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She Called Me Woman
“We put together this collection of thirty narratives to correct the invisibility, the confusion, the caricaturising and the writing out of queer women from history.”
This stirring and intimate collection brings together 30 captivating narratives to paint a vivid portrait of what it means to be a queer Nigerian woman. Covering an array of experiences - the joy and excitement of first love, the agony of lost love and betrayal, the sometimes-fraught relationship between sexuality and spirituality, addiction and suicide, childhood games and laughter - She Called Me Woman sheds light on how Nigerian queer women, despite their differences, attempt to build a life together in a climate of fear.
Through first-hand accounts, She Called Me Woman challenges us to rethink what it means to be a Nigerian ‘woman’, negotiating relationships, money, sexuality and freedom, identifying outside the gender binary, and the difficulties of achieving hopes and dreams under the constraints of societal expectations and legal terrorism.
These beautifully told stories of resistance and resilience reveal the realities of a community that refuses to be invisible any longer.
This stirring and intimate collection brings together 30 captivating narratives to paint a vivid portrait of what it means to be a queer Nigerian woman. Covering an array of experiences - the joy and excitement of first love, the agony of lost love and betrayal, the sometimes-fraught relationship between sexuality and spirituality, addiction and suicide, childhood games and laughter - She Called Me Woman sheds light on how Nigerian queer women, despite their differences, attempt to build a life together in a climate of fear.
Through first-hand accounts, She Called Me Woman challenges us to rethink what it means to be a Nigerian ‘woman’, negotiating relationships, money, sexuality and freedom, identifying outside the gender binary, and the difficulties of achieving hopes and dreams under the constraints of societal expectations and legal terrorism.
These beautifully told stories of resistance and resilience reveal the realities of a community that refuses to be invisible any longer.
344 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2018
67 people are currently reading
1885 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 61 reviews
June 11, 2018
This book gets 5 stars simply for existing. It’s a HUGE HUGE accomplishment and a sign of the possibility of a Nigerian society where queer folks can feel safe. Not there yet but the sheer effort that went in to creating this book, increasing visibility and speaking especially for all the young people who have not seen themselves represented anywhere without the story of misery as inevitable, is staggering. Alhamdulillah and congratulations to all the contributors and editors.
January 31, 2022
Absolutely important.
July 26, 2018
A very brave endeavour that suffers hugely from under editing. These thirty stories-often shocking, moving, effecting-need to have been given shape by a strong editor, to streamline the narratives and focus on the most important aspects. As it stands, these accounts often read as if they are being transcribed directly from conversation or are cut together from answers to posed to pre-written questions. Unfortunately giving someone a voice in publishing does not simply mean writing down what they say.
July 9, 2020
A monumental assemblage of queer and trans women’s lived experiences engaging with the reception of their respective identities in Nigeria’s ultra-religious, patriarchal, transphobic, homophobic society.
A number of the stories start out painfully, and since the contributors were tasked to describe the impacts of Nigeria’s Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Law on their lives and communities, a number of them end quite painfully as well.
Regardless, there were stories filled with drama, cultural knowledge, coming of age romance and rich apertures of joy that the contributors have witnessed and/or deliberately carved out for themselves in spite of their environments.
That She Called Me Woman exists, marks the ongoing interventions queer and trans Africans are making to contribute to the historical and cultural evidence of our existence and connected destinies on/to this continent.
A number of the stories start out painfully, and since the contributors were tasked to describe the impacts of Nigeria’s Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Law on their lives and communities, a number of them end quite painfully as well.
Regardless, there were stories filled with drama, cultural knowledge, coming of age romance and rich apertures of joy that the contributors have witnessed and/or deliberately carved out for themselves in spite of their environments.
That She Called Me Woman exists, marks the ongoing interventions queer and trans Africans are making to contribute to the historical and cultural evidence of our existence and connected destinies on/to this continent.
August 12, 2022
Lovely, relaxed peeks into the lives of queer women and nonbinary people, trans* inclusive, from across Nigeria, in their own words, with their slang and their own reflections on the how and why of being queer and lesbian and trans, or practicing those things and not embracing the same titles as others. Long introspections into identities and juicy, enjoyable stories of sexual and romantic discoveries throughout childhood, school years, and early adulthood. Some repeat themes include sexual freedom at boarding schools; heterosexual relationships of convenience, convincing, or coercion; fluidity; the importance of economic independence; and a vibrant underground of gay lust and quiet love that just shakes you.
As expected in this big world we all mostly live in // in this specific country with warring violent patriarchies that box people into toxic forms of masculinity and femininity and exchange/ownership-based relationships, many of these stories include abuse and harassment from family and community. Importantly, critically, not all of them do, and within those punctuated by violence, the majority of the narrators go on to recite lives of complexity and fullness so much grander than the violence through which they navigate. The violence may be a cage or a net, but it isn't the substance of their lives, even when the substance takes the forms of mostly internal, or closeted, or otherwise restricted lives.
Perhaps a greater feat than the gathering of stories of queer women in Nigeria here is the gathering of first person, shameless, honest narratives of the lives of Nigerian girls, seeing what they saw and centering what little girls growing up centered.
It's a little long, and there are many, many narratives recorded here. But I read them all, easy coffee shop reading, feeling a little peaceful, a little gossipy, a little whole.
As expected in this big world we all mostly live in // in this specific country with warring violent patriarchies that box people into toxic forms of masculinity and femininity and exchange/ownership-based relationships, many of these stories include abuse and harassment from family and community. Importantly, critically, not all of them do, and within those punctuated by violence, the majority of the narrators go on to recite lives of complexity and fullness so much grander than the violence through which they navigate. The violence may be a cage or a net, but it isn't the substance of their lives, even when the substance takes the forms of mostly internal, or closeted, or otherwise restricted lives.
Perhaps a greater feat than the gathering of stories of queer women in Nigeria here is the gathering of first person, shameless, honest narratives of the lives of Nigerian girls, seeing what they saw and centering what little girls growing up centered.
It's a little long, and there are many, many narratives recorded here. But I read them all, easy coffee shop reading, feeling a little peaceful, a little gossipy, a little whole.
June 26, 2020
Review to come.
December 3, 2019
4 stars ✨
She Called Me Woman is a collection of interviews given by 25 individuals, Nigerians/ with Nigerian backgrounds, who identify as ‘queer’ and ‘woman’. Although I agree that this book is already gold just for being the first of its kind, I think its real beauty lies in its portrayal of queer individuals as just ‘individuals’ whose day-to-day struggles are amplified by their being ‘queer’.
Each interview evokes a series of emotions from me; usually sadness, empathy, smiles, and deep thoughts. There are a number of times that I found comments made by some narrators contradictory to my personal opinions- and these comments revolves around mindset rather than their sexuality- but after several rumination, I concluded that each individual is inherently shaped by their struggles and the rampant homophobia in Nigeria might have contributed to that.
