Editor Tessa Ndjonkou has been fortunate enough to travel far and wide, but all of her identities have not always traveled with her.
“But Marc is gay isn't he?”
Silence befalls the table, silverware clinks and no one speaks. We all know the question is far from innocent and is just a means to an end. We have an expression in France that sums up this kind of rhetoric succinctly: “Prêcher le faux pour savoir le vrai” which directly translates to “To preach [something] false to gain access to the truth”.
I inhale and lock eyes with my mother who gives the slightest shake of her head - a silent “no”. “Let it go, it’s not worth it”, I can imagine her saying. Because we both know that Uncle Marc is and always has been the awful word my grandfather has called him. We know because we had lunch with him in Paris’ historically gay neighborhood, “Le Marais”. We know because we met his partner Youssef that fall. But most importantly we know, that word applies to me too.
Queerness in West Africa is a multilayered, complex issue and I have no ambition to make sense of it on my own. However, allow me to provide some context on what it means for me, a (usually) openly bisexual woman to vacation in Ivory Coast once a year. To date, Ivory Coast does not allow civil unions of any form for people of the same gender. While there are no explicit laws against homosexuality in the country, unspoken rules of morality dictate which unions are deemed valid.
My home country’s colonial past with France and its strong bond with the Roman Catholic Church has translated into fervent anti-gay sentiment nationwide.
Queer people -or anyone who does not perform gender as is traditionally communicated- fall under the derogative moniker “gbé” and are usually pointed out with hushed tones and a furrowed brow. While I freely enjoy my identity when I am in Dublin, when I am back home I am conscious that a part of me must be locked away should I want to “keep the peace”. As I step off the plane onto the tarmac, I know that the environment I am about to walk into is one where queerness is brought up as a cautionary tale during a virulent sermon: "If you aren’t careful, these gays will come into your home and pervert your children!”, screams a priest in the sweltering heat. When I am across the Atlantic, I know my master's degree in Gender, Sexuality, and Culture raises both eyebrows and questions.
While I freely enjoy my identity when I am in Dublin, when I am back home I am conscious that a part of me must be locked away if I want to ‘keep the peace’. I know that the environment I am about to walk into is one where queerness is brought up as a cautionary tale during a virulent sermon.
During my latest trip to Abidjan during Christmas Break, a video made in response to Pope Francis’ decision to bless those in “non-traditional unions”: understand queer and unwed couples, went viral. In this video, a priest is shown making references to the violent acts he would commit towards queer couples who “dared” ask him for such a blessing. The controversy quickly became a source of entertainment for those around me leaving no room for my disappointment among the laughter.
Fascinatingly, a double standard regarding imperialism begins to reveal itself when queerness is brought forward. The rhetoric goes as such: whilst Christianity is not considered to be imported by Western culture, LGBTQ-inclusive or feminist values are interpreted as modern iterations of colonialism. While complaints on femonationalism and homonationalism are at times well-founded, blanket statements often erase the work being done on the ground by local activist groups such as Emmanuel Niamien, the chief editor of the first magazine dedicated to West Africa’s LGBT community: “Meleagbo”. Launched by the NGO Gromo, which advocates for LGBT rights in Abidjan last May, the magazine was set to promote gay icons and to be released during the Awawale Festival that celebrates queer identities in Ivory Coast. Unfortunately, numerous attempts from civilians and members of the Chuch in Abidjan to stop the magazine's publication delayed its initial release.
Whilst Christianity is not considered to be imported by Western culture, LGBTQ-inclusive or feminist values are interpreted as modern iterations of colonialism.
Furthermore, the very queer past of West Africa is also left unaccounted for. Indeed, practices like female husbandry in Sudan and crossdressing amongst the Peuls people of Senegal were all found to have carried significant social value before the arrival of Christian missionaries transformed the very fabric of our societies.
Now allow me to set another scene.
New York City, Washington Square Park, 4 pm. The sun is high in the sky, the smell of legal marijuana wafts through the air and I am surrounded by shirtless AFAB (Assigned Female At Birth) and AMAB (Assigned Male At Birth). My aunt and mother seem to want to be anywhere else, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been happier.
It’s Pride in the city and Roe v Wade has just been overturned and it feels historic. I’d dreamt and I’d written extensively about the indomitable New York spirit, but finally, I was experiencing it in all its glory. Although it takes the same amount of time to get from New York to Abidjan from Geneva I couldn’t be further away. As I strode through the streets of the Lower East Side I recognised strangers. They were queer, young, marginalized, resilient, educated, firm believers in their community: they were me. With my mother and aunt in tow, I strutted ahead, head held high, and held the gaze of anyone who looked my way. I waved hello, I took pictures, I joked, and even flirted with women in front of them. I felt unstoppable, infinite even.
With my mother and aunt in tow, I strutted ahead, head held high and held the gaze of anyone who looked my way. I waved hello, I took pictures, I joked and even flirted with women in front of them. I felt unstoppable, infinite even.
Where the gay spaces of socialization would be hidden in Abidjan, they’re in plain sight here.
Even today, queer socialisation in Abidjan is only allowed to unfold in near obscurity which only increases the amalgamation between queerness and risk-taking behavior (such as alcohol, drugs, unprotected sex, etc.) which then becomes ammunition for more sanctimonious sermons.
Now, I won’t paint New York City as an LGBTQ-friendly utopia: it’s not. However, nestled in the perimeter made up of NYU, Washington Square Park, and the West Village, I did feel like I was roaming through a Casey McQuinston novel.
Nestled in the perimeter made up of NYU, Washington Square Park and the West Village, I did feel like I was roaming through a Casey McQuinston novel.
My rainbow bracelet glints in the sun and I realize it’s never done that before, because it never felt the heat, the warm embrace of the Ivorian sun. And frankly, neither have I, at least all of me hasn’t.
For anyone who is acquainted with this dismaying experience or preparing to travel to a country where attitudes are refractory to queerness - don’t lose hope. You can find a community there. Queer people have always existed and we aren't going anywhere. But safety should be the paramount of your concern. Whilst pride is incredibly important there is no rulebook or standard you ought to feel you need to adhere to. Being “out” or not in a specific setting is not a direct reflection of your bravery or even a direct reflection of how you feel about your queerness. That alone belongs to you and you get to set the terms to how you live it.