Tag: #queerliterature

And Then He Sang A Lullaby

📍 Nigeria 🇳🇬

My pick for Pride Month is a searingly honest and often heartbreaking story of two gay men finding love and themselves in a country that is decidedly against them. August Akasike, whose mother dies while giving birth to him, is often tormented by the same fact and considers her foolish for going ahead with the pregnancy despite the doctor’s warnings. He lives in Enugu and has three older sisters who dote on him and mollycoddle his every action and achievement. They along with an emotionally indifferent father entrust him with the responsibility of protecting the Akasike family name. However, August who is a phenomenal track star, is naturally attracted towards men and often admonishes himself in the harshest way possible for even having these thoughts. Despite the strong self reluctance in wanting to engage in sex with men, he does have a few dalliances, which end up causing him extreme emotional turmoil, so much so that in University he tries having a relationship with a girl, Betty, until he meets Segun.

Segun, who lives in Iyana-Ipaja near Lagos, is the only child to a fierce mother and an impassive father. His body language and gesticulations which get perceived as being “effeminate” attract teasing, bullying and even assaults from a very young age. Tanko, his first boyfriend, gaslights him, physically manipulates and harms him until Tanko himself becomes a victim of homophobic attack. His other failed relationships and random sexual encounters make him cynical of love. He refuses to be discreet and starts living openly as a queer man, picking up fights, and being borderline reckless in his defiance. He wants his partner to be as open as him until he meets August.

Segun and August meet at the University in Enugu and despite their reservations regarding each other, fall in love. At the beginning of their relationship, August is secretive and ashamed of their affair. This irks Segun to no end and they have multiple heated arguments over it. Later, a brutal mob attack on Segun at his hostel, changes him completely. The once bold and rebellious Segun becomes submissive and docile. He loses his will to live and to fight. This prompts almost a role reversal and August becomes the new rebel; comes out to his bewildered sisters and his peers, inviting contempt. However, nothing that he does, is able to shake Segun out of his despair.

The author, Ani Kayode Somtochukwu, is a Nigerian writer and a prominent LGBTQ+ activist who is known for his advocacy and criticism of anti-LGBTQ+ laws. This book, his debut work, published at the age of 23, is a purely African queer story and Nigeria remains the front and center of it. As the story unfolds, the author simultaneously introduces us to the political scenario in his country and the rising hostility towards queer people. Some of the striking moments in the book are about the Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan signing into law the Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act in 2014, to cheers from a largely homophobic society and disputes between August and Segun. But the real beauty of the book lies in the way, Somtochukwu has written his characters. They are as real as it gets, brimming with temerity and perseverance but also being flawed in their own ignorant way. The tender moments between August and Segun are affirming and written with so much consideration. August’s love for Segun is all encompassing and immersive yet helpless. Ani Kayode has written with such empathy that never overburdens the reader. His prose is exacting in the grimness of the realities faced by August and Segun and still offering a vague semblance of mundanity to their romance. His depiction of sexual scenes is exemplary and one where in other writers could take notes from. Kudos to him for championing compelling themes of internalised homophobia, closeted gays, emotional and physical violence in gay relationships with the requisite sensitivity and nuance. This story is truly a lullaby, a lullaby you will hum long after you finish reading it, reminiscing August and Segun and their love which was never meant to be.

As I write this, LGBTQIA+ individuals are criminalised in Nigeria and various states of the country have extremely harsh laws for the same. In fact, worldwide 64 countries criminalise homosexuality as of 2024. In 12 countries, the death penalty is imposed. Here, in our country, we may have decriminalised article 377, but LGBTQ+ individuals still remain second class citizens with no equal rights. I wonder, how long would it take for others to see us as humans? How many lives need to be lost, and hopes to be crushed for a positive change to happen?

Happy Pride indeed!

~ JUST A GAY BOY. 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

This Arab is Queer

I feel, I am blessed to have read this book, that too during pride month. The book, which the Time magazine hailed as ‘groundbreaking’, is indeed that. It’s also trailblazing in so many ways. It’s an anthology of 18 essays written by queer Arab writers from the SWANA region, edited by Elias Jahshan, a Palestinian Lebanese journalist living in Australia. Now when was the last time you heard or saw space for a queer arab? And that’s the power this book yields. By asking 18 brilliant writers to write their stories, their way, many through their lived experiences, this book embodies the queer arab narrative, emboldens the queer arab and makes their visibility and intersectionality a necessity. While the stories are rooted in the arab-ness and queerness, diaspora or otherwise, the feelings of dignity, safety, and belongingness remain universal.

The book begins with the feminist giant (that’s also her newsletter) Mona Eltahawy’s essay, The decade of saying all that I could not say. Mona, a survivor of sexual assault, has been a crusader against patriarchy. In her essay she astutely describes her reckoning of owning her sexuality, her bisexuality, and the umpteen nuances that make it so. Her liberation by shedding the shame surrounding sex, has been an act of rebellion. As a Muslim woman, her vehement uprising against heteronormativity has been her emancipation. Mona writes not just to inspire us but to instigate our power.

Though each essay is profound, I would like to highlight a few that stayed with me. Amrou Al-kadhi’s essay, You made me your Monster, is a fierce, defiant take on Arab-ness, Quran and his Islamic identity. His transgressions viewed as blasphemous in the Arab world are just his ways of honouring his own authentic existence. Through his flamboyant, glamorous drag persona, Glamrou; Amrou is reinforcing the power in provocation.

