tip. Quickly, they turned aggressive, beginning to push each other, and I could feel the muddy floor beneath us thumping. Despite their fighting, no one tried to break them up—this was quite normal, apparently, to everyone except me.

One of them shouted at the other, You know me? I be Jaguda! in pidgin English. He smacked his chest, and it sounded like a clap of thunder striking his torso. I’m a troublemaker, he stressed.

They held each other tightly as they struggled, sweat dripping around them into the mud. I found myself sweating suddenly too, from unease. What was I supposed to do? Was I meant to get involved? Protect my small mother? Instead, I crumpled to the floor of the market and shielded myself from them. I felt my mother’s sweeping, printed dress glide down next to me as she took me between her legs, held me safe and close. She tapped my head slowly, hoping to calm me.

It is okay, my son, she said. This is how Warri boys are supposed to behave.

Their fight was triggering, but my mother’s acceptance of it was even more troubling. In my mother’s soothing, I found calm and terror at the same time. This was just one of many times I found myself stuck in the parade of masculinity and intimidation that was so common for Warri boys, but that I could not bring myself to be a part of. Beyond this market, my inability to act like a real Warri boy would become a constant struggle. Over the years, it would lead to disapproval from my family, my close friends, and the community in which I was raised. At times, I would find it not only difficult, but life-threatening. I would be mocked for carrying unisex bags to class. I would be ostracized by my father and other men in Warri, and at school. Ultimately, I would be attacked by a violent mob—not just for being an untrue Warri boy, but for being a gay man.

This battle with masculinity—with accepting myself and who I am—would eventually lead me to flee the only home and family I had ever known and ever loved. But what waited for me on the other side were challenges I could have never imagined—along with the promise of freedom.

CHAPTER ONE

Growing Up (and Coming Out) in Nigeria

When I was nine years old, my teacher asked me to join the debate team. Why me? I asked. I knew being the only boy on our class’s debate team would put a target on my back—that it would only uphold my classmates’ belief that I was too feminine. So I continued to refuse my teacher’s proposition to join, while my teacher continued to enumerate reasons why I should: Edafe, you argue with your classmates all the time. She saw in me, early on, a quality I would not come to recognize in myself for many years: a conviction in my beliefs.

My closest friend in primary school was a girl named Gloria—we sat close to each other in class and tried to answer most of our teacher’s questions. Gloria and Edafe, our teacher sometimes remarked when surveying the room, this question is not for you.

Gloria and I would walk home from school together, along with my elder sister Anita. My mum and dad sometimes sat in front of our veranda when Gloria and I passed by. Once, my mum pronounced to us, Edafe, Gloria will be a good wife for you! while I tried to hide the embarrassment coloring my face.

My father, on the other hand, is what you might consider a traditionalist. He believed that men were the heads of households, and he viewed marriage as an arrangement between parents for the children rather than something you did for love. He never understood why I was so close to Gloria; instead, he suggested I should concentrate on my education and spend time with the boys at school. Yet Gloria and some of the other girls in my class were the only people I could relate to. And Gloria was the only one of my friends who had the courage to stand up to our classmates when they would call me a mama’s boy or when the other boys accused me of behaving like a woman. In Nigeria, gender stereotypes and roles were strongly adhered to—a boy who was close to girls in the classroom and spent a lot of time with his mother was an atypical picture of masculinity. I wasn’t brave enough to tell my dad or anyone else that I was being bullied by the boys in my class. I worried he would only see this as a weakness, a flaw—that I wouldn’t grow up to be a true African man who could accept responsibilities and care for his family.

I knew that being the only boy on the debate team would make things harder for me, but I convinced myself that my classmates’ mockery came from a place of jealousy. They would have loved to be in a position of representing the class; however, they would never do so at the expense of their egos. Yet Gloria kept remarking how nice it would be for us to compete together. So, for her, I finally agreed to join.

Our class was made up of about sixteen people, and when class was over, the debate team waited behind for practice. The team was made up of four people: three girls and me. We were put into pairs—Gloria and I were partners—and our teacher told us she hoped we would not fail her. No, Ma, we’d replied. For months we practiced each day after school, debating topics such as the history of Nigeria, world leaders, geography, and government’s role in society. Our teachers chose topics that were controversial, but they abstained from politics. The goal of the debate was to build our confidence and give us a working knowledge of the world. But the best part of the debate team was that it would leave me with an invaluable skill—it gave us an edge in arguing for or against a point of view.

A week before the final debate competition was hosted at our school, we had a primary debate practice in class. It took the form of the actual debate set: our chairs were turned to face each other, with Gloria and I on one side, and the other two girls—Amaka and Faith—facing us. Our teacher sat in the middle, and the rest of the class was our audience. With our classmates in attendance, I felt an immense pressure to succeed—if I failed to debate well against one of the girls, the boys would certainly ridicule me.

The debate, which was more of a combination of debating and quizzing, had three sections, the first of which was in the form of a spelling bee, using English spellings; this was Gloria’s domain. The second round was world countries and capitals, my strong suit. After two rounds, though, Amaka’s group was leading. I had failed spelling two country’s names; I could hear boys in the class whispering already. Yet I tried to remain confident.

The third round was world politics and was structured as a debate. This was where Gloria and I stole the game. Our teacher asked, Is Nigeria currently an OPEC state? We buzzed quickly and answered with a confident yes. To my surprise, the audience roared when Gloria and I ascended. The class jumped out of their seats, chanting, Edafe and Gloria! Edafe and Gloria! Winning this trial meant Gloria and I would represent our school at the state finals. We might even be on the local news. This was a big deal.

