My name is Jon Snow, and I know plenty.
Pre-antigay-law, like most other gay folks, I lived in my very comfortable closet with in-built, state-of-the-art, everything-I-needed luxuries, along with enough fuck buddies to keep body and soul in place, and no intrusion whatsoever from the prying eyes of family. Those were the good old days.
Then the antigay law was signed into existence, and suddenly, the issue about homosexuals became a household discourse in most Nigerian families.
I’d always been gay for as far back as I can remember. I had my first gay kiss with the neighbor’s kid at age five. I wasn’t molested, possessed or converted. As children, we didn’t have a name for those stolen intimacies we shared; we simply acted out of pure instincts. And so, it quickly became a huge burden on me when I listened to the castigations of everything I am by my family, these people whom I share blood ties with.
The curious case of Jon Snow began when Yours Truly, the energetic and crazy person my family was used to began to withdraw and remain steadfastly incommunicado whenever the gay subject was broached. I was always the one who talked the loudest and argued the hardest in every argument, and yet, here I was, not having an opinion whenever the ‘Jail The Gays’ topic was brought up. A few offhand remarks from a brother here and a sister there later, and I began to realize that the spotlight was searching me out.
I had to do something. My paranoia kicked into overdrive. I stopped meeting with anyone, potential hookup or previous sex interest, within a thousand miles of my home. I had to stop my male visitors, mostly friends of mine who are gay, from visiting, a decision that cost me some good friendships. That was regrettable, but I had to do what I had to do to maintain the security of my closet.
I thought that was the worst of it. How wrong I was.
I remember when this extended relative of mine (whom I still hate till date) visited. He returned home from France (where he does only God knows what) for his father’s funeral, and decided to stay for dinner that evening. Somehow the conversation swung over to the topic of the “homos”. For someone who had lived abroad for quite some time, I expected a little more sense from him. I was however disappointed when he boisterously agreed with the rest of the diners that gay people are what is wrong with the country, our nation and the world at large. To think that this was a man residing in France, one of the earliest nations to decriminalize same sex relations since 1791 following the French revolution. You would think some of that progressiveness would have rubbed off on him. I quickly lost my appetite that evening.
Fast forward to 2015, and I’m done with medical school, though yet to bag a decent paying job that can get me as far away from home as possible and let distance do the magic. And all this time, I have been tiptoeing about the landmine of keeping my sexuality to myself, while dreaming of the day I’d be self sufficient, utterly independent with nary a fuck to give, so that if I wanted to, I could sashay out of the closet onto a red carpet, lip syncing to Diana Ross’s ‘I’m coming out’, with two middle fingers in the air.
My dream . . . before I realized that the witches from my village were on a mission to bring me out before I’m ready.
First were my siblings, all comfortably older than I am (a few now married with children), tormenting me about never having a girlfriend or showing the slightest interest in girls. Every time they pulled that question up, my knee-jerk reply varied from a deadpan “Let it be…”, to a glum “I am not interested…” or a defiant “I’m still twenty-five for chrissakes!”
Then came the cyber stalking, with those who are active on the social media nosing about my Facebook and Twitter affairs. No problem. I sacrificed my Facebook to them. I kuku wasn’t active on Twitter. But Instagram and BBM – Olorun maje! They want to see the plenty gbagaun on my timeline?! God forbid abomination! I blocked them all!
On one occasion, I caught my sister scrolling through my text messages. I was furious, and for the next several minutes, heatedly tried to educate her on the concept of privacy. And all through, she proved that not all students who come to class assimilate what the teacher is saying. I was however relieved to note that she’d been snooping on my holy phone and not the other hoe-ly one.
The next day, she tried pimping me off to her friend. I humoured her, played along, even though I felt some pity for the poor girl who I couldn’t bring myself to act anyway more than perfunctory toward during the awkward minutes that my sister left us alone to get acquainted. I mean, how do I bring myself to make her understand that like her, I toss my salads only when a nice cucumber is in it?
Then came the open confrontation some days ago.
“Young man, are you sure you’re not gay?” she fired, with hard disdain in her eyes.
“Is there something on my forehead that’s giving you the audacity to ask me that?” I shot back. The fight had been bubbling long before we came around to this.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she raged.
“What gave you the impression that I might be gay?”
“I have been having these weird dreams about you lately –”
“For now, let’s just hope it remains in your dreams!”
“So you are saying you are not…”
“I’m saying that what happens in your dreams is the least of my worries.”
“If my own flesh and blood turns out to be such –”
“So those who happen to be gay are not other people’s flesh and blood?” I said, interrupting the venom she was about to spew. “Or are they lesser human beings than you and your own?”
“You need to mind the way you run your mouth with me!”
“You need to watch the fever that has been disturbing your dreams!”
I could see this all for what it was – a ticking time bomb. I could not remain in the house on the heels of such a confrontation with my sister. And so, I made up a smart lie that would take me out of town for a few days. The tension in the air was almost becoming palpable. And the witches that were stirring my pot were garnishing away at the brew.
Even now, I know the members of my family can smell the rat somewhere. It is just a matter of time before the line that connects the dots is drawn. I can hear the closet doors creaking already. I just pray the fates will be kind enough and buy me more time to be well out of reach when those doors are finally forced wide open.
Jon Snow for Kitodiaries