For example, there was a narrator who wanted to have “mixed race kids” because she wanted her children to be “very fine”. 🌚
Another point to note was a few times while reading this book, I imagined people’s reactions to seeing me, a visibly Muslim woman, read a book with ‘Queer Woman’ boldly plastered on it. However, I was quite amused to see a lot of people asking if they could borrow the book because “they would really like to read it”😁
Although a lot of the narrations weren’t written in a style that was faultless (and so took some effort to get into), I highly recommend this collection!
Also, it’s N3000 and widely available Nigeria so none of that “books are scarce or expensive” narrative. Read it!!
She Called Me Woman is a collection of interviews given by 25 individuals, Nigerians/ with Nigerian backgrounds, who identify as ‘queer’ and ‘woman’. Although I agree that this book is already gold just for being the first of its kind, I think its real beauty lies in its portrayal of queer individuals as just ‘individuals’ whose day-to-day struggles are amplified by their being ‘queer’.
Each interview evokes a series of emotions from me; usually sadness, empathy, smiles, and deep thoughts. There are a number of times that I found comments made by some narrators contradictory to my personal opinions- and these comments revolves around mindset rather than their sexuality- but after several rumination, I concluded that each individual is inherently shaped by their struggles and the rampant homophobia in Nigeria might have contributed to that.
For example, there was a narrator who wanted to have “mixed race kids” because she wanted her children to be “very fine”. 🌚
Another point to note was a few times while reading this book, I imagined people’s reactions to seeing me, a visibly Muslim woman, read a book with ‘Queer Woman’ boldly plastered on it. However, I was quite amused to see a lot of people asking if they could borrow the book because “they would really like to read it”😁
Although a lot of the narrations weren’t written in a style that was faultless (and so took some effort to get into), I highly recommend this collection!
Also, it’s N3000 and widely available Nigeria so none of that “books are scarce or expensive” narrative. Read it!!
June 9, 2020
3.5 stars!!
So here’s the thing with this book. If you can get past some of the narrators ridiculous mentality then it’ll be an enjoyable reading experience for you. Imagine one saying she will basically meet and lie to women, another saying she feels Nigerians are judgmental but then goes ahead and say ridiculous things about queer women who drink,smoke, have tattoos and piercings. Oh another one said she wants to have mixed race kids because she wants her kids to be fine. Oh the ignorance was palpable and slightly worrying.
The editors travelled all over the country to meet and interview these women. They transcribed the recordings and you can tell they did little to no editing to keep the authenticity of their stories but it was a bit hard to read especially the first few stories.
I’m glad this book exists. It’s important and insightful. No one should have to feel unsafe for existing based on their sexual orientation and preferences.
Some of these women are living unapologetically and I absolutely love it!!! I particularly enjoyed the stories towards the end of the book.
So here’s the thing with this book. If you can get past some of the narrators ridiculous mentality then it’ll be an enjoyable reading experience for you. Imagine one saying she will basically meet and lie to women, another saying she feels Nigerians are judgmental but then goes ahead and say ridiculous things about queer women who drink,smoke, have tattoos and piercings. Oh another one said she wants to have mixed race kids because she wants her kids to be fine. Oh the ignorance was palpable and slightly worrying.
The editors travelled all over the country to meet and interview these women. They transcribed the recordings and you can tell they did little to no editing to keep the authenticity of their stories but it was a bit hard to read especially the first few stories.
I’m glad this book exists. It’s important and insightful. No one should have to feel unsafe for existing based on their sexual orientation and preferences.
Some of these women are living unapologetically and I absolutely love it!!! I particularly enjoyed the stories towards the end of the book.
January 19, 2020
2020 vient de commencer et j'ai déjà eu ma montagne russe d'émotions en lisant ce livre de témoignages de femmes nigérianes queer.
[Par queer, l'ouvrage entend la diversité des expériences des femmes qui en aiment d'autres, des lesbiennes aux genderfuck, en passant par les femmes queer, trans, butch, femme, tomboy, bisexuelles, etc.]
On a vraiment des témoignages de toutes sortes: des témoignages émouvants, qui donnent de l'espoir, heureux, qui finissent bien, mais aussi des témoignages tragiques, de violences (toutes les violences), d'abus, de peurs, de placards, etc. Dans ce qui est considéré comme un des pires pays en ce qui a trait aux droits LGBPT2QIA (notamment avec la loi qui prévoit une dizaine d'années de prison pour les homosexuel·les, sans compter les nombreux meurtres), ces témoignages offrent un portrait qui sort des statistiques nationales pour parler du quotidien des femmes qui le vivent, parfois très mal, mais souvent avec un grand bonheur d'aimer d'autres femmes.
Les témoignages sont des transcriptions orales anonymes. On sent parfois les questions qui sont posées par les éditrices une fois qu'on a lu une dizaine d'entrevue (genre: famille, religion, quand les premières fois, parcours, maintenant), mais le récit reste toujours très fluide à l'exception de deux, trois témoignages qui sont un peu plus fragmentés.
Je dois avouer que laisser la parole à celles qui le vivent dépoussière pas mal de préjugés que je pouvais avoir sur les droits des personnes LGBPT2QIA au Nigéria, souvent résultant de la propagande politique ou journalistique du pays ou encore d'organisations qui ne semblent pas toujours connaître la réalité du terrain. On y découvre des communautés queer vivantes, surtout dans certaines villes et certaines universités, mais aussi beaucoup de réseaux d'ami·es et l'importance des réseaux sociaux.
Tous les témoignages semblent, lorsqu'elles croient en un Dieu ou une religion, ne faire aucun cas du rapport conflictuel qui pourrait y émerger entre la religion et l'homosexualité, souvent dans une perspective où: Dieu m'a créé ainsi pour une raison et je n'ai pas à me renier ; ou encore: seul Dieu me jugera (toi aussi tu pêches, moi aussi je pêche, mais ce n'est pas à toi de porter jugement).
On parle évidemment aussi beaucoup de la famille, qui renie ou qui accepte, qui peut être de la pire violence à un refuge pour ces femmes. On parle aussi de mariage, pour passer inaperçu, pour ne pas risquer le rejet social, qui empêche des relations ou qui ne durent souvent jamais longtemps . On parle aussi énormément de violences, des avertissements sont placés en début de presque chaque témoignage puisqu'elles sont réelles et très difficiles à lire. La seule parole qui semble échapper au recueil serait celles de femmes prisonnières, mais on comprend aussi pourquoi c'est un peu impossible de les écouter.
