When Truth Sets You Free.

As a teenager, I wore a mask. I was also always surrounded by friends, yet many times I felt alone. I didn’t think others like me harboured emotions towards other guys. I’d heard the words ‘homo’ and ‘fag’ being tossed around in school towards the guys considered sissies. We now describe them as effeminate men, but then they were sissies. Back then, I considered myself lucky that what I felt inside was camouflaged by above-average participation in sports like basketball, rugby, and athletics. I was happy with the nickname ‘masgwembe’; those calves made me leap during three sticks! So I was safe from bullying. I liked swimming — more the watching than plunging and stroking. During the 4th All African Games in Nairobi, I’d be at the Nyayo Stadium poolside in the morning and evening, gawking. The swimmers from North Africa stirred something within me. That was in 1987, and by then, I’d already known for a few years that I was attracted to guys, and yet I kept this ‘thing’ locked deep in my heart for years. There was no one I could speak to, and I’d been told what I felt was sinful, dirty, shameful, and vile. Sodom and Gomorrah were constantly dangled to depict how evil homosexuals were. So, I learnt to bury myself and began wearing a mask acceptable to society. No one would call me a sissy or, even worse, a homo or fag.

Even before I became a teenager, I knew who I was. I was gentle, softer, and kinder and admired the feminine things in life. Often, I was ashamed of these traits because boys were not meant to be that way, although when these aspects of me came out, I was happy. Really happy because I was able to be my true self. I was comfortable playing kati (the Kenyan version of dodgeball) and bladder, or is it spelt blada? I digress; anyway, both were considered girls’ games, but I played with the same enthusiasm as British Bulldog and the violent chobo mob, which involved a ball and lots of hitting. Secretly, I preferred Barbie to Ken, but there was no way I was going to ask for a female doll from Toys Bazaar. So, I settled for an action-man model. I remember trying to shave off his beard with my dad’s shaving cream because I was not too fond of his facial hair. I was also frustrated that I couldn’t restyle his hair or change his green army camouflage. But, when I came across a doll, I’d comb the golden blonde locks and admire the dresses available, the dollhouses with those little pink cooking and tea sets. But there was no way I could have owned any of that, for those were girls’ toys.

On TV, American comedian Redd Foxx in the sitcom Sanford and Son, and his contemporary Sherman Hemsley in The Jeffersons, didn’t paint a positive image of homosexuality. I laughed at their gay jibes but ensured I was never spotted with a limp wrist. Though I will never forget the episode of the Jeffersons that addressed the matter of gender-affirming surgery, back then, it was called a sex change. This was in the 80s, so I continued to bury and mask.

In high school, I’d announce that I wanted to be a pilot, yet I wanted to be a flight attendant, but I was too scared to say that publicly. So, whenever I was on a plane, I took every detail of the cabin service and even crammed the KQ welcome announcement. Mouthing secretly, ‘hamjambo mabibi na mabwana’ in unison with the purser. Unfortunately, during that time, being cabin crew was believed to be the preserve for homos and was considered an unserious profession, and I didn’t want to be perceived as unambitious. Moreover, I was already secretly harbouring an attraction to guys. So, yet again, I buried, masked, and picked up shame as well.

Then, as a young adult, I found solace in the church and hoped that being ‘saved’ would make me straight. I fasted, submitted to special prayers, attended many keshas (overnight vigils), and gave lots during the offertory and even whole salaries hoping that this bidding would eliminate my homosexual feelings. I managed to find books that claimed you could pray the gay away at a local Christian bookshop. I was desperate to be straight. I was in correspondence with two organisations in the US that had a conversion therapy program. What now looks ridiculous back then seemed like an antidote. Some of their demands were to avoid wearing white underwear, as it was often used to depict erotic masculinity in porn. Then I had to ensure that I had limited access to overly male spaces (gyms or changing rooms) so as not to be led into temptation, and I had to conceal aspects of my physicality so as not to attract the roving eye of the dangerous homosexuals. Furthermore, I was encouraged to pursue more masculine interests and spend less time around girls and women. I believed all that shit. Fortunately, those organisations were exposed as bogus and were shut down for the harm they caused so many men. Mental, physical, and emotional harm. During this period, I also ‘struggled’ with masturbation. If there were Masturbators Anonymous, I would have been there. I’d be made to believe that masturbation was almost sinful.

I hated what is now commonly known as self-pleasure. And the guilt and shame that I carried for many years cut deep. Funny how something pleasurable was construed and still is portrayed as something evil. How the body, a temple of many things, even divinely given pleasure, is framed in impotent dogma. Everything sexual — gay or straight, was tabia mbaya! So, I wanked, prayed, repented, and fasted in almost equal measure. It was during this time that self-loathing and poor self-esteem crept in. I became uncomfortable when photographs were taken, hating the image of the person captured during that Kodak colour gold moment.

During this time, anything associated with homosexuality was portrayed as Western. If a news story on homosexuality made it to the local media, the press often sought the opinions of Mombasa-based sex workers. That was not me, I would say to myself. I was embarrassed for them and myself. I was drawn to the hypo-masculine distancing myself from ‘those kind of people’. I would covertly spend too much time in the magazine section of Bookpoint on Moi Avenue. I was pawing through copies of magazines like Men’s Exercise and Men’s Fitness, which had many images of men in speedos or underwear. During my ‘moments of weakness’, I bought copies of the fashion magazine International Male with its glossy underwear and swimwear section being the focus of my attention. Those copies would be hidden under my clothes or my mattress.

During that season of my life, I picked up journaling, and I came across some of my entries and revisiting my musings from that period captured my internal turmoil. A few years back, I had wanted to burn all of them because I was embarrassed, angry and pitied the person I was in them, but I’m glad I didn’t.

25 February 1999

Being in Mombasa brings back the ghosts of my life. Ghosts that I had thought I had done away with. Yeah right.’. ..A part of me is thrown into confusion . Anyway, that seems to be my life. Confusion.

30 October 2000

I’m confronting something I have always thought I had dwelt with or disappeared. That happens to be my sexuality. It goes back to three weeks ago when I was on the net and I earned up looking up porn sites. Some were just pictures of jamaas and others had people actually doing it. I was shocked, but at one point, I kept clicking and clicking, feeling nothing.

I was 27 at the time of the above entry. Single, saved and serving the lord. Sometimes I wonder whether I was pleased with myself. Don’t get me wrong, there were many happy moments, but I can’t help but feel sorry for myself for having snuffed out a part of who I was.

13 January 2001

I want to be straight, love a woman, and be drawn physically to women. Not to go the other extreme, but to be where God wants me to be as a man, sexually…. I shudder at the fact that I may never love the way God wants me to. I have my scars from porn and being gay. Those I have to carry all the days of my life, but the fact that I may never experience the joy of a straight relationship is saddening. It is my prayer and belief and hope that God can change that. I need to let him have his way and heal me.

I crossed over into my thirties in a state of flux, and thanks to therapy, self-acceptance and unconditional love from some family and friends, I began making peace with myself. To get there, I accepted that I was gay and knew nothing was wrong with me or how I felt. The internal realisation of who I was not only lit a fire inside me, it awakened latent desire and left me at a crossroads. From then on, I lived a double life or was on the DL — down low. This I have written about previously. Yet, this duplicitous way of living was exhausting. I would be ‘werking it’ on Friday nights and repenting on Saturdays in preparation for church on Sunday. Finally, I recognised that I needed to live without managing a ledger of lies and excuses. I chose all of me, and my long walk to freedom was over.

27 February 2007

I struggle with identifying myself as a Christian. For years I had carried the conflict brought about by my sexuality and faith. For years, I struggled to try to reconcile the two. For years I had carried the pain. I thought, by just being who I was that the conflict and pain would go. It did. But it brought on a different loss and different pain… I have learnt to appreciate the beauty of humanity because it reflects his imagery. I have learnt to love all, regardless, of what they do or how they live, because of his grace. I’ve realised you miss that in some of the churches, our frailty and humanity.

It also helped that I was beginning to meet other Kenyans like me. I was not alone anymore. Other queers existed in Kenya and have always been there, in plain sight. My tribe, I discovered, was everywhere. As a result, I was slowly getting comfortable in my skin, cautiously unearthing and unmasking myself.

For many years, I navigated Kenya and became a part of a community of LGBTQI folks, incorporating myself into a movement of activists, covering and curating queer stories and carrying the rainbow flag in a Kenyan stylie. There were times when it felt like a dream. To be openly gay and be Kenyan, where all aspects of my life sat relatively comfortably, more often than not.

However, March 2023 shook me. As a community, we’ve been branded as murderers, paedophiles, recruiters, thieves, heathens, and unpatriotic; the one that cuts most is Un-African. We have been described as a threat to morality and the family. You’d think we, as the LGBTQI community, are the fabric that holds Kenya together and are instrumental in ensuring that Vision 2023 happens! There have been numerous unreported cases of assault and discrimination. Members of our community have been disowned, evicted from their homes, threatened with violence and gone into hiding. Yet, all we have done is be ourselves. We were silenced and made invisible, denied the chance to tell our story. Our distractors took to the press, pulpits, and podiums, telling mistruths and lie about our existence. The hate has been triggering for so many. I’ve had to rethink how I navigate specific spaces and have taken more concern into my safety.

The joy of the Supreme Court seeing us as Kenyans was short-lived. Many of us feel unsafe. It feels like Kenya will only tolerate us if we are unhappy and suffering. We don’t deserve a happily ever after. So, our moments of victory are ignored by the press as it makes the general populace uncomfortable. Banning Kenyan movies ‘Stories of Our Lives’, ‘Rafiki’ and ‘I Am Samuel’ are testaments to that. Our misfortunes make the headlines, garnering likes, retweets, and audiences. The phrase ‘hawa watu’ is tossed around to de-link us from being seen as Kenyan.

The wind changed in March 2023. From being non-issues, we became a hate issue. All this was being played out in a nation that still bears the scars of tribal hate and likes to taut itself as a ‘Christian’ country. So, where is the love, then? Why are arguments against the LGBTQI community stuck in the Old Testament text, with no mention of elements of grace, love, mercy, and the non-judgemental teaching that make the bedrock of the New Testament? The symbolism of the tearing of the curtain in the temple in Jerusalem and the significance of an empty tomb are conveniently forgotten.

Having spent time in the church battling my sexuality from within that space, I got to learn and experience grace, love, and mercy. It was offered to me by a few pastors and friends that I came out to. As much as I struggled to keep to the straight and narrow, the welcome mat was never withdrawn. But, unfortunately, we’ve been hearing more about hellfire, damnation, and calls of violence in recent weeks.

Our internationally lauded Constitution is now being side-eyed for protecting the rights of all Kenyans. Then there is the Un-African mantra that detractors chant against the community. It begs whether being African means calling for the persecution, erasure, and denial of the rights of individuals who love or describe themselves differently. Kwani, whatever happened to utu? Is baying for blood and smouldering of the individual our understanding of humanness? Where is the ngao and ulinzi, living with undungu, umoja, raha and ustawi that we pray for when we sing the words of our national anthem?

It also baffles me that there is a perception that queerness is learnt and is a choice. It is laughable to think that an individual would wake up one day and decide to wilfully choose a life that would open them to discrimination, violence, stigmatisation, and death. Who would willingly want to go through life with internal conflict, low self-esteem, shame, and self-hate? How do you even teach that?

If sixteen-year-old Kevin lived in present-day Kenya, I know he would have a better sense of self. He would also see a representation of queerness in the media, the arts, culture, and society. He would know that African queerness existed before the coloniser, thanks to the work of academics who’ve researched African sexuality and its broad spectrum. Sixteen-year-old me would have access to information on female husbandry among the Kuria, Nuer, Kamba, and Igbo or learnt that the term ‘mudoka dako’ was used to describe effeminate men by the Langi tribe of northern Uganda. Or that the male diviners from Angola and Namibia were believed to carry female spirits within them and were called, ‘zvibanda’ or ‘chibados.’ He would discover that the term ‘goorjigéén’ or ‘tchié tè mousso tè’ was used to describe the non-binary individuals in parts of Burkina Faso, Cote D’Ivoire, Mali and northern Nigeria. Or that among the Shona, the words ‘mukadzirume’ and ‘murumekadzi’ were used as terms for individuals who were seen as either woman-man or man-woman, respectively.

We, as a community, are as African as they come, and we are unearthing our names and reclaiming, rewriting, and telling our stories with our own words. We’ve been here, always have been and will always be here. We are parents, even grandparents, your colleagues, matatu drivers, teachers, wasee wa mjengo, soldiers, politicians, farmers, live with disability or albinism, athletes, fundis, landlords, askaris, loan sharks, bouncers, fitness instructors, imams, worship leaders, duka wallas, influencers, boda boda riders, fraudsters, lawyers, coders, hospitality staff, entertainers, musicians, scientists, etc. You name it; we are here because we are you, and you are us. The LGBTQI community are not superhumans or deities. Society has given us so much power that it blames us for droughts, earthquakes, tsunamis, and high fuel prices. If we had those abilities, we wouldn’t have to fight for equal rights or full inclusion into society. We’d have supernaturally conjured a perfect and inclusive community by now and not bothered with pride marches, advocacy and looking for allies. We would not live in fear of hate, anger or exclusion, and I would not need to write this article.

I am a son, brother, cousin, uncle, nephew, friend, colleague, cancer fighter and proud member of the country’s LGBTQI community. I am a human being, and no one can outlaw another human. I spent over 25 years hiding who I was from myself and society. I donned a mask because I thought I was not good enough because of my same-sex attraction. I chose to come out and live free. I must admit it takes courage, and it is easier for some to do that than it is for others.

I made it to my half-century in March this year, the same month the wind in Kenya changed for the country’s queer community. Yet, I am trying to figure out what the future holds for me or anyone who feels, acts or identifies differently within the four corners of this country.

I return to our national anthem and hope that future generations will applaud us for safeguarding the lives of every Kenyan and in a land that allows each of us, queer or otherwise, the liberty to arise with hearts both strong and true.