I should have been afraid, but I no longer was. I felt only courage as Gloria and I continued to prepare for the quiz portion.

Edafe, she’d say in her singsong voice. Tell me: What is the capital of Morocco? Was it Casablanca? It must be, I thought. Gloria laughed. No, she said, smiling with dimples and flashing the gap between her front teeth. Wrong answer.

So, tell me, what is the right answer? I protested.

I will not, she said, and jolted into a laughing run. I chased after her until I’d finally caught her, both of us falling and panting on the ground.

Okay, okay, she said. It is Rabat!

I tried to argue with her—I was sure it wasn’t Rabat—but of course Gloria was right. She had a charm, a welcoming smile that made her never seem boastful of her competencies. I continued arguing with her over the correct answer on our walk home. By the time we arrived at my house, I was willing to admit she was right.

Weeks later, the final tournament took place in our school’s assembly hall—this was no longer an intimate class affair. More than one hundred students, teachers, and parents—though only my sister Anita was able to attend—filed into the hall as we heard the announcer’s boom from the prep room: The final competition is here! We were called to the stage, waiting behind the curtains for our moment. The urge to win coursed through me—my hands were sweating, my legs shook. It was then that I felt Gloria tap me and say, Stop being afraid, and wrapped her hand around my thumb. I could feel my fear morphing into something else: excitement.

We walked onto the stage to a roar of cheers from our classmates and peers, and took our places. We debated topics such as how Nigeria gained independence from Britain, and whether colonizers should have stayed longer. Should we adopt the UK prime minister and monarchy system of government or a democratic system? Though the debate lasted much longer, it felt as though it went by in a blink. The other two teams were more experienced, sharper and faster with their arguments. Unfortunately, Gloria and I lost, coming in third. We realized that our teacher had not prepped us properly for this kind of argument-style debate as much as she had for a spelling competition.

But any worries I had about being teased for debating with the girls were quickly dispelled—it turns out my mates were proud of me for representing the boys in the class. Afterward, our teacher led us to a cozy reception where our classmates waited. They stood and cheered for me and Gloria when we walked in, treating us as if we’d won. I locked eyes with my sister Anita, who beamed at me with pride. Though when I arrived back home, I was met by my father on our veranda, wearing a solemn face—after all, we had still lost.

I grew up in Warri, a city in the Southern region of Nigeria. We referred to ourselves as Waffairians. We had our own lingua franca called pidgin English, which was a mix of English, Portuguese, and many other languages. Your mastery of pidgin English must be backed by bravado and guts. It was about a certain type of swagger. Men were fascinated with the Warri boy’s lifestyle, which was ascribed to people who used slang and did things in a certain way.

For instance, a true Warri boy does not back down from a fight or challenge. If someone pushed your chest, challenging you to a fight, people might chant, You know who I be? This was a way of asking the challenger to back down or face the pedigree of your street worth. Or they might just say, You dey craze? Which simply meant you were crazy to challenge a fight. If the person refused to back down, the challenger might have had to break a bottle with their head to show their strength.

These were the outrageous displays of masculinity that colored my boyhood. I wasn’t a true Warri boy. I did not engage in shows of strength; I did not use or relate to the slang. My dad, however, was a real Warri man. If we ran out of matches to light our stove, I’d suggest we ask our neighbors for a matchbox, but my father would refuse. He would rather be hungry than be seen as a man unable to care for his family. To him, masculinity meant not showing any form of weakness to anyone; not having a matchbox meant he was unable to be the man of the house. I remember the lyrics of the song Gentleman by Fela, about how being an Africa man original was more important than being a gentleman. Men should carry the weight of the home. Though there were strong religious overtones in our perceptions of male and female roles: a man could get married to more than one woman, as women were considered helpers to men. Fela himself married more than twenty wives. To stray from these perceived ideologies of what makes an ideal man was to question the foundations of our traditional African belief in the role of a man and a woman. These were part of the reason my dad was not happy I was so close to Gloria; he sensed I wasn’t being an Africa man original.

Where my father exemplified Nigerian norms for masculinity, my mother bucked tradition. I grew up the youngest of four children, with one older brother and two older sisters. Before I was born, she had two other children who died at age two due to illness; three years after my birth, my mother tried to give birth to another baby—my younger brother—who died at birth, too. I would remain her last born child. In turn, she was very protective of me. In Warri, parents live by the notion of sparing the rod spoiling the child. They believe beating a child is a way to keep them in check. Yet my mother never let anyone lay their hands on me. Instead, she motivated me to study hard and succeed; she bought me gifts such as a new lunch bag to encourage my successes in school.

Maybe my mother’s spoiling was to blame, but I had always liked being around women. My parents were not literate but worked full-time, so my dad’s younger sister, my aunt—Mrs. Erhimona—attended all school events and functions. She was a well-respected woman—the first person with a college degree in my extended family—who lectured at the petroleum training institute in Warri, which was one of the only petroleum institutions in West Africa. At home, when I wasn’t with my mother or my aunt, I had my two older sisters. My elder brother was eleven years older than me; we were not that close, and often the only people I could rely on growing up were my two sisters. I remember afternoons playing with Anita and her dolls, braiding their hair together and painting their faces. This was not, of course, how little Warri boys should spend their playtime. Around Nigeria,