Je pense que ce livre devrait être dans les témoignages importants à lire, pour toute personne qui désire lutter pour les droits qui ont trait à l'orientation sexuelle ou à l'identité de genre, pour toutes les personnes qui voudrait parler des réalités LGBTQ* du Nigéria. Après avoir lu Under the Udala Trees l'année dernière (le roman est d'ailleurs cité par une des femmes témoignant), je ne peux que réaliser encore plus la force de ce roman, son réalisme, son analyse tellement fine des réalités nigérianes avec ses religions toujours en conflit (musulmans et catholiques) et ses peuples aussi (Igbo, Hausa, Fulani, Yoruba surtout).
Un livre extrêmement touchant, brutal, choquant, qui fait autant pleurer de tristesse et de joie.
[Par queer, l'ouvrage entend la diversité des expériences des femmes qui en aiment d'autres, des lesbiennes aux genderfuck, en passant par les femmes queer, trans, butch, femme, tomboy, bisexuelles, etc.]
On a vraiment des témoignages de toutes sortes: des témoignages émouvants, qui donnent de l'espoir, heureux, qui finissent bien, mais aussi des témoignages tragiques, de violences (toutes les violences), d'abus, de peurs, de placards, etc. Dans ce qui est considéré comme un des pires pays en ce qui a trait aux droits LGBPT2QIA (notamment avec la loi qui prévoit une dizaine d'années de prison pour les homosexuel·les, sans compter les nombreux meurtres), ces témoignages offrent un portrait qui sort des statistiques nationales pour parler du quotidien des femmes qui le vivent, parfois très mal, mais souvent avec un grand bonheur d'aimer d'autres femmes.
Les témoignages sont des transcriptions orales anonymes. On sent parfois les questions qui sont posées par les éditrices une fois qu'on a lu une dizaine d'entrevue (genre: famille, religion, quand les premières fois, parcours, maintenant), mais le récit reste toujours très fluide à l'exception de deux, trois témoignages qui sont un peu plus fragmentés.
Je dois avouer que laisser la parole à celles qui le vivent dépoussière pas mal de préjugés que je pouvais avoir sur les droits des personnes LGBPT2QIA au Nigéria, souvent résultant de la propagande politique ou journalistique du pays ou encore d'organisations qui ne semblent pas toujours connaître la réalité du terrain. On y découvre des communautés queer vivantes, surtout dans certaines villes et certaines universités, mais aussi beaucoup de réseaux d'ami·es et l'importance des réseaux sociaux.
Tous les témoignages semblent, lorsqu'elles croient en un Dieu ou une religion, ne faire aucun cas du rapport conflictuel qui pourrait y émerger entre la religion et l'homosexualité, souvent dans une perspective où: Dieu m'a créé ainsi pour une raison et je n'ai pas à me renier ; ou encore: seul Dieu me jugera (toi aussi tu pêches, moi aussi je pêche, mais ce n'est pas à toi de porter jugement).
On parle évidemment aussi beaucoup de la famille, qui renie ou qui accepte, qui peut être de la pire violence à un refuge pour ces femmes. On parle aussi de mariage, pour passer inaperçu, pour ne pas risquer le rejet social, qui empêche des relations ou qui ne durent souvent jamais longtemps . On parle aussi énormément de violences, des avertissements sont placés en début de presque chaque témoignage puisqu'elles sont réelles et très difficiles à lire. La seule parole qui semble échapper au recueil serait celles de femmes prisonnières, mais on comprend aussi pourquoi c'est un peu impossible de les écouter.
Je pense que ce livre devrait être dans les témoignages importants à lire, pour toute personne qui désire lutter pour les droits qui ont trait à l'orientation sexuelle ou à l'identité de genre, pour toutes les personnes qui voudrait parler des réalités LGBTQ* du Nigéria. Après avoir lu Under the Udala Trees l'année dernière (le roman est d'ailleurs cité par une des femmes témoignant), je ne peux que réaliser encore plus la force de ce roman, son réalisme, son analyse tellement fine des réalités nigérianes avec ses religions toujours en conflit (musulmans et catholiques) et ses peuples aussi (Igbo, Hausa, Fulani, Yoruba surtout).
Un livre extrêmement touchant, brutal, choquant, qui fait autant pleurer de tristesse et de joie.
February 21, 2020
What an incredible anthology! Each narrator shared their story of growing up queer in Nigeria with so much heart, and the book includes such a wide range of experiences. Some people’s reviews criticized the style in which the stories were written, citing lack of editing, but I felt in this context that leaving the stories in a conversational style lended to how powerfully authentic and intimate it felt. Beautiful project, lifting up queer women’s voices in a country where they are often silenced.
November 30, 2018
3.5*
I am so glad that a book like this exists and even more glad that I had a chance to read it! While there were personal opinions from some of the authors of the essays that I disagreed with, and some essays were better done than others, I think the collection really did what it set out to do and that it's a worthwhile read for anyone interested in it.
I am so glad that a book like this exists and even more glad that I had a chance to read it! While there were personal opinions from some of the authors of the essays that I disagreed with, and some essays were better done than others, I think the collection really did what it set out to do and that it's a worthwhile read for anyone interested in it.
February 2, 2023
This anthology was created by interviewing and audio recording queer Nigerian women, then their stories were written in an anonymous manner by the editors; however age and region are noted. The age range of participants is from 20-42. Almost all narratives list trigger warnings underneath their titles for various topics such as depression, forced outing, domestic violence, violence in same sex relationships, verbal abuse…While the majority of stories are from queer women living in Nigeria, a few lived in the U.S. or Europe. This anthology reveals a very intimate look at analyzing one’s own sexuality and the cultural and family conflict surrounding a non-heteronormative identity. “Many narratives discuss discrimination, hate speech, alienation and internal struggles”(7) and “…have had friends withdraw, family members beat them up, insult them, preach at them to change, threaten to report them to police, take them for deliverance sessions to cast out the ‘spirit of homosexuality’ and attempt forced medical treatment to ‘correct’ them”( 15). There are happily a few stories of parents or relatives embracing their children’s identity, and this is in sharp contrast to the promulgated anti-homosexuality law that sentences with 14 years in prison. Some stories relate of parents beating them, shooting at them, or disowning them when their identities were discovered.
Several stories relate in general about hypocritical politicians who are queer yet champion anti-homosexual and queer legislation and spout hate. The point is made that Nigeria has many more important issues to deal with than repressing LGBTQ: “We are too engrossed with removing the lock from people instead of trying to make better versions of ourselves. We would rather find someone to correct. It makes us feel better about ourselves”(236). Another person says “Why should we fight? There is a subtle way we have been doing it. Let that subtle way continue. Reasoning with the government is a battle you can’t win”(282). “The stereotype is that if you are gay you cannot be a good person” (240). Perhaps this notion drives some to fully submerge their identity and actually spew hate. A forty-year old woman tells about a female bisexual friend who is married, attends LGBTQ events on the down low, and openly spews hate to LGBTQ on Facebook (283). “You will see them killing a gay guy and another gay guy will go and stab him too just because he doesn’t want people to know what he is. Our own people [LGBTQ] are killing us so what do you want to do?(283). There is an ache to be seen as an individual. Trauma is shown from hostile environments- resulting from families, school, neighborhoods or online.
