Samson* (20) left Nigeria when his family migrated to the UK. In this story, he talks about the initial loneliness of life in the UK, why he decided to move to Georgia for his studies, and the reality of experiencing overt racism in a country where some people are still shocked to see Black people.

Where do you live currently, and when did you leave Nigeria?

I currently live in Georgia. I left Nigeria with my family in 2023, and we moved to the United Kingdom (UK).

What inspired you to leave Nigeria?

We were looking for better opportunities, basically. My mom got a job there, and we all decided to move. My mom got there first, about five months before the rest of us joined her.

What was that experience like for you?

Obviously, I was excited, but I also felt sad because I would be leaving my friends behind. I get very attached to people. But I got over it eventually. I鈥檝e met new people here. And I still talk to my friends in Nigeria a lot too. 

When we arrived, we stayed at an uncle鈥檚 place for about four months. He made sure we did not lack anything. So it was a very relaxed start to life in the UK. But not being able to do anything or go out with friends got to me quite a bit, to be honest.

It has been a good experience; it just came with a bit of loneliness. But I wouldn鈥檛 change anything about it.

What are you up to now? 

I鈥檓 studying medicine in Georgia. I moved here in 2025.

Studying medicine in the UK is quite expensive as an international student. My parents cannot keep up with that kind of expense. So I looked for cheaper alternatives around Europe, like Romania.  I eventually settled on Georgia.

How are you finding life in Georgia?

It鈥檚 fine, I guess. It is a less developed country than the UK. When I first got here, it felt a bit like mini Lagos because of the hustling and bubbling. There are still signs of the old Soviet era. You see new, good-looking buildings and older, terrible-looking ones side by side.

The primary language here is Georgian. English is not really spoken among the older people; they speak Russian and Georgian. Some younger people speak English alongside Georgian.

To be honest, it feels like the government here does not care about the Georgian people. You see people begging on the streets in traffic. People really struggle here. Even lecturers and medical doctors struggle so badly in this country.

Coming from the UK, when I convert Pounds to the Georgian Lari, I can live quite comfortably. But the Georgians themselves do not necessarily live a comfortable life; things are very expensive for them.

For me, though, the biggest issue is racism. Some Georgians are not used to Black people, so they can act very strangely around us. 

And you didn鈥檛 experience anything like that in the UK?

Not exactly. I feel racism in the UK is more subtle, more hidden. For example, I had a boss at work in the UK who I think might be racist. But I cannot prove it.  He smiles and acts all nice, but I noticed a pattern of strictly assigning certain tasks to the Black members of staff. That鈥檚 what racism in the UK felt like. You feel like it鈥檚 there, but you can鈥檛 exactly prove it.

And in Georgia?

In Georgia, little kids call me the N-word all the time. You see adults who will be the ones to touch you or brush against you, and then they get offended and keep cursing at you in their language. You see people recording you; some might do it out of curiosity, but some actually record you to post you on the internet. It happens all the time.

How does that make you feel, and how do you react to it?

I grew up in Nigeria, where everybody was the same colour. Even when we saw white people, we didn’t really care. So, I don’t really care about it. I know it affects some people, but personally, I couldn’t care less, to be honest.

Does it ever make you feel unsafe?

No, it does not make me feel unsafe. I go out anytime I want. I do anything I want. I really don’t care. If you come to me, we can have a scrap; that is not a problem. But I am not scared of anybody like that.

Please be safe. You mentioned you made new friends. Are these in the UK or Georgia?

Both.

Are they Nigerians, British, or Georgians? How did you meet them?

In the UK, I made friends at work. Most of them are British, some are Albanian, some are Indian, and some are Ghanaian. I don’t really have Nigerian friends in the UK unless you count people at church. But those are acquaintances, not really friends. In Georgia, I made friends at university. Some are Nigerians, some are from the UK, some are Indian, and some are Canadian. It is quite diverse.

Have you been back to Nigeria since you left?

No. The opportunity hasn鈥檛 come up yet. I plan to, but not now. Maybe in the next two years.

If you look to the future, do you see yourself returning to Nigeria to settle at some point, or is your life abroad now?

I think I see my life as being abroad. Obviously, it鈥檚 not completely up to me right now, but I do see myself continuing to live abroad.

Let鈥檚 go back to the UK. Were there any culture shocks you experienced when you first arrived there?

The main culture shock for me was the fact that people don’t go to each other’s houses that much. You can鈥檛 send someone to your neighbour’s house to go and chill. Everybody just stays in their own space. Also, the way they behave toward their elders is different; they do not behave the way we do toward ours in Nigeria. Their idea of respect is different. Those are the two main shocks I had.

What is your favourite and least favourite thing about the UK?

I鈥檒l say my favourite thing is how accessible everything is. Anything you want is accessible, whether online or in stores. My least favourite thing is that I feel like the UK wants to put you in debt. Their taxes are very heavy. It feels like they want you to be broke.

What about Georgia? What were the culture shocks there?

This wasn’t a shock compared to Nigeria, but coming from the UK, I was shocked by the homophobia in Georgia. In Nigeria, people are homophobic, and it is the same in Georgia. Most people are very homophobic, and they are aggressive about it. In the UK, people are very chill about it; I have lesbian and gay friends there. In Georgia, it is very different.

What is your favourite and least favourite thing about Georgia?

