We are helping her
London , UK – 10 September 2024
In Nigeria, same-sex sexual activity is illegal under the Criminal Code Act and the Same Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act 2013 (SSMPA). These laws criminalise acts described as ‘carnal knowledge against the order of nature’, ‘gross indecency’, same-sex unions, and LGBT advocacy, with penalties of up to fourteen years’ imprisonment. The laws apply to both men and women. Additionally, same-sex sexual activity is also criminalised at the state level through Sharia law – where homosexuality carries the death penalty.
Rosemary story in her own words:
I am Rosemary Ngozi Ogwuike. I am a lesbian and this my story. Growing up, I always felt different, but I couldn’t quite understand or explain why. In school, I was constantly surrounded by women and girls and when puberty hit, I found myself paying more attention to those young women rather than men. I felt an emotional and physical attraction towards women. Though I didn’t fully understand what was happening to me, it felt right.
The people around me, including my teachers and mother, noticed I was different. As punishment and an attempt to “correct” me, my mother forced me to undergo female genital mutilation. It was torture. Even now, tears fill my eyes as I remember that event. The pain, trauma and shock never left me. The physical and psychological pain was immense, and I had no one who understood what I was going through. My own mother believed it would correct me. From that moment, I couldn’t feel any sexual pleasure because of what they did to me.
In college, I shared a room with another young woman on campus. It was there that I began to understand my sexuality better and realised I wasn’t alone. There were others who felt the same way. For the first time in my life, I felt understood. I understood myself better and could express my feelings. My roommate supported me and helped me heal from the trauma of female genital mutilation.
While in college, I met a young woman named Amy*. She became one of my greatest loves, though I didn’t know it at the time. We met at a party, our eyes met, and we danced together. It was love at first sight. From then on, we were inseparable, though we had to keep our love a secret.
After finishing our studies at college, we moved to Lagos for work. In our small shared room, our love and connection blossomed. But we knew it was a forbidden love, and if anyone found out, we would face expulsion, rape, or even death.
We found a balance in our lives, but it was not to last. My family increasingly pressured me to get married. I was over 30, and my unmarried status raised suspicions. I was told I was bringing shame to the family. Cornered and without options, I succumbed to the pressure and was forced into a marriage to a man. It was hard, but I had no choice. Amaka and I decided to keep seeing each other, knowing that she too would be forced into a marriage sooner or later. We believed that marriage would give us cover and allow us to see each other.
I got married. It was a loveless marriage, and every night felt like torture with my husband next to me. But I still had some courage left, thanks to Amaka. She continued to visit frequently under the guise of being my best friend. When my husband was not around, she would spend days with me. But our little peace was not meant to last. One fateful day, we were careless. My husband came back earlier than expected and found us in bed together. What followed was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I was beaten, spat on, and kicked like a beast. In the confusion, Amaka escaped, but I was held in the house. My husband screamed, called the neighbours, and summoned my parents. I was subjected to abject humiliation and beatings. When my mother arrived, she disowned me, saying I was cursed and that the people around should decide my punishment. I feared I would be lynched on the spot.
In the chaos and shouting, I managed to run away. I didn’t know where to go for refuge. My only hope was to find Amaka. She hid me for some time and even arranged for my escape to Germany. I didn’t know the country or what I would do there, but staying in Nigeria meant almost certain death.
In Germany, I felt completely lost. I got involved with a local church, and through them, I learned that the UK was more welcoming and had less of a language barrier. In 2009, I managed to reach the UK. The people who brought me to the UK used me for house chores and childcare but did not guide or help me apply for asylum. I didn’t know what options were available to me.
By 2011, these people pushed me out onto the streets, and I had nowhere to go. I ended up sitting in a McDonald’s, thinking about my life, having given up all hope. Just then, a Hungarian man approached me. Despite not wanting to talk to him, I opened up in tears and told him my life story. He took pity on me and helped me a lot during that time. He was like a guardian angel.
We lived together for some time before he returned to Hungary, where I once again felt alone. I gravitated towards a local Nigerian church, made new friends, but still kept my sexuality a secret. I met a man there who needed a place to stay, and I offered him a temporary arrangement. Little did I know this would have devastating consequences.
One month into his stay, while I was out shopping, my neighbour called to tell me Immigration Enforcement officers were at my place. I returned home to find three officers in my house. They believed the man staying with me was my husband and did not believe my explanations. The next morning, I was sent to the infamous Yarl’s Wood Detention Centre. It felt like a prison, with high walls and overcrowded conditions. I didn’t know who to fear more—the inmates, if they found out I was a lesbian, or the guards.
After four months, I was released. During these dark times, I entered a romantic relationship with a woman who knew groups that supported lesbian refugees. Encouraged by her, I approached various groups, including the Peter Tatchell Foundation. My first asylum claim was rejected, and I was devastated. I wanted to end my life but, with support, lodged an appeal. It was also rejected.
Now, I am planning to submit a fresh claim. If I had known about the available procedures and support earlier, I would have done this sooner. Being sent back to Nigeria would mean death for me. I hope to make the UK my new home and give back to the country that I pray will grant me refuge.
*Names have been altered.