What is most wonderful about this anthology is that it lets us into those with fluid and bisexual identities. It further dissects bisexuals into those who freely love either gender, and women who choose to marry men for social ease—sometimes keeping lovers or girlfriends or altogether abandoning their female loves to marry men and gain social acceptance as well as material goods. It also talks about women who hide their boyfriends from their girlfriends (only narrated from the position of receiving such deception), even to the point of hiding pregnancy from their girlfriends (175). One reflects that “I think the thing with dating women is that there is a kind of emotional fulfillment that you don’t get dating a man”(202).
There is also a fear of being inadvertently outed, for example, by people’s love of social media, and the fear of it being used at queer parties. One person relates how she would “like to go to a party where everybody left their phones outside, no cameras, nothing, so everybody can relax”(184-185). Also there is a fair amount of reflection on dressing and how one presents- as a tom or feminine.
Religion is still used by some as a framework, where for example, a 30 year old woman recounts how in realizing her LGBTQ identity, she struggled due to growing up with a very religious family: “I doubted myself. In the early stages, I thought I was possessed”(211). Another recounts “It was round this time that my family went on Hajj. I remember trying so hard to pray away the gay. It might have even been my sole aim in Hajj. I would include it in salat, during tawaf around the Kaaba, during my walks on Safa to Marwa, and it was my consistent prayer when I stood on Mount Arafat. I prayed every day, deeply, sincerely, that I would no longer be in love with girls, that I would no longer be a lesbian. “(349). Some venture to forcing themselves into heterosexual roles. One woman relates how she “only dated him because I wanted to get rid of the gay part of me and see if I could correct it. I had sex with him without feeling anything. I just lay there like a log”(244). One participant, 29 years old, responding to a heterosexual female friend critiquing her for being a lesbian said “Look, you have sex with your boyfriend. That is fornication. I am sleeping with a girl. Fine, that is lesbianism. We are going to the same hell, just different compartments. Your own section would be different but we are still in the same place”(202).Further, she frames sex in religious terms:
Obviously, sex is very important in a relationship. It’s like baptism at the beginning of being a believer. At the beginning, you have given your life to Christ. First the altar call, then the baptism. The altar call is when the pastor asks if you want to give your life to Christ. That for me symbolizes the ‘asking out’ phase, when you ask a girl to be your girlfriend or you agree to be her girlfriend. After that, in the Christian religion, you have water baptism to show your commitment, that you give your life to Christ. That’s sex, at least for people who aren’t players. Then again, people have walked out of church after their water baptism, right back into the world, so some relationships don’t necessarily survive even after this phase. (204)
Attraction and sexual encounters even in childhood are covered too, at home or at boarding school. Romantic encounters at same sex boarding schools do feature significantly, and it is interesting to hear how openly accepted such relationships are there. One wonders why then Nigerian society as a whole cannot be more tolerant. Meeting online happens a lot, followed by then meeting in person.
One person says that “I prefer meeting people online, because when you meet people online, they are more open to you”(206). Many wish to be able to marry their female loves and a few can only envision doing so and living their life fully in this way outside of Nigeria. One participant, age 29, presents how she imagines having to live her life where “if I get married to a lady, we might live apart at a distance. If my girlfriend happens to be younger than me, then maybe I will have her be my personal assistant so she will have to be everywhere with me and the world will not ask questions. And other times, I think that our families will know or maybe we will have a secret door so that it will look like everybody is entering their own room but we can share a room”(203).
The introduction explains that the anthology is in response to erasure of queer people in Nigeria: 1. Queer people are not part of the conversation 2. Nigerian history and culture has been erased of its queer heritage 3. Erasure of queer people we personally know. The editors explain their goal is “to hold up a mirror and how the richness and diversity of Nigerian society, and we address the queer community to provide a platform to speak and to see their lives reflected in full technicolour”(3) and so that queer people can “enter history” (7). It shows Nigeria how its own people are being wounded mentally and physically. Erasure is even shown in older generations. For example one woman coming out to her mother learns through her mother’s affirmation and silence that she too has or had a non-heterosexual identity. She told her after silently looking at her that “it will pass,” and the narrator wonders if it passed for her mom who has a female friend who calls her mom ‘my husband’ (217).
Financial independence is spoken about as a path for freedom. In many cases when a woman had a job, she was less prone to be criticized by her family. “The moment you do something with your life, nobody cares about your sexuality”( 109). In “Why Do I have to Ask You to Consider Me Human?” an analysis of control is given: “It all boils down to money or power. The 1 per cent who owns the wealth need to keep everybody so busy they won’t notice. These guys have been around for years. They are in charge of everything. So, what do they do? They keep us occupied. They keep busy so that we don’t demand our power back. Somebody has to be vulnerable and victimized so that they, who feel powerless in other aspects of their lives, can feel powerful over others (325).
September 9, 2020
What struck me after reading a couple of these narratives is the mundanity of the stories being told. That might sound like a weird statement but I think the narrative around women in Africa - and especially queer women - is that their lives are a constant series of harrowing tales of violence. The narrators in this story rewrite that narrative by showing that they women all over the content are finding ways to live and thrive - claiming their agency.
Again, this is why #OwnVoices stories are so important! Queer women in Africa have long been the topic of discussion, with conclusions being drawn about them. That has led to so many misconceptions and discussions that lack nuance and fail to engage with the complexity of these women’s lives. This kind of book is so important in that these stories by these women of their childhoods, families, carriers, loves and lives highlight the fallacy of a singular narrative. Even within the border of a single nation - Nigeria in this case - you find so many different experiences of gender identity and sexuality.
I love that the editors have chosen not to clean up the narrative - allowing the voices of these women to shine though. Some of them are great and have stories that made me laugh; others are extremely problematic with a few heavily buying into the patriarchal social structures. And you know what? That okay. These women are allowed to be flawed and complex - there is no inherent virtue in queerness. A couple of the women mention that their sexuality is only a small part of who they are - which leaves room for a whole human being to exist outside of that!
In ‘This Is What I Have Been Missing’ the narrator touches on something really interesting when she says that “Nigerians are too religious. They are not spiritual”. It’s interesting to me the distinction drawn between faith and the essence of spirituality and the institution of religion - that has largely been a force of extreme violence against queer people all over the world. In fact, religion is mentioned by quite a lot of the narrators - as a source of both comfort and incredible violence; as these women wrestle with sexuality and faith.