My favourite thing is that I have more friends compared to the UK because of university. Also, when I convert Pounds to Lari, I鈥檓 able to live comfortably. My least favourite thing is the constant staring. I get that some of them do it because they don鈥檛 see a lot of Black people and they鈥檙e curious. So I try not to pay much mind to it, but it gets to a point.

What are your plans for the future?

Finish medical school and definitely go back to the UK. I鈥檒l try to build my portfolio and find a good-paying job. If I can’t find a job as a doctor immediately, I鈥檒l find anything related to it and continue building myself.

On a scale of one to ten, how happy were you in the UK, and how happy are you in Georgia?

For the UK, I鈥檒l say an eight. Everything feels accessible. I have family and friends close by, so it is just very comfortable for me.

I鈥檒l say a seven for Georgia. I think Georgia is a hidden gem. Most people shy away from it, but it is very nice if you actually open up to it鈥攖he places, the history, and even some of the people. Not everyone is racist. I鈥檝e met some really good people here.

Do you want to share your Abroad Life story? Please reach out to me . For new episodes of Abroad Life, check in every Friday at 12 PM (WAT).

Over the course of a single weekend, TG Omori鈥檚 tweet sparked a wave of reactions online. What some people have brushed off as 鈥渏ust a personal opinion鈥� ended up inspiring others to repeat harmful language about queer people. When someone with a large platform, such as 2.3 million followers on X, shares a view, even casually, it can influence how others behave. The entire debacle reveals a bigger issue in the Nigerian entertainment space, where homophobic comments often turn into moments of clout, engagement, and culture-shaping conversations.

Behind the barrage of replies and quote tweets, there was something more insidious than moralising hate: a product promotion. As the public uproar grew, TG Omori was simultaneously.

In the attention economy, outrage often equals profit. For celebrities, controversy can drive engagement, and engagement can be converted into sales.

This isn鈥檛 an isolated event. Whether it鈥檚 subtle hints in lyrics or outright harmful comments in interviews, TG Omori鈥檚 tweet falls into a long pattern of homophobic messaging from some Nigerian entertainers. When queerness is described as 鈥渆vil,鈥� it sends a signal that discrimination is acceptable, making it easier for people to use hate as content and as a way to stay relevant. 

TG Omori鈥檚 dangerous provocation

TG Omori calling same-gender sex 鈥渆vil鈥� isn鈥檛 just a careless insult. Framing it as a moral opinion gives his words a kind of false legitimacy, making the harm easier to excuse. As a public figure, TG鈥檚 influence amplifies his statement. As a creative and entrepreneur, the resulting outrage fuels his brand. And all the while, queer Nigerians are left exposed to the ensuing blowback, both online and in real life.

READ NEXT: The Nigerian Government is Enabling the Murder of Queer People听

A pattern: Homophobia in Nigerian Pop music

TG鈥檚 tweet may have brought the issue into the spotlight, but he鈥檚 far from the first person in Nigerian entertainment to weaponise anti-queer sentiment.

The weekend鈥檚 viral moment also highlights the double standard embedded in Nigerian pop culture. Nigerian pop culture borrows heavily from queer aesthetics, with androgynous styling, flamboyant fashion, and gender-bending choreography frequently appearing in music videos, performances, and album visuals. Yet it cannot exist safely in the bodies of the people who are actually queer. When it comes to queer people living in Nigeria, the same artists often condemn, dehumanise or ridicule them.

These incidents underscore a troubling pattern of mainstream artists profiting from queer people鈥檚 talents to further their careers but distancing themselves from them when it comes to moral or social acceptance. This trend reflects a broader cultural hypocrisy.

TG鈥檚 tweet is a stark example of this duality: someone who has helped shape a visually expressive creative culture weaponising homophobia when it serves his interests. TG Omori鈥檚 weekend provocation illustrates a culture where exploitation, stigmatisation and condemnation coexist.

This is common in Nigeria, where moral grandstanding carries enormous weight in social and political life. But it鈥檚 also a dangerous one. Many queer Nigerians are themselves religious, and using faith as a weapon erases their identities while giving societal sanction to their discrimination. When a powerful creator with a voice uses his platform to spew hate, it鈥檚 not just stirring conversation. He鈥檚 creating permission for hatred.

Each public condemnation of queerness from an influencer or musician sends a signal that it鈥檚 socially acceptable to dehumanise queer people. That signal enables real-life harassment, violence and stigma.

In a country where same-sex relationships are criminalised under the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act, words are not harmless. They have real-world consequences. By cloaking commercial ambition in moral outrage, TG Omori鈥檚 weekend provocation did more than offend; it put a target on the backs of queer Nigerians and tossed them into a sick marketing cycle.

Queer people in Nigeria are left navigating an ecosystem where visibility can equal vulnerability, and artistic influence can be deployed as a tool of harm. The fact that a marketing ploy about glasses became a vehicle for moral condemnation and public shaming illustrates the stakes.

This TG Omori episode is another cautionary tale about the discrimination and power dynamics embedded in Nigeria鈥檚 entertainment and creative industry. When homophobic statements are spewed loosely, the people paying the price aren鈥檛 really the influencers or artists, but the marginalised communities whose lives, safety, and dignity are reduced to collateral damage.

Words are not innocent. Especially when wielded by the famous. They amplify prejudice, inspire harassment, and leave lasting scars.

Editor’s Note: This article was updated on November 18, 2025, to provide a more balanced and objective framing of the events described. Edits were made for clarity, additional context, and fairness to all parties involved.

ALSO