By Obianuju Okonkwo
More than a decade after Nigeria enacted one of the world’s harshest anti-LGBTQ laws, the country continues to grapple with the human cost of criminalizing identity. The Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act of 2014 not only outlawed same-sex unions but also cast a wide net over expressions of affection and association, effectively turning private lives into matters of public prosecution.
While prosecutions under the law remain rare, its social consequences are far-reaching—fueling vigilante attacks, family banishments, and systemic blackmail. Across Nigeria, queer citizens live under constant threat, their safety often dependent on secrecy or exile.
It is within this environment that 19-year-old Oluwatobiloba found himself ensnared—first by scandal, then by fear. His story highlights the intersection of law, morality, and human rights in contemporary Nigeria. Tobi spoke with this reporter from his hiding.
At just 19 years old, Oluwatobiloba—known to friends as “Tobi”—had become the latest casualty in Nigeria’s silent war against its LGBTQ citizens. Caught in a compromising situation with his much older host, a respected Lagos resident named Mr. Bayo Kuku, Tobi was beaten, disgraced, and disowned. His escape was urgent. His survival depended on it.
Today, Tobi’s story is both personal and political. It underscores the cruel toll of Nigeria’s 2014 Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act—a law that, though rarely tested in court, has created a climate of persecution, blackmail, and systemic violence against queer Nigerians.
“I did what made me happy…but it made me a fugitive”
When this reporter spoke with Tobi from his hiding he painted a raw and disturbing picture of his upbringing—one marked by early same-sex encounters in boarding school, a developing bisexual identity, and an exploitative relationship with a family friend nearly twice his age. While his bisexuality wasn’t initially met with hostility by his parents, it took one scandal to shift the tide. After a woman caught him naked with her husband in a bedroom, everything changed.
“The woman, Mrs Kuku screamed and called it an abomination,” Tobi recalls. “My father was contacted and was furious. The entire neighborhood was engulfed, police were invited. I was told to run and hide.”
For days, Tobi was on the move—first to a hotel, then to Ibadan, hiding at an aunt’s house. Tradition, Tobi says, demanded a ritual cleansing. The law demanded criminal prosecution. Either way, Nigeria had become a death trap.
A law that turns neighbors into threats
Since the Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act was signed into law by former President Goodluck Jonathan in 2014, Nigeria has become one of the most dangerous places to be LGBTQ in the world. The law not only criminalizes same-sex marriage and relationships but also any public expression of same-sex affection, and even association with gay organizations.
This has emboldened a wave of vigilante attacks, family banishments, and police harassment—especially of queer youth. It gives no room for distinction between consensual love and sexual exploitation, between adult relationships and the grooming of minors. Everyone is a target. And in most cases, the accused have no path to justice, only escape or silence.
Blackmail, beatings, and silence
According to a 2022 report by Human Rights Watch, LGBTQ Nigerians are routinely blackmailed by acquaintances, extorted by the police, and beaten by mobs. Many live double lives, or none at all—driven into exile, depression, or early graves.
Tobi’s case is complex. While he admits to being drawn into an ongoing sexual relationship with Mr. Kuku, the power dynamics and age disparity raise disturbing questions. Yet, instead of pursuing a measured investigation or support, the community erupted in rage—motivated not by concern for a possibly exploited teen, but by fear of “abomination.”
Queer and criminal by default
In Nigeria, LGBTQ identity is almost indistinguishable from criminality. Whether through religious condemnation, cultural taboo, or the legal system, queer Nigerians face the triple burden of stigma, silence, and threat.
“I just want to be safe and happy,” Tobi says. “What makes me happy should not be something the government is trying to kill me for.”
His words echo the pain of thousands like him—young Nigerians whose only crime is to exist outside the bounds of state-sanctioned heterosexuality.
A call for protection and policy shift
The Nigerian government has repeatedly defended its anti-LGBTQ law as a reflection of national culture and morality. But critics argue that it’s a dangerous fusion of politics and prejudice—one that has weaponized tradition against the most vulnerable.
Tobi’s story should be a wake-up call—not just for the international community but for Nigerian lawmakers, human rights defenders, and faith leaders. Until the law changes, stories like his will keep multiplying—hidden in hotel rooms, whispered between frightened parents, or buried under the weight of cultural shame.
The question remains: How many more Tobi’s must flee, suffer, or die before Nigeria admits that being queer should never be a crime?
Okonkwo, an LGBTQ activist, writes from Nigeria