In the introduction the editors mention that in conducting interviews they found that narrators felt that they were more accepted by the older generation and the younger generation - with the middle generation being the most intolerant. I think that is largely due to the fact that the middle generation (people in their 50s and 60s) were raised in the twilight years of colonial occupation - which is where a lot of the violent rhetoric against same sex relationships was cemented in newly founded African states. Most of the anti-sodomy laws that have re-emerged in Nigeria, Tanzania and Uganda are rooted in colonial laws that forbade same-sex relationships.
It gives me hope to read about these women who a lot of the time have carved out spaces of joy for themselves in such an inhospitable environment;
Again, this is why #OwnVoices stories are so important! Queer women in Africa have long been the topic of discussion, with conclusions being drawn about them. That has led to so many misconceptions and discussions that lack nuance and fail to engage with the complexity of these women’s lives. This kind of book is so important in that these stories by these women of their childhoods, families, carriers, loves and lives highlight the fallacy of a singular narrative. Even within the border of a single nation - Nigeria in this case - you find so many different experiences of gender identity and sexuality.
I love that the editors have chosen not to clean up the narrative - allowing the voices of these women to shine though. Some of them are great and have stories that made me laugh; others are extremely problematic with a few heavily buying into the patriarchal social structures. And you know what? That okay. These women are allowed to be flawed and complex - there is no inherent virtue in queerness. A couple of the women mention that their sexuality is only a small part of who they are - which leaves room for a whole human being to exist outside of that!
In ‘This Is What I Have Been Missing’ the narrator touches on something really interesting when she says that “Nigerians are too religious. They are not spiritual”. It’s interesting to me the distinction drawn between faith and the essence of spirituality and the institution of religion - that has largely been a force of extreme violence against queer people all over the world. In fact, religion is mentioned by quite a lot of the narrators - as a source of both comfort and incredible violence; as these women wrestle with sexuality and faith.
In the introduction the editors mention that in conducting interviews they found that narrators felt that they were more accepted by the older generation and the younger generation - with the middle generation being the most intolerant. I think that is largely due to the fact that the middle generation (people in their 50s and 60s) were raised in the twilight years of colonial occupation - which is where a lot of the violent rhetoric against same sex relationships was cemented in newly founded African states. Most of the anti-sodomy laws that have re-emerged in Nigeria, Tanzania and Uganda are rooted in colonial laws that forbade same-sex relationships.
It gives me hope to read about these women who a lot of the time have carved out spaces of joy for themselves in such an inhospitable environment;
September 9, 2018
This book is a collection of personal narratives from queer Nigerian women. First of all, I want to say I am so impressed with the subject matter. Queer Nigerian women are sharing their stories in this book, and they are not shying away from difficult subject matter. They are sharing their rapes, forced marriages, assault, and more in these pages. These women are inspiring, because reading their stories, I feel as though so many of them have forgiven those that have wronged them, even if they haven't forgiven that their society does not respect them enough to give them the rights they deserve.
Some of the personal narratives are streamlined and effective at story telling. Others felt to me as if they were jumping around to different traumatic moments in one of their lives. This is my greatest trouble with this book, and what made it difficult to keep reading at times. Part of it I feel has to do with the confusion around their own identities as well as confusion around the society rules and standards. Nonetheless, streamlining these narratives into more purposeful presentations of their story might go a long way to opening the eyes of those who are not willing to slog through confusing story lines.
Clearly its message of hope for queer Nigerian women is bold. I would like to see more books of this variety given more attention. These women are presenting a voice that is not often heard, but their voices are somewhat lost in the confusing timeline of their stories. I appreciate that this gives reading material to other women who are experiencing similar issues in their lives. I can't imagine what it must feel like to feel so alone as a queer woman, without any stories about people like you. Furthermore, it's amazing that it's being published in other countries, that these stories are being shared across borders so we can learn through 30 personal narratives what it might be like to live a day in the life of queer Nigerian women.
Some of the personal narratives are streamlined and effective at story telling. Others felt to me as if they were jumping around to different traumatic moments in one of their lives. This is my greatest trouble with this book, and what made it difficult to keep reading at times. Part of it I feel has to do with the confusion around their own identities as well as confusion around the society rules and standards. Nonetheless, streamlining these narratives into more purposeful presentations of their story might go a long way to opening the eyes of those who are not willing to slog through confusing story lines.
Clearly its message of hope for queer Nigerian women is bold. I would like to see more books of this variety given more attention. These women are presenting a voice that is not often heard, but their voices are somewhat lost in the confusing timeline of their stories. I appreciate that this gives reading material to other women who are experiencing similar issues in their lives. I can't imagine what it must feel like to feel so alone as a queer woman, without any stories about people like you. Furthermore, it's amazing that it's being published in other countries, that these stories are being shared across borders so we can learn through 30 personal narratives what it might be like to live a day in the life of queer Nigerian women.
Read
November 24, 2018A book like this cannot be rated on a scale because its importance far outweighs any personal preference the reader may have regarding its purpose/content. That said, I offer no rating at all because, at least for me, where I was taken in by the bravery of each personal account, I was put off by their presentation: overly long, sometimes repetitive, and often suffering from a lack of editing.
It may seem like nitpicking to point that out but it makes a difference.
When you're reading stories that are as emotionally taxing as these, you don't want to be distracted by the anthologist's decision to present each entry as-is. While I understand the intent behind not worrying about editing or being overly concerned with the flow or presentation of each story, it made for a less than stellar reading experience.
There were multiple times where I felt like skimming a section of a particular essay because the thread of the story meandered or got lost altogether. It was akin to reading a collection filled with essays where writers used the stream of consciousness method.
If some level of structure were provided to better streamline the presentation of the stories offered, it would have allowed for a better connection with each woman. As it stands, it's hit or miss.
I applaud the existence of this work and understand it serves a greater purpose for those still struggling to be seen and understood in countries where the definition of sexuality and gender identity remain archaic and unchanging.
At the same time, I wish it had been presented a bit better.
I was provided an Advanced eGalley of this collection by Edelweiss+
It may seem like nitpicking to point that out but it makes a difference.
When you're reading stories that are as emotionally taxing as these, you don't want to be distracted by the anthologist's decision to present each entry as-is. While I understand the intent behind not worrying about editing or being overly concerned with the flow or presentation of each story, it made for a less than stellar reading experience.
There were multiple times where I felt like skimming a section of a particular essay because the thread of the story meandered or got lost altogether. It was akin to reading a collection filled with essays where writers used the stream of consciousness method.
If some level of structure were provided to better streamline the presentation of the stories offered, it would have allowed for a better connection with each woman. As it stands, it's hit or miss.
I applaud the existence of this work and understand it serves a greater purpose for those still struggling to be seen and understood in countries where the definition of sexuality and gender identity remain archaic and unchanging.
At the same time, I wish it had been presented a bit better.
