To back up or prove a fact, especially one that is likely to be challenged, we turn to statistics. We say “according to statistics”, cite numbers, and reference reports to show the extent of a problem, and that alone, in many cases, is enough to make people take it seriously.
But what happens when there is little or no data to support a fact, not because it is not true but because the people affected and the violence they face are not well documented?
Welcome to the lived realities of many queer Africans.
In almost all African countries, queer people live in fear of the known and the unknown. They face some form of discrimination, criminalisation, and, in some instances, mob violence, or what is called “Kito” attacks, carried out by people who believe their sexual orientation goes against what they consider a “natural or societal” order.
That is why Pride month is more than just a celebration or a festival, a public display of rainbow flags, or even parades. It is an act of stubborn and dangerous resistance. It is a month set aside to push back against laws that criminalise queer identities, the systems that were meant to silence them, and even religious and cultural structures that condemn them. It is also a month of grief, especially for those who have lost their lives or sense of self in a world where even family can be just as threatening as the state, where the police do not protect them and, in some cases, even become a threat to them.
Pride month allows members of the LGBTQ+ community to question public institutions and those who continue to judge queer people for who they are and who they love.
One common argument I have seen people make to justify their hostility against members of the LGBTQ+ community is that queerness is “un-African”. They believe it is foreign and a result of Westernisation. To them, being queer is a sign of cultural contamination, a taboo, and while this sounds true because of the way it has been told and retold to the point of internalisation, it is, in fact, a historical lie.
It might interest you to know that long before colonial rule, there were documented examples of different expressions of gender and sexuality across the continent. For example, E.E. Evans Pritchard, a renowned British anthropologist, documented the “boy wife” custom among the Azande people of the present-day South Sudan in his 1970 research article titled “Sexual Inversion among the Azande”. It was a recognised custom in which unmarried male warriors could enter into a relationship with young boys whose families received compensation or bridewealth in exchange. These boys fulfilled the domestic and sexual roles of a wife to the men. Not only this, Pritchard also recorded that same-sex relationships among women existed even in polygamous households.
Another instance worth mentioning is the historical account of King Mwaga II of the Buganda Kingdom, which is now Uganda. The king, who ruled in the late 19th century, was known to have both male and female partners within his royal court. His same-sex relationships were later used against him by the colonial and Christian forces who saw his sexuality as proof that he was unfit to rule.
While these examples might not perfectly mirror the modern understanding of LGBTQ+ identity, they challenge the claim that queerness is a product of westernisation. They show us that African societies have long had various experiences of intimacy and sexuality.
Now that we have established the fact that same-sex relationships existed in some African societies before colonialism, another fact that we need to set straight is how people often tag many of the anti-LGBTQ+ laws used to criminalise queer people as “African Values.”
There is nothing African about these laws because they were introduced during colonial rule. A 2008 report by Human Rights Watch found that countries in Africa inherited sodomy laws from the British Empire. Countries like Nigeria, Uganda, Kenya, Ghana, Zambia, Tanzania, and Zimbabwe held onto the versions of these laws even after independence.
These laws were not based on consultations with local communities, nor were they rooted in indigenous customs. They reflected our colonial masters’ ideas about sexuality and morality because the British colonial authorities saw same-sex relationships as immoral and decided to regulate the intimate lives of the people they governed. The colonial officials thought that the African cultures were too permissive and then introduced laws that they believed were Christian and European standards of behaviour, and we accepted them.
Misinformation about queerness is not something to be overlooked in Africa because it influences people’s opinions and judgement. Homophobes use it as an excuse to discriminate, exclude, and violently attack queer people. They dismiss them as people who have been brainwashed by Western culture instead of recognising them as part of Africa’s past and present.
Today, we have more than 30 African countries that still criminalise same-sex relationships. And even aside from the law, many queer people face unfair treatment from their families, friends, religious groups, employers, and society. Some are forced to hide their identities to protect themselves from rejection, harassment, violence, or extortion. There have been cases where queer people become targets of blackmail and kito schemes, where they are lured into meetings under a pretence and then threatened, raped, exposed, robbed, or killed because of their sexual orientation.
The unfortunate part of this is that most of the violence committed against queer people is often not reported or recorded. This makes it harder to know how prevalent these issues are or to get accurate statistics. Many victims do not report incidents out of the fear that they might be arrested, exposed, or even subjected to more violence. Even in cases where the attacks are reported, there is a high chance that the police might dismiss their complaints or mock them without protecting them. When these cases result in death, they are often not properly recorded and labelled for what they were. For instance, instead of documenting a queer person’s death caused by lynching, it might be labelled as ‘assault’ rather than a ‘hate attack’ or ‘murder’ without noting motive.
There may be no proper documentation of the person’s sexual orientation or gender identity and this makes it difficult to even track the patterns. In some places, journalists or media houses may also not report LGBTQ+-related violence because of legal restrictions or fear of backlash.
Africa, as a continent, still has a long way to go when it comes to accepting and respecting people whose sexual identities are different from the norm. The rights and safety of queer people need to be protected just like everyone else, because they are in no way different.
Pride month is really important, and while it is for celebration, we should also remember that it is also a month for the invisible. It is a constant reminder that queer people are not foreign or a threat to society. That being queer is not a choice, and they are our friends, siblings, children, colleagues, church members, and members of communities all over Africa.
Pride month is, and will always be, a month for people to understand that queer Africans exist and have always existed, and their stories will forever be part of African history.