Danny Ramadan, in his essay, The Artist’s portrait of a marginalised man, talks about how his writing is always up for debate, whether it’s fiction or non fiction and if it’s based on his real life experiences, simply because he’s a queer Syrian man with a refugee experience. He poignantly points out people’s assumptions about him and his work since he’s a queer arab and also worries if his real life trauma is going to unknowingly and inadvertently slip into his every narrative.

Amna Ali’s essay, My intersectionality was my biggest bully, is an eye opening piece about her journey as a Black Queer Arab. Growing up as and being a visibly Black person in a racism predominant society like UAE, Amna had a tumultuous upbringing wherein she was taught to be shameful about her blackness. Later, she became shameful about her queerness too. This amalgamation of multiple identities made her distraught, caused her abuse and violence, until she learnt to make peace with them. Amna has since realised her intersectionality as a Somali-Yemeni-Emirati queer person, is her true strength and yet it continues to be an arduous journey.

Hasan Namir’s story, Dancing like Sherihan, is about his tryst with shame due to his queerness leading to his ingrained belief about him being a sinner. His strict Iraqi Muslim upbringing was always at odds despite him moving to Canada and experiencing queer freedom. His essay deftly portrays the internal struggles of a queer person as they oscillate between religious virtues, familial pressures, internalised shame and queer trauma. Hasan’s relationship with Tarn, leading to their marriage and later having a child is one that of queer joy. It makes you misty-eyed, it makes you hopeful and it feels like a collective queer victory.

Madian Al Jazerah’s moving piece, Then came Hope, is an ode to him as a displaced Palestinian Queer man who is constantly engaged in an embittered battle with shame whilst remaining hopeful that he would emerge triumphant. His trauma is multilayered as he navigates zionism and homophobia. His astute observations on the blatant yet veiled discrimination in the gay world is one that many of us can identify with. Madian has a beautiful bookstore in Amman which I had visited back in 2019. It’s now through this book that I know the connection between the bookstore and him and have been so ecstatic since. Queer joy indeed comes in so many forms and experiences. I would like to quote a couple of lines from his essay which I felt were earth shatteringly brilliant. Here goes;

‘I know from experience that you can put shame on the highest shelf and forget about it for a while, but bigots and bullies can smell it and it is always within their reach.’

‘When we talk about love, the image of a heterosexual couple is accompanied by a thousand positive romantic associations. When we talk about gay men, the image is of two men having sex.’

Many or most of these stories are about shame and trauma, and that’s so true since those are the first feelings one experiences as a queer person. They also highlight the yearning for love, acceptance and inclusion. These stories are a lot tragic, which just goes on to show the commonality in their lived experiences as a queer arab. At the same time, the writers have done a commendable job in instilling faith and hope despite their grim realities of being a queer arab in a world so hostile towards them. This is a book that is going to jolt you out of your assumptions, privileges and entitlements. Burst that bubble, it’s time for a masterclass on humility and humanity.

Elias Jahshan has done beyond stellar work as an editor. Bringing together each of these supremely talented and gifted writers is not just groundbreaking but distinctively exceptional. Take a bow!

~ JUST A QUEER HUMAN. 🥹🥲

Blue Skinned Gods

A story that weaves a rich tapestry of emotions embedded in superstitions and beliefs need not be the most unusual or awe inducing. However, Blue Skinned Gods, finalist in bisexual fiction in the 2022 Lambda Literary Awards, is a story that gives layers to the same emotions, provides nuances in the narrative and simultaneously transports you to a world that’s at times unbelievably despondent and many a times believably blindsided.

The story set in Tamil Nadu, is about a blue skinned boy, Kalki, who is made to believe and thought to be as the last avatar of Vishnu; because of his skin colour. His father, Ayya, forces this belief not just onto Kalki and his entire family but the whole village, so much so that be builds an ashram for him, which also serves as a healing space for people troubled by physical and mental ailments. To perpetuate his notion, Ayya doesn’t shy away from deceit, abuse, punishments and emotional torture. Kalki soon starts believing in his own godliness and prowess, despite nagging doubts regarding the same. He becomes codependent on Ayya and no amount of abuse, including his mother’s loss, seems to make him stand up against his father. However, when he lands in New York city as part of his world tour, reality hits hard and Kalki begins his journey of emancipation and self discovery albeit through alcohol, sex and being emotionally distraught.

S J Sindu (she/they), Tamil and genderqueer, has masterfully authored this complex narrative of regret, remorse and redemption, through the lens of a docile, bereft and fragile character like Kalki. There are times when as a reader you want Kalki to rebel and retaliate, however his ingrained trauma and abuse prevents him from doing so. And this is the truth for many such childhood trauma survivors. Sindu presents trauma as this multilayered annihilator that destroys a person’s sense of being despite the right reckoning.

Blue Skinned Gods is rooted in Tamizh culture. The narrative is peppered with beautiful, lyrical Tamizh words. Hindu religious beliefs and mythology form the backbone of the story. Sindu has presented this alongside science and rationalism without putting them at loggerheads. The nuanced references to casteism and sexism in Hindiusm has been done ever so poignantly without being provocative. The various queer characters in the book bring their own uniqueness to this moving tale centred on humanity.

Do read!

~ JUST A GAY BOY. 😇