I was provided an Advanced eGalley of this collection by Edelweiss+
February 10, 2019
I struggled to finish this book but not due to it's content. These stories need telling in their whole entirety and the book in my view only half achieves this by getting these peoples voices heard in the first place. To be an enjoyable read it needed better editing. The style of writing made each story melt into the next one, it felt very much like a question and answer session without the questions being printed.
Whilst i can see what was trying to be achieved with this book i didn't enjoy it as much as was anticipated, it made for very difficult reading style wise.
Whilst i can see what was trying to be achieved with this book i didn't enjoy it as much as was anticipated, it made for very difficult reading style wise.
April 24, 2021
It was really eye opening to learn about the experiences of queer women in Nigeria when I first read this anthology in 2018. I’ve started reading more narratives from African members of the LGBTQ+ community because I realised that there was a lot that I didn’t know (about their experiences). The writers were really brave to share these stories.
It was hard to get through some of the trauma in the stories (corrective r*pe, assault, etc.). And some of the stories were inconsistent (which the writers highlighted in the beginning). I would recommend this anthology to everyone.
It was hard to get through some of the trauma in the stories (corrective r*pe, assault, etc.). And some of the stories were inconsistent (which the writers highlighted in the beginning). I would recommend this anthology to everyone.
May 31, 2021
Wish the editors did a better job, some of the stories are good, but it starts to get repetitive and at some point feels more like a QA like a cohesive story.
Love how casual it was, a lot of it was it was very much about the ordinary part of being a woman in Nigeria as much as it was about being a queer woman — you see them preparing for exams, struggling in school, facing harassment. It was also a nice revelation that while things are bad for lgbtq people in Nigeria, it isn’t all bad.
Love how casual it was, a lot of it was it was very much about the ordinary part of being a woman in Nigeria as much as it was about being a queer woman — you see them preparing for exams, struggling in school, facing harassment. It was also a nice revelation that while things are bad for lgbtq people in Nigeria, it isn’t all bad.
August 30, 2024
this is such an important book.
I'll be honest, some of the narratives were frustrating to read because the narrators said things that I disagreed with, but that's the thing about this book. you're not supposed to love everyone who told their story. you're supposed to want them to have the rights to freely be themselves, to live their lives the way they want to live - and the book does a really great job at that.
I'll be honest, some of the narratives were frustrating to read because the narrators said things that I disagreed with, but that's the thing about this book. you're not supposed to love everyone who told their story. you're supposed to want them to have the rights to freely be themselves, to live their lives the way they want to live - and the book does a really great job at that.
January 29, 2020
This book was such a blessing. It really shows the nuances of life for queer women in Nigeria and how wildly difference peoples' experiences are. I recommend this to everyone, especially white people. It will dispel so many myths about queerness and Africa, particularly Nigeria.
July 25, 2021
The stories were all honest and interesting, even in their very human contradictions and inconsistencies, and they added up to a powerful testament to resilience.
September 2, 2024
Heartbreaking yet hopeful. A poignant glimpse into the lives of queer women in Nigeria, this is an important read for everyone.
March 7, 2021
https://newhumanist.org.uk/articles/5...
“I’m so very excited because I’ve never told anyone my story before.” So says one of the 25 queer women whose diverse stories are brought together in this new collection. Published last year by an Abuja-based independent publisher, the collection is based on first-hand accounts. Raw, messy, brimming with life, these stories jump off the page. The trio of editors travelled across the country to find women of different sexual and gender orientations, ethnicities and religions, not to provide a “comprehensive picture” but “snapshots of histories, experiences and realities”.
The book’s very existence is cause for celebration. As the editors remark in their introduction, “talk of queerness is everywhere”, yet in Nigeria and abroad, those under discussion are too often missing from the conversation. As a country that is racing towards the role of cultural and economic powerhouse of Africa, Nigeria is in a state of self-examination, and She Called Me Woman is an intervention into a frenzied public debate. The collection is clearly a rebuttal to the Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act of 2014, a brutal attack on queer rights. Yet it is also multi-layered and intimate, challenging the focus placed by Nigerian society on marriage and kids. She Called Me Woman offers a space in which transgressive stories of love, lust and longing can be heard on their own terms.
One of the aims of the collection is to show that these “transgressions” are nothing new. The editors see the book as combating various forms of erasure, including “the rich histories and cultural traditions of diverse sexualities and gender norms in the land known as Nigeria”.
We hear from a lesbian, happily out to her family, who tells us how in Igboland there are multiple ways in which a woman can marry another woman. Western readers are reminded not to bring our prejudices to the recurring accounts of rape and violence, forced outings and medical treatment, just as we should not be surprised when one of the narrators proudly describes the lively pick-up scene in Jos in the chapter “Everybody in J-town is Now a Lola [lesbian]”.
There are limitations to the first-hand accounts. Other anthologies such as 2013’s Queer African Reader or Ashwini Sukthankar’s Facing the Mirror: Lesbian Writing from India have used a mix of poetry, prose and essays to present stories of queer life from multiple angles. In contrast, some of the chapters in She Called Me Woman read a little too much like lightly edited transcript.
Yet this is the first anthology of its kind to focus on queer Nigeria. Staying true to the voices lends the collection weight and authenticity. A review in Nigeria’s Guardian, a popular daily newspaper, framed the struggles portrayed in the collection as part of the broader “Nigeria problem”: the lack of support for the “dreams and ambitions” of the country’s citizens. All of the narrators in She Called Me Woman are under 40. The book can thus be seen as belonging to a new generation of Nigerians who are navigating family and social expectations, as well as corruption and inequality, whether they are straight or queer.
She Called Me Woman is a milestone on a journey. The fact that the women are anonymous tells us something of the way still to go. Around the same time as the book came out, lesbian teen romance movie Rafiki was banned in Kenya, despite critical acclaim. Securing visibility and acceptance is an uphill fight. Yet ultimately this collection leaves the reader feeling gratefully surprised. It’s a sentiment that the editors share. “We expected to find despair and loss,” they say, “and instead we found joy and resilience.”
“I’m so very excited because I’ve never told anyone my story before.” So says one of the 25 queer women whose diverse stories are brought together in this new collection. Published last year by an Abuja-based independent publisher, the collection is based on first-hand accounts. Raw, messy, brimming with life, these stories jump off the page. The trio of editors travelled across the country to find women of different sexual and gender orientations, ethnicities and religions, not to provide a “comprehensive picture” but “snapshots of histories, experiences and realities”.
