Mainstream Nigerian feminism has an inclusion problem — and queer women are paying the price

Until we consider the safety of queer women in Nigeria, true feminism is unfinished business.

In August 2024, Abuja Area Mama — a transgender woman known for her bold online presence — was found dead by the roadside in Abuja. Her body bore clear signs of brutal violence, a final, horrifying chapter in a life that had already been marked by repeated attacks. Even in death, her dignity was stripped away as graphic images of her corpse circulated online, turning her last moments into a spectacle instead of a victim deserving of justice.

She had spoken openly about surviving violence — about being stabbed, about navigating a country where her existence made her a target. This time, she did not survive. Her murder shook Nigeria’s LGBTQ+ community. But beyond that, the national response was muted, fragmented, and in some cases, disturbingly cruel. For many, her identity overshadowed her humanity and the respect she deserved to be treated with. That is precisely the problem with feminism in our country.

For queer people in Nigeria, especially those who exist outside society’s narrow expectations of womanhood, violence is normalised.

Who gets to be protected?

Feminist advocacy in Nigeria has made undeniable strides. Conversations around sexual violence, workplace discrimination, and reproductive rights have become more mainstream. Yet, protection, in practice, is not evenly distributed.

Queer women — lesbians, bisexual women, trans women — exist at the intersection of gender-based oppression and sexuality-based persecution. Their experiences of violence are often more severe, less talked about, and just as dangerous. However, when harm befalls them, their stories often go ignored, dismissed, or demoralised.

Consider cases like the two trans women who were injured and put behind bars at Port Harcourt Prison in 2023 after a group of local youths targeted and raided their hair salon, leading to their subsequent arrest by Nigerian police. They were reportedly targeted because of their sexuality, alongside numerous undocumented incidents of mob attacks, forced outings, and so-called “corrective” violence. 

Many victims remain unnamed — not because they do not exist, but because society has refused to fully accept or acknowledge their identities. The question remains: who gets to be considered “woman enough” to deserve protection?

Read also: For lesbian visibility day, we must acknowledge the humanity of queer people living among us

Pride, identity, and the right to exist

Pride in one’s identity is a celebration, but it can also warrant protecting oneself from others. Living in your truest form can be an act of survival. It requires embracing yourself, your history, and your culture while also advocating for equality, visibility, and acceptance. 

Within the LGBTQ+ community, pride represents self-acceptance and empowerment. For many queer women in Nigeria, that journey is fraught with danger. Choosing to live authentically can mean risking family rejection, social isolation, or violence.

In this context, pride becomes resistance. It is a refusal to shrink, a declaration of humanity in a society that often denies it. Feminism, if it is truly about liberation, must align with that resistance and not distance itself from it.

Read also: Why calling yourself a feminist still matters in today’s social and political reality 

The law, impunity, and the cost of exclusion

Nigeria’s Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act (SSMPA), enacted in 2014, has had consequences far beyond its stated purpose. According to “Tell Me Where I Can Be Safe,” a Human Rights Watch report, the law has enabled widespread abuse — including extortion, arbitrary arrests, mob violence, torture, and sexual assault.

It has also created a dangerous culture of impunity. Perpetrators of violence often act with the assumption that queer victims will not seek justice, or will not be believed if they do. The law has effectively sanctioned a social environment where abuse can thrive unchecked.

Nigerian activist Bisi Alimi has pointed out another devastating consequence: the law doesn’t just target queer people — it also affects those who try to support them. When services are restricted, especially around HIV care, entire communities are put at risk.

For queer women, this means navigating a system that fails to protect them and also, in many ways, refuses to legitimise their vulnerability.

Nigeria’s 1999 Constitution guarantees the right to life, dignity, and security for all citizens. These rights are not conditional.

Yet in reality, queer women are often excluded from these protections — socially, legally, and even within feminist spaces.

Feminism cannot afford to replicate this exclusion.

Feminist rights must extend to all who identify as female — lesbians, bisexual women, trans women, and gender non-conforming individuals who experience gender-based oppression.

Anything less is not feminism; it becomes something that mimics the same patriarchal tools we aim to dismantle.

Read also: What Goodluck Jonathan’s Anti-LGBTQ law did to queer people

Violence in the digital age is evolving, not disappearing

As physical spaces became more hostile, many queer Nigerians turned to the internet for connection and community. But even that refuge has been infiltrated.

“Kito” — a term used to describe the entrapment and blackmail of queer individuals — has become increasingly common. Perpetrators pose as potential partners on dating platforms, only to extort, assault, or expose their victims.

Investigations by BBC Africa Eye have shown how these schemes operate with alarming precision. Victims are lured into meetings, ambushed, beaten, and threatened with exposure to their families or employers. While many survivors remain anonymous for safety reasons, their stories reveal a consistent pattern: queer women are not exempt. They are targeted, assaulted, and silenced — often with even fewer avenues for justice.

In some reported cases, victims have been stripped naked, filmed, and blackmailed. Others experienced physical assaults or detention against their will until money transfers occurred. The psychological toll is just as severe as the physical violence. And yet, these crimes rarely spark national outrage.

The brutality of violence does not lessen because its victim is queer. If anything, the silence surrounding it makes it more dangerous.

The move toward a more inclusive movement requires expanding the table

There has been a visible rise in female-only spaces, programs, and communities across Nigeria — from professional networks and funding initiatives to safe spaces for survivors of abuse. These platforms are doing important work. They are helping women build economic power, access opportunities, and find solidarity in a society that often marginalises them. But there is more to be done.

An inclusive feminist future requires more than creating spaces for women — it requires creating space for all women. To move forward, feminist communities must:

Intentionally include queer women in their programs and conversations.

Establish clear protections against discrimination.

Amplify the voices and lived experiences of queer women.

Challenge internal biases that mirror societal prejudice.

Inclusion is not optional; it is essential, especially now when Nigeria is at a critical point. Feminist conversations are growing louder, and more women are demanding change. However, growth requires honesty. A feminism that excludes queer women is incomplete. It leaves behind those who are often most vulnerable, most silenced, and most in need of protection.

The crime of abuse or death is no less barbaric because its victim is queer. Every Nigerian citizen deserves protection under the law, regardless of sexual orientation.

Nigeria’s constitution also guarantees the right to life and dignity for all its citizens — regardless of religion.  If feminism in Nigeria is to stand for justice truly, it must confront its exclusions because liberation that leaves queer women behind is not liberation at all.

Read more: Can religion and LGBTQ+ rights coexist in Nigeria 

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