IN THE SUNLIT VILLAGES of precolonial Angola, the chibados moved with grace, their presence a bridge between worlds. Identified at birth as male but embodying feminine spirits, the chibados were more than anomalies—they were sacred. As healers and mediators, chibados led rituals that bound communities, their dual nature seen as a gift from the ancestors. In Nigeria’s Hausa lands, the yan daudu played a similar role, dancing at weddings and guiding spiritual rites, their fluid identities woven into the fabric of society. Today these “two-spirit” figures reveal a truth: Sexual and gender diversity is not a Western import but a cornerstone of many African cultures.
The chibados of Angola, documented by Portuguese missionaries in the 17th century, were integral to Ndongo society. Clad in feminine attire, they served as spiritual advisors, their ability to navigate gender boundaries earning them respect. A missionary’s account describes a chibado leading a harvest ceremony, their voice uniting the crowd in song. Similarly, yan daudu in northern Nigeria acted as intermediaries in Hausa markets, their wit and charm fostering trade and kinship. These roles, however, faced erasure under colonial rule. European powers, imposing binary norms, branded such identities as deviant, forcing chibados and yan daudu underground.
Today, African LGBT activists are reclaiming these legacies. In Angola, organizations like Iris, an LGBT rights group, draw on chibado traditions to advocate for trans rights, hosting cultural festivals that echo ancient rituals. In Nigeria, yan daudu like Aisha, a forty-year-old performer, blend tradition with defiance, hosting safe spaces for queer youth. “We’ve always been here,” Aisha says, “and our ancestors knew our worth.” Yet challenges persist: Colonial-era laws and rising conservatism threaten these communities, making visibility a radical act. The chibados and yan daudu offer a lens into non-Western systems in which gender fluidity was once celebrated. Their stories prompt a rethinking of global queer histories not as isolated struggles but as interconnected tapestries of resistance. As Africa navigates modernity, these two-spirit identities remind us that liberation lies in honoring the past.
To understand the depth of these identities, one must delve further into their precolonial roots. In the Kingdom of Ndongo and Matamba—regions that encompass much of modern-day Angola—the chibados, also known as quimbandas, were revered as a third gender. Born male but adopting feminine roles, they were believed to carry female spirits, granting them supernatural powers and magical insight. They acted as diviners, healers, and spiritual leaders, facilitating rituals that connected the living with their ancestors. This dual essence was not a source of shame but a divine gift, allowing them to mediate disputes and perform ceremonies that reinforced community bonds. European observers arriving in the 16th and 17th centuries noted their presence with a mix of fascination and disdain, describing how they dressed in feminine clothing and lived openly as women, as well as their elevated role in society. “Some quimbandas are powerful wizards, who are much esteemed by most Angolans,” wrote António de Oliveira de Cadornega, soldier and historian of the Angolan wars, in 1680.
Across the continent in northern Nigeria, the yan daudu embodied a parallel tradition within Hausa-Fulani culture. Translating roughly to “sons of Daudu”—a reference to a flamboyant spirit in the Hausa pantheon—these effeminate men participated in the Bori spirit possession cult. Yan daudu were not typically perceived as becoming possessed but were essential to Bori ceremonies, dancing, preparing food, and donating resources during rituals honoring spirits like Dan Galadima, a powerful member of the Bori pantheon. They adopted feminine mannerisms, speech, and dress, often working in roles traditionally reserved for women, such as selling snacks or mediating in markets.
In Hausa society, in which strict gender separation prevailed under Islamic norms, yan daudu navigated these boundaries, forming close bonds with karuwai (independent women, often sex workers), acting as intermediaries between them and male clients, and receiving payment from both parties. This role provided economic independence and social prestige, challenging the notion that gender diversity was marginal; instead, it was woven into the cultural fabric, offering spaces for expression amid societal constraints.
The term “two-spirit,” borrowed from Indigenous North American contexts, captures this blending of masculine and feminine essences. While not native to African languages, the term serves as a modern framework to describe these figures who transcended binary categories. In both Angola and Nigeria, such people were not outliers but vital contributors to spiritual and social life. Their stories align with broader patterns across Africa, where gender fluidity was common before European intervention. Similar roles existed among other groups, like the mudoko dako of the Langi in Uganda or the gor-digen of the Wolof in Senegal, underscoring that diversity in gender and sexuality was indigenous, not imported.
