There are people walking on the streets of Nigeria today to whom the rainbow flag signifies more doom than pitch black terrorist banners decked across armoured vehicles.
Nigeria’s brand of homophobia is potent, repugnant in its ability to take lives, and unwavering in its insistence that queer people are not people. Never mind cultural artefacts in language and practices screaming down a verifiable history of existence within society. As of 2015, when the Bisi Alimi Foundation—founded by Alimi, the first openly gay man on Nigerian TV –ran a survey on queer acceptance in Nigeria, the margins were unsurprising. 87% supported the Same Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act, 2013, an improvement by 9% from 5 years before. 6 years later, research analysing social media revealed that about 83% of people do not see queerness as acceptable in Nigeria.
And if you needed any more data, extrapolation from singular episodes still works. On 14 November 2025, popular music video director TG Omori made a now-deleted widely supported X post about the ‘evil of same gender sex.’ The proliferation of raves has come with an associated increase in expressions of desire to harm queer folk. It’s not so much about the constitution as it is about a people’s feelings steeped in religious doctrine. Throw in extensive support for Anti-LGTBQ legislation on the continent from a vibrant American Christian Right, giddy at their luck of the draw thousands of kilometres away, willing to spend hundreds of millions of dollars to this effect, and you have the perfect loop of hate.
Singer Teni released her sophomore album, Tears of The Sun, on 17 November 2023. One of the most anticipated projects at the time, the 16-track LP was more experimental in approach, compared to her folk and Afro-pop-leaning first album, WONDALAND (2021), and hits like Case, Billionaire (off the EP of the same name), and Uyo Meyo, which cemented the younger Apata sister, as an important voice in mainstream Nigerian music.
https://open.spotify.com/track/5MUAhZVNZU4UF8FmhUBQYs?si=krQD-qYNSu-AHTQLvoprAQ
The album’s intro track, YBGFA, a stylised version of “Young Black Girl From Africa,” immediately led to a deluge of conversations about her sexuality. Precedence existed too. Teni’s outfits up until that point were mostly androgynous, opting for urban fashion in contrast to the more chic choices of other female stars. In June 2019, controversial US-based Nigerian rapper and Internet personality, Speed Darlington, made a video alleging that Teni was queer, and disparaging other female Yoruba Nigerian artists. It was neither the first nor last time Speedy would make harmful, misogynistic comments about female singers. But for respondents, the possibility that she was queer overrode his blatant misogynoir and tribalism. A pool of tweets and distasteful Shade Room-esque YouTube videos also exists in the interval before Tears of the Sun. Teni did not respond to any of these—rightfully so.
However, when YBGFA and its accompanying video were released, the inquisition attained a fever pitch. Teni passionately belting lyrics: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry/I’m not what you thought I was/And I can never be the thing you’re wishing that I was/I like what I like”, “Why you worried about who I love?/Why you worried about who I fuck?”, “I’m just a young black girl/Young black girl from Africa/And this is who I am (this is who I am)”, “Cancel who?, Ṣhey you wan cancel me?/Cancel your father, I no be your mate,” and “Cause I’m chasing the rainbow” were immediately dissected as a coming out song. Having only female models in the video, despite the painfully obvious ‘black girl power’ allusion, was assumed to be a statement about her relationships.
Queer netizens expressed solidarity with the singer. Banger boys and girls opted for bait tweets with faux questions. Self-appointed investigators went to town on her social media pages, searching for any clues about her sexuality and bringing up deleted posts—as if that was theirs to claim. For about a week, music from Tears of the Sun took a back seat in conversations, a detour from what should have been appreciation for her newer direction. It would take a while for plaudits to roll in appropriately. And when they did, most centred on Teni’s exploration of baile Funk and Jersey club on YBGFA and the Genio Bambino-produced No Days Off. Or on incorporating orthodox Yoruba folk-Christian arrangements, melodies, and lyrics on Malaika.
Because conversations have such a short half-life in the media, the algorithm soon returned to normalcy, although the subject still popped up from time to time. Speaking on the sexuality subject in her 7 December 2023 OkayAfrica interview, Teni explained, “ I actually haven’t been seeing them [the online buzz]. But I think it’s a beautiful time in this space to be yourself. To be you in every form, not just sexuality. Why do we have to label things so much? Why can’t we just be us? I’m saying in the song that whatever you are —Black, white, gay, short— just be yourself and be free. I’m too focused on growth, positivity and pushing the culture forward,” and added, “We should learn to give people an opportunity to evolve, instead of just boxing everything and saying, “It’s for boys, it’s for girls.” A succinct, appropriate response to questions that frankly should not matter. One of many problems with celebrity culture is the assumption that fans own the right to privacy, the Constitution be damned. In this case, it also means that on either side of the ideological divide, people felt entitled to the image of Teni created in their minds. A queer diasporan Nigerian made a video arguing that YBGFA is for queer people. Teni never outrightly acknowledged her sexuality or allyship, as the case may be.
In those immediate months post-Tears of the Sun, reactions devolved to an additional layer of hate: her body. Comments on Teni’s physique have always existed, even up till date, as she has joyfully undergone a weight loss journey —still not deterring comments from trolls and internet relatives. Enough time on the internet exposes you to this sort of acceptability politics. A belief that queer women must look a certain way to be accepted. One-dimensional thinking that reduces everyone to ‘husband’ or ‘wife.’ Controversial Nigerian academic Professor Uju Anya, who speaks openly about her union on X, has fielded variations of this question over the years. And so, to these lot, not only did Teni not fit the acceptable tomboy archetype, she committed an even greater sin of defying the ‘sexy’ femme image that would have permitted objectification. Her queerness —confirmed or not— wasn’t aesthetically pleasing. She didn’t bother to kayfabe for the audience, how rude?