The book’s very existence is cause for celebration. As the editors remark in their introduction, “talk of queerness is everywhere”, yet in Nigeria and abroad, those under discussion are too often missing from the conversation. As a country that is racing towards the role of cultural and economic powerhouse of Africa, Nigeria is in a state of self-examination, and She Called Me Woman is an intervention into a frenzied public debate. The collection is clearly a rebuttal to the Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act of 2014, a brutal attack on queer rights. Yet it is also multi-layered and intimate, challenging the focus placed by Nigerian society on marriage and kids. She Called Me Woman offers a space in which transgressive stories of love, lust and longing can be heard on their own terms.
One of the aims of the collection is to show that these “transgressions” are nothing new. The editors see the book as combating various forms of erasure, including “the rich histories and cultural traditions of diverse sexualities and gender norms in the land known as Nigeria”.
We hear from a lesbian, happily out to her family, who tells us how in Igboland there are multiple ways in which a woman can marry another woman. Western readers are reminded not to bring our prejudices to the recurring accounts of rape and violence, forced outings and medical treatment, just as we should not be surprised when one of the narrators proudly describes the lively pick-up scene in Jos in the chapter “Everybody in J-town is Now a Lola [lesbian]”.
There are limitations to the first-hand accounts. Other anthologies such as 2013’s Queer African Reader or Ashwini Sukthankar’s Facing the Mirror: Lesbian Writing from India have used a mix of poetry, prose and essays to present stories of queer life from multiple angles. In contrast, some of the chapters in She Called Me Woman read a little too much like lightly edited transcript.
Yet this is the first anthology of its kind to focus on queer Nigeria. Staying true to the voices lends the collection weight and authenticity. A review in Nigeria’s Guardian, a popular daily newspaper, framed the struggles portrayed in the collection as part of the broader “Nigeria problem”: the lack of support for the “dreams and ambitions” of the country’s citizens. All of the narrators in She Called Me Woman are under 40. The book can thus be seen as belonging to a new generation of Nigerians who are navigating family and social expectations, as well as corruption and inequality, whether they are straight or queer.
She Called Me Woman is a milestone on a journey. The fact that the women are anonymous tells us something of the way still to go. Around the same time as the book came out, lesbian teen romance movie Rafiki was banned in Kenya, despite critical acclaim. Securing visibility and acceptance is an uphill fight. Yet ultimately this collection leaves the reader feeling gratefully surprised. It’s a sentiment that the editors share. “We expected to find despair and loss,” they say, “and instead we found joy and resilience.”
August 28, 2021
A remarkable piece of work
I think about the work that must have gone into producing such landmark literature, in such a perilous situation. A profound piece of work, one that will be remembered and used as a benchmark for future generations.
I think about the work that must have gone into producing such landmark literature, in such a perilous situation. A profound piece of work, one that will be remembered and used as a benchmark for future generations.
May 28, 2020
Cassava Republic Press does not miss.
May 1, 2019
A book of this sort has been long overdue.
The main focus being the trials and tribulations of being a queer woman in Nigeria and navigating life whilst also existing at the different religious and cultural intersections.
I enjoyed reading about lived experiences in the words of these women - ranging from trans women, Nigerian women in the diaspora, Christians, Muslims, atheists etc.
To quote Arundhati Roy, 'There's really no such thing as the voiceless. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard'.
In the oppressive homophobic misogynistic deeply religious Nigerian culture, queer women have been both deliberately silenced AND preferably unheard with common dismissal of their sexual orientation as 'not African'.
Having also attended an all female boarding school in Nigeria, some of the phenomena described by the characters rang closer to home for me and made me re-think about my boarding school experience with a new analytical lens.
I did feel like, each chapter followed the same structure of
'childhood, first same-sex attraction, opinion on gender roles, opinion on marriage and the 2014 Nigerian same sex marriage prohibition bill, the LGBTQ community, future plans' which made it slightly repetitive and I would have possibly preferred focusing on 1 or 2 main issues per chapter a la ' The Good Immigrant' instead.
Not withstanding, a powerful and important entry level read to world of the Nigerian LGBTQ +
The main focus being the trials and tribulations of being a queer woman in Nigeria and navigating life whilst also existing at the different religious and cultural intersections.
I enjoyed reading about lived experiences in the words of these women - ranging from trans women, Nigerian women in the diaspora, Christians, Muslims, atheists etc.
To quote Arundhati Roy, 'There's really no such thing as the voiceless. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard'.
In the oppressive homophobic misogynistic deeply religious Nigerian culture, queer women have been both deliberately silenced AND preferably unheard with common dismissal of their sexual orientation as 'not African'.
Having also attended an all female boarding school in Nigeria, some of the phenomena described by the characters rang closer to home for me and made me re-think about my boarding school experience with a new analytical lens.
I did feel like, each chapter followed the same structure of
'childhood, first same-sex attraction, opinion on gender roles, opinion on marriage and the 2014 Nigerian same sex marriage prohibition bill, the LGBTQ community, future plans' which made it slightly repetitive and I would have possibly preferred focusing on 1 or 2 main issues per chapter a la ' The Good Immigrant' instead.
Not withstanding, a powerful and important entry level read to world of the Nigerian LGBTQ +
February 27, 2019
I truly loved this book. A fascinating, engaging, moving and enlightening read. The variety of voices is so valuable, spanning different ages, classes and social groups. And it feels very timely - published four years after Nigeria's Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act. I'd recommend it to anyone interested in LGBT issues, and anyone interested in the human condition. Please read this.
May 3, 2024
"When I look at the community in other countries, yes, they have their difficulties. But here, I can’t even express how painful it is. I know at least ten people who are lesbian and bisexual but because they are married, they’re not safe. They can’t even be part of this project because they’re going to jeopardise their marriage. In this country we’re in, you’re either hated by your family or shamed by your community. You lose your job or you’re exploited or you’re raped."
There are 25 oral histories in this compendium, covering queer Nigerian women. As homosexuality is criminalised in Nigeria, the voices are all anonymous. The cover Hausa, Igbo and Yoruba women, muslims, Christians and athiests, and they range from teenagers to women in their early 40s, both cis and trans. While locations are obscured, it is clear that they come from different parts of the country, and from a variety of cities and villages, and a couple of expats in USA and Europe.
It can be a slog to read at times, even spaced out. Some of this is because the oral history style tends to homogeneise the voices of the women. There are also some things that are very similar across the volume, especially the relative youth of the interviewees (most are under 30), which possibly leans towards a focus on dating life and the various dilemmas it brings with us.
It is worth persisting, however, because what emerges is both a remarkable view of a diverse country and the kinds of continuity you can only get through community. While these womens lives - ambitions, professions and degree of financial independence - varies a lot, as does the cultures they live within, their experiences with childhood sexual violence, discrimination, religious intervention and family rejection are often depressingly similar. Most of the women have some family who are supportive and some who are not, none had supportive churches or mosques. All felt the ripple of the criminal law through their lives as a renewed sense of anxiety from their loved ones towards them. But you also see the impacts of a community - there is also a preoccupation with monogamy, bisexuality (various strong views on whether bisexuals are good to date, including from several bisexual women), queer parenthood, gender roles in lesbian relationships. These topics emerge over and over (I became uncomfortably aware at a point, given the way the project rolled out, that some of the participants had almost certainly dated each other and probably played bit roles in each others narratives) in a way that indicates they are hot topics in the current dating scene.