Colonialism shattered this equilibrium. Beginning in the late 15th century with Portuguese incursions in Angola and escalating through British rule in Nigeria, European powers imposed rigid gender norms rooted in Christian morality and ideals. Missionaries and administrators condemned nonbinary expressions as “deviant” or “immoral,” criminalizing practices that had been revered. In Angola, chibados were driven underground, their rituals suppressed as paganism that clashed with colonial Christianity. Portuguese accounts from the 17th century branded them as anomalies, erasing their sacred status and forcing many to conceal their identities. A recollection from a horrified Portuguese Jesuit published in 1625 described “certayne Chibadi, which are Men attyred like Women, and behave themselves womanly, ashamed to be called men; are also married to men, and esteeme that unnatural damnation an honor.” Similarly, British colonial laws in Nigeria, including the Criminal Code Act of 1916, outlawed “unnatural offenses,” targeting yan daudu and associating their femininity with vice. The Bori cult, once a vibrant tradition, was marginalized as superstition, pushing yan daudu to the fringes of society.
This imposition did not merely suppress chibados and yan daudu; it reshaped African worldviews. Colonial education and legal systems entrenched patriarchal binaries, marginalizing women and gender-diverse people alike. In West Africa, for example, colonial borders and the transatlantic slave trade exacerbated ethnic divisions, weakening communal structures that had supported fluid identities. Post-independence, many African nations retained these laws, blending them with rising religious conservatism—Islamic in the north, Christian in the south—to perpetuate stigma against LGBT people. The result was a legacy of erasure in which indigenous gender diversity was labeled “un-African,” despite historical evidence to the contrary.
Yet the resilience of these gender-nonconforming groups endures. In the 21st century, activists are reclaiming these legacies, drawing on chibado and yan daudu traditions to fuel contemporary LGBT movements. In Angola, the Associação Íris Angola, founded in 2013 and legally recognized in 2018, stands at the forefront. As the country’s primary LGBT organization, Íris advocates for rights through lobbying, HIV prevention efforts, and cultural events. In 2024, the group organized the first Miss Trans Angola pageant, celebrating trans visibility and echoing chibado fluidity. By 2025, this pageant had evolved into an annual gala, with the Miss Trans Angola 2025 event blending tradition with modern defiance. Íris also pushed for including sexual orientation in the national census, fostering data-driven advocacy. The organization’s work seeks to revive chibado spirits, and it has hosted festivals that recreate ancient rituals while addressing current issues such as healthcare discrimination.
In Nigeria, yan daudu persist despite persecution under Sharia law in northern states, where same-sex acts can lead to severe penalties. In recent decades both yan daudu and karuwai have been subject to periodic condemnation by political and religious figures, who’ve sometimes encouraged both police and civilians to abuse these already marginalized groups. But modern yan daudu like Aisha remain defiant, continuing to performing at weddings and markets, blending Bori traditions with activism. Organizations such as The Initiative for Equal Rights support safe spaces where yan daudu host youth gatherings, sharing stories of ancestral worth to combat stigma. This reclamation is part of a broader African movement in which activists invoke precolonial histories to challenge colonial-era laws. In countries such as South Africa and Botswana, decriminalization efforts cite indigenous gender diversity, inspiring similar pushes in Angola and Nigeria.
These efforts extend beyond borders, informing global queer liberation. Two-spirit identities in Africa parallel those of Indigenous people in the Americas, where colonization similarly disrupted the acceptance of fluid genders. By circling back to these roots—reclaiming, reinventing, and redefining—African activists contribute to a decolonial narrative. For instance, the term “two-spirit” itself, coined in 1990 for Native American contexts, resonates in Africa as a tool for visibility, promoting community recognition amid fluidity. As Aisha’s words demonstrate, these figures remind the world that gender diversity is timeless, urging a future in which honoring the past can be a mechanism for dismantling lingering colonial chains.
In reflecting on these traditions, one sees not isolation but interconnection. Chibados and yan daudu, once bridges between worlds, now link historical resilience to modern struggles. Their legacies challenge us to view queer histories as global tapestries in which African threads enrich the whole. As the continent evolves, embracing these two-spirit identities fosters true liberation—for Africa and beyond.
John Motaroki, a freelance writer based in Nairobi, Kenya, has been published in The East African, Nation Media, and BBC Africa.