In truth, the Nigerian music industry has never been so receptive to queer music. ‘Queer music’ here refers to music that explores queer themes, theory, expressions, and visual language. So, while an artist like revered early 2000s phenom Weird MC was accepted in the industry, her music wasn’t outrightly queer. Temmie Ovwasa is the most popular example of the music industry’s restrictions. She infamously left YBNL in 2020 over a multiplicity of issues, key among which was her sexuality. Ovwasa’s first two LPs, E Be Like Say Dem Swear For Me (2020,) and Songs From the Closet (2021), are certified underground classics (3 songs on the latter appear in Pamela Adie’s short film, Ifẹ (2020)—Nigeria’s first ever lesbian film). When there has been mainstream acceptance, it has arrived externally. Openly queer UK-Nigerian rapper Darkoo is a foremost example in this regard. Up to date, there are listeners who don’t know she’s female, stuck in a binary jail of their own creation. And Ghanaian-American singer Amaarae’s music, explicitly queer as it is, hasn’t particularly connected with the mainstream save for a few collaborations; hence the Alté bracket when she’s here.
Ours is a country where even being an ally in the mainstream is tantamount to becoming a target of attacks. And where manufactured allegations of being queer can be utilised as troll fodder. Between 11 and 18 November 2025, false X posts about Ayra Starr getting a “scissors” tattoo permeated the internet. Circulated images showed a close-up tattoo of two interjecting scissors, a visual innuendo for an act of lesbian intercourse. It didn’t take long for netizens to run with this info, referring to her multiple episodes of queer allyship at concerts and on social media as evidence of the fact. As if, by doing so, she had become less. Ayra would eventually refer to the allegations in a quote caption of a promotional video for Hot Body. A little sleuthing shows a similar false post for K-pop star rosé. Coordinated, maybe, but disturbing nonetheless.
When there has been successful queer music, it’s been on the fringes of the mainstream. Goodgirl LA’s Goodgirl EP is the closest thing to a queer bubbling-under-hot record in a while. In culture writer Chibuzor Emmanuel’s review for Culture Custodian, he notes the not-so-subtle androgyny present on the song, Giga. This was echoed in reviews by writers Tomide Marv and Yinoluwa Olowofeyeku. Marv’s assessment extends to Buss It, a riotous sexually charged affair where Goodgirl LA repeatedly uses the pronoun ‘she’ while painting erotic landscapes of pleasure, in comparison to the intended male partner. He further links this to a feminist theory propagated by American essayist Bell Hooks that women always pleasure women better. Goodgirl LA’s aesthetic, while goth, is noticeably feminine, a factor that has surely influenced the perception for listeners.
Multi-hyphenate artist Wavy The Creator’s 15th Headies Award Best Alternative Album nominee, P.S Thank You For Waiting, exists in that lineage, as well. The award category tells you all you need to know, as is the fact that their nomination was an upset—a deserved nod in every measure.
Nollywood hasn’t fared better. And this hasn’t been for lack of trying. Tougher restrictions and the absence of distribution models like music plus greater impact of censorship (the National Film and Videos Censor Board, NFVCB, has a broader impact on viewership than the Nigerian Broadcast Corporation, NBC). Pamela Adie and Director Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim faced sanctions and possible jail time when Ifẹ came out—pun intended— in 2020. Then NFVCB Director Adebayo Thomas explained to the BBC, and subsequently CNN, that they [the NFVCB] were ready to go to any lengths to censor the film, in line with Nigeria’s laws. He cited collaborations with YouTube and Google that enabled such. And it appears that the embargo held out for a while, as Ifẹ wasn’t available to watch until November 2024, via YouTube. The sequel, starring Uzoamaka Powers (in her return to the titular role) and Gbubemi Ejeye, premiered at the 2026 BFI Flare on March 24, 2026, to a lot of hurrah from members of the community who had witnessed the original’s long, tortuous journey.
Another film following in this stead is Writer-Director Wapah Ezeigwe’s short film, Shall We Meet Tonight, which was released on YouTube on 18 May, 2026. The FilmJoint Awards-winning film was produced in partnership with BFI Networks and the British Council.
https://youtu.be/itciOd9Lv-c?si=FRTAkywjzxZTu3G6
In a country where queerness attracts a 14-year jail term legally, and worse fates extra-judicially, queer expression in music is disincentivised outside of inclusive safe spaces, like raves and other alternative sections of the ecosystem. Notice that there weren’t even any mentions of queer male artists, an even graver transgression against the collective. The idea of an ambiguously queer male artist is almost unfathomable; talk more of being openly so. There would be blood. And the child abandoned in this case could be a living, breathing human being, possibly lynched by an angry mob indignant about their existence. Or by neighbours and friends unable to stand the thought that the love song they’ve had lucid dreams about, is in fact, about a guy—think Luther Vandross in an alternate reality. You’re better off making music about killing and fraud over here. You’re better off singing generic nursery rhymes here. And if you will defy this statute, and you are female, at least have the decency to be conventionally objectifiable.
