There are memories you wish you could lock away, bury deep within the recesses of your mind, never to be revisited. For me, this is one of them. But as I sit here sharing my story, I do so with the hope that it sheds light on a harrowing reality many have faced and continue to face in Nigeria. This is what it means to be “kitoed,” and how I survived.
It was December 2021, two days after Christmas. I had traveled from Enugu, where I worked, to spend the holidays with my family in Lagos. It had been a year since I last saw them, and I was determined to make the most of my two week holiday. I wanted this Christmas to be one to remember.
My first morning there, as the warmth of the Lagos sun crept through the windows, I was lazing in bed when my phone buzzed. A message appeared from someone I’d been chatting with on Grindr for a couple of weeks. “Are you free?” he asked. His name was familiar, and we’d shared lighthearted conversations about movies, music, and family. Nothing overtly flirtatious or sexual. Just casual banter.
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“Can you please come around? I’m preparing noodles. My folks went to church.” It seemed harmless. My mind, innocent and unsuspecting, didn’t sense any red flags. It was just a friendly visit.
“Alright, I’ll come around,” I agreed. After sleeping in a bit longer, I freshened up, dressed, and texted him to let him know I was on my way. He sent me directions, and soon I was on the move. At the bus stop near his place, he arrived on a motorbike to pick me up.
“Hop on,” he said, gesturing for me to sit between him and the bike man. Alarm bells went off in my head. I had heard too many stories of kidnappings that began just like this. I politely refused and insisted he sit in the middle while I sit at the back. Reluctantly, he agreed.
As we rode, I began to notice something strange. People were watching us, really watching us. Their stares. Their stares felt invasive, almost accusatory. A chill ran down my spine, but I brushed it off. Then, the bike veered off into a bushy, run-down area. Five men stood ahead, waiting. My heart sank. I knew was in trouble.
I jumped off the bike in a desperate attempt to flee, but didn’t get far. They cornered me, dragging me back like a helpless animal. Their fists rained down on me. Punches, kicks, slaps. I screamed for help, but passersby turned a blind eye, pretending not to see. My cries went unanswered.
They took me deeper into an isolated area. There, they stripped me of everything—my chain, my sandals, my bracelet, even my clothes. All I had left were my briefs. They laughed as they burned me with cigarettes, a twisted form of amusement. Then one of them, the guy l trusted and had originally come to see, walked up to me.
“Look, if you cooperate, we no go kill you. You a gentle boy,” he said, as if his words were supposed to comfort me. Then, he demanded my ATM card and PIN. With no choice, I gave it to him. Two of them left to withdraw all my money while the others continued to beat me senseless.
The man who initially lured me there started talking about his hatred for queer people. He told me his younger brother had been raped by ten men, and now he saw himself as some sort of vigilante. His reasoning was warped, his justification pathetic. What did his brother’s tragedy have to do with me? I was tired. Exhausted from the weight of their fists. Desperately wishing it was all a bad dream.
Osadolor Edokpayi is a Nigerian creative and research writer, artist, brother, son and almost husband, who has decided to use his skill as as a voice to share the wins of the African queer community, the rest world should know African queer men and women have happy endings too. Love & Light