I did miss the participation of older voices. Not only to dilute some of the dating drama, but also because many of these women were clearly uncertain of what a settled future might look like. It was hard to parse whether this was because of their life stage, or because the law has made visibile long-term relationships impossible. Several participants make reference to the worsening situation, noting that cultural norms for same-sex relationships existed in both Yoruba and Hausa cultures traditionally, but have been more recently demonised. One woman simply says "most people I know don’t really want to settle down because of the society. We already know that the society doesn’t allow it, so why fool yourself?"
There is no question, reading this, that the government and religious pressure in Nigeria is very difficult, making the situation there fairly dire. These women are vulnerable in all kinds of ways, that intersect with already high rates of domestic and sexual violence (corrective rape is also a theme). It is less the danger of being directly imprisoned for their sexuality as it is that in being queer these women lose recourse to the law if they are ripped off or assualted and the perpetrator can point to their sexuality. It is also a reminder that this isn't happening to a society without a queer community, and that community, even if a source of drama, is also a great strength. "It feels good, knowing there are other women with you. It’s like a family, especially for some of us. I always have this picture on my BBM: Family is not all about blood, it’s about those who love you through thick and thin and can hold your hand even through fires."
There are 25 oral histories in this compendium, covering queer Nigerian women. As homosexuality is criminalised in Nigeria, the voices are all anonymous. The cover Hausa, Igbo and Yoruba women, muslims, Christians and athiests, and they range from teenagers to women in their early 40s, both cis and trans. While locations are obscured, it is clear that they come from different parts of the country, and from a variety of cities and villages, and a couple of expats in USA and Europe.
It can be a slog to read at times, even spaced out. Some of this is because the oral history style tends to homogeneise the voices of the women. There are also some things that are very similar across the volume, especially the relative youth of the interviewees (most are under 30), which possibly leans towards a focus on dating life and the various dilemmas it brings with us.
It is worth persisting, however, because what emerges is both a remarkable view of a diverse country and the kinds of continuity you can only get through community. While these womens lives - ambitions, professions and degree of financial independence - varies a lot, as does the cultures they live within, their experiences with childhood sexual violence, discrimination, religious intervention and family rejection are often depressingly similar. Most of the women have some family who are supportive and some who are not, none had supportive churches or mosques. All felt the ripple of the criminal law through their lives as a renewed sense of anxiety from their loved ones towards them. But you also see the impacts of a community - there is also a preoccupation with monogamy, bisexuality (various strong views on whether bisexuals are good to date, including from several bisexual women), queer parenthood, gender roles in lesbian relationships. These topics emerge over and over (I became uncomfortably aware at a point, given the way the project rolled out, that some of the participants had almost certainly dated each other and probably played bit roles in each others narratives) in a way that indicates they are hot topics in the current dating scene.
I did miss the participation of older voices. Not only to dilute some of the dating drama, but also because many of these women were clearly uncertain of what a settled future might look like. It was hard to parse whether this was because of their life stage, or because the law has made visibile long-term relationships impossible. Several participants make reference to the worsening situation, noting that cultural norms for same-sex relationships existed in both Yoruba and Hausa cultures traditionally, but have been more recently demonised. One woman simply says "most people I know don’t really want to settle down because of the society. We already know that the society doesn’t allow it, so why fool yourself?"
There is no question, reading this, that the government and religious pressure in Nigeria is very difficult, making the situation there fairly dire. These women are vulnerable in all kinds of ways, that intersect with already high rates of domestic and sexual violence (corrective rape is also a theme). It is less the danger of being directly imprisoned for their sexuality as it is that in being queer these women lose recourse to the law if they are ripped off or assualted and the perpetrator can point to their sexuality. It is also a reminder that this isn't happening to a society without a queer community, and that community, even if a source of drama, is also a great strength. "It feels good, knowing there are other women with you. It’s like a family, especially for some of us. I always have this picture on my BBM: Family is not all about blood, it’s about those who love you through thick and thin and can hold your hand even through fires."
May 13, 2020
I went back and forth on what to rate this book. I think the stories and content are really important and powerful and I am thankful to have had the opportunity to read stories from a marginalized viewpoint from multiple intersections I will not experience myself. Especially not often hearing stories of Queer women of colour, let alone this many in one text.
However, the way the stories are presented in this text are very formulaic in how the 25 interviews are almost scribed word for word in order to maintain as much of the authentic narrative as possible, but start to get repetitive overtime.
For example, every person was asked to clearly frame their narratives around their upbringing, first kiss, first sexual experience, significantly partners, and coming out (if it occurred). By the 19th tale the stories felt more fill in the blank and formulaic then I would have liked and felt that some of the meaning was lost in how the stories were being told in this rigid framework.
Overall, I enjoyed every story in this important text and would recommend for others to read. Although, I wish the narrative framework the researchers chose allowed for more flexibility for narrative inquiry.
However, the way the stories are presented in this text are very formulaic in how the 25 interviews are almost scribed word for word in order to maintain as much of the authentic narrative as possible, but start to get repetitive overtime.
For example, every person was asked to clearly frame their narratives around their upbringing, first kiss, first sexual experience, significantly partners, and coming out (if it occurred). By the 19th tale the stories felt more fill in the blank and formulaic then I would have liked and felt that some of the meaning was lost in how the stories were being told in this rigid framework.
Overall, I enjoyed every story in this important text and would recommend for others to read. Although, I wish the narrative framework the researchers chose allowed for more flexibility for narrative inquiry.
April 4, 2021
I love the concept behind this book, and I really wanted to love the book itself, but I just didn't. The situation for LGBTQ+ people in Nigeria is very serious, and I am very glad that this book is available for that reason. It took me a long time to get past how the stories are narrated...I can't say that the book was poorly written, because it wasn't written -- the stories are transcribed, first-person accounts of individual experiences. But I found most of the stories to be very very similar -- in terms of content and also in terms of voice.
I abandoned it with just under 100 pages left, because I just couldn't stand it anymore. I gave a week of my reading life to this book - and I do think it's an important book, but it was real work to get through.
Again -- it can't be faulted for being "bad writing," because these are interviews....but it really felt like bad writing...and a whole lot of it.
I abandoned it with just under 100 pages left, because I just couldn't stand it anymore. I gave a week of my reading life to this book - and I do think it's an important book, but it was real work to get through.
Again -- it can't be faulted for being "bad writing," because these are interviews....but it really felt like bad writing...and a whole lot of it.
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