Why Does Everyone Think I'm Gay?

I haven’t been romantically interested in anyone for quite a while. The reasons for this are, unfortunately, a longer—and more emotionally taxing—story than explaining how a country over 60 years old still treats stable electricity like a side quest, and I am not emotionally agile enough for either of those conversations this morning.

The important thing is that it’s been a minute since I’ve seen someone that made all the malnourished butterflies in my tummy dance Azonto. That was until a couple of weeks ago.

To be fair, I’d liked this person for a while, but it was only sometime last month that it finally hit me that what I was experiencing wasn’t ordinary admiration anymore. This thing had grown wings and moved from smiling when she walked past me to fumbling for my phone whenever I received a notification to check if it was her.

Oxytocin can make you quite the fool.

So naturally, I did what every human being raised on a balanced diet of Dork Diaries, peak 2010s Disney Channel romcoms, and unnecessary delusion would do: I told my female friend so we could giggle quietly like secondary school girls doing friendship bracelet exchanges behind the assembly hall.

To my surprise, however, this babe did not giggle.

No “Awwww.”
No “You like somebodyyyy?”
Not even one mischievous “Omo.”

Her response?

“I actually thought you were gay or something. I didn’t think you actually liked girls.”

If somebody bought me a full plate of food for every single time a human being has either asked me if I’m gay or confidently concluded it through their own independent journalism, brothers and sisters, I would not be typing this from my current economic situation.

By now I would have bought land in Ikoyi, taken a round trip to Paris, done “soft life” content in Santorini, and invested enough money in the stock market to guarantee my future, because I wouldn’t have to use a dime from my allowance to sustain the infrastructure of my digestive system.

It is quite unfortunate that wishes are not horses. I would have ridden my own to Nassarawa and back.

At this point, the allegations are not even surprising anymore. They arrive too consistently for me to be flustered by them. It’s like bad news in Nigeria: like JAMB issues, or fuel scarcity (thank God for the Dangote refinery sha), or that one pastor that has bought his fourth Rolls Royce while his members are still sowing “dangerous seeds” for breakthrough.

You’re briefly stunned but eventually grow enough thick skin to realise it’s just another Tuesday.

I’ve even started playing into the narrative. My bitmoji on Snap stands in front of a rainbow background and wears a skirt. When my friends lightly tease me, I return the favour. And every once in a while, you’ll see me holding a girl’s handbag like I’m a drag queen on a Milan fashion week runway.

But the truth is: I am not gay.

And the fact that I’ve had to clarify this so many times is honestly fascinating to me.

A few days ago, Khãrys 🧚🏼‍♀️ posted an article about how masculinity in Nigeria is associated with suffering, struggle, and a hardness that you can only learn from having an absent father and a generator that never starts on the first pull.

And because I don’t seem to fall into the neatly labeled buckets that serve as determinants of masculinity, I’ve been consistently riddled with allegations that I’m unsure I’ll ever be able to beat.

But the reasons still puzzle me.

Some say it’s because I have an “unhealthy” obsession with Olivia Dean and Olivia Rodrigo. Oh, and just in case I get married and my future wife is reading this, our daughter is definitely getting named Olivia. This is not up for debate, thank you.

For others, their claims are justified by my lack of interest in football or the fact that my fashion sense isn’t characterised by wearing T-shirts twice my size with loud graphics screaming MONEY, and SEX, and SWAG, like a mixtape made by a group of drunk, red pill, manosphere influencers.

Some have told me it’s the way I walk

Or the fact that I’m expressive

Or because I don’t go for parties

Or because I always carry a white handkerchief in my pocket—apparently men should only clean sweat from their heads with big towels or black bandanas

Or because I listen to “I Said What I Siad” as though Jola and Fk have me on payroll with insurance benefits.

More often than not, though, it’s something about the fact that most of my friends are females, and that I’m able to maintain purely platonic relationships with so many girls.

First of all. Boundaries really aren’t that hard to create. And not every woman who needs you as a shoulder to lean on, also wants you as a lap to sit on. The fact that this confuses so many Nigerian men genuinely needs to be studied by anthropologists.

But more importantly, I grew up as an only child in a home where pin drops could make a house fly question if there was an earthquake. Asides the TV occasionally producing the sound of football commentary, or breaking news from CNN, or Spiff shouting at Tari in The Johnsons—and let the records show that old The Johnsons was peak comedy—there was literally no other source of auditory vibration. Everywhere was always quiet.

So, I never learnt how to campaign for attention, or make enough noise to be noticed.

But every time someone did take note of my existence, it was almost always a woman. A woman who wasn’t too busy—chasing money, or dissecting politics, or shouting at another grown man through a TV screen to pass the ball—to remember that there was a quiet, little kid at the corner of the room who just wanted to be seen.

Sometimes she was a in a classroom, like Ms. Welton, my elementary school teacher who first noticed first noticed that I had a flair for writing; or Ms. Margaret the woman who’d give everyone a peck on the cheek after morning assembly, leaving the stain of bright red lipstick on the faces of smiling pupils; or even Ms. Nwachukwu, the bright-eyed English teacher who introduced me to the word “Ebullient!” when she wrote it at the top of my essay script.

Other times, she was in church, like Deaconess Faith who somehow figured out that I’d be good at poetry and spoken words and trusted me with a stage I never knew I could own; or Sis. Sandra who became the big sister I never had but always prayed for.

And sometimes, she was family. Like the female cousins who would reluctantly make me hot plates of Indomie after begging them for hours, or entertain me with gist on nights when my parents would be out late; or like my mum who took me not just as a son, or a responsibility, but as a friend... as her friend… her best friend.

And other times, she was just the nice American lady who helped me locate my mother when I got lost on a cold Wednesday evening in Seoul.

The people who took enough time to notice that I existed have almost always been women. And if that’s what influences how I make friends or build relationships or how I move in the world then I will not be apologising for it.

If you like call me gay, or think I’m a pick-me, or be convinced that I have a secret crush on Bobrisky. That’s for you and your village people to keep on gossiping about.

What I do know is that I’ll keep reading fictional books, and I’ll keep crossing my legs in public, and I’ll keep listening to Ayra Starr, and I’ll keep on doing the things that make me happy.

Because, when my parents gave birth to me, I didn’t come with a mandate to perform a stereotype that pre-existed me. Neither did I arrive with a responsibility to shrink to forms that are more “socially acceptable”.

I came to this earth with one agenda. To be unapologetically, unreservedly, and wholeheartedly me.

So, yes

I like soft music.
I like meaningful conversations.
I like women as complete human beings, and not just romantic prospects.

And none of that should require a public press conference about my sexuality every six business days.

But if that still confuses you? Well.

May God grant you peace, understanding, and a slightly wider definition of what masculinity actually means.

And lest I forget. If you are gay, or any other of the bright colours of the rainbow, or even somewhere on the spectrum unrepresented by any fancy nomenclature, know that I and all the Wanderers reading this love you like mad!

See you soon, Wanderers 👋. And thank you so soo much to all of you who subscribed. We’ve officially crossed the 100 mark! I’m so giddy!!! I deserve a cake! 😭😭😭

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What I’m Reading: Still on “Perks of Being a Wallflower”. I’m a rather slow reader

What I’m Watching: I’m still on F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I know I said I deleted Netflix on my last post, but they have a website for a reason 🥲.

What I’m Doing: Feeling so grateful for how my Substack has grown over the past week!

Recommended Substack: You’ve probably already read it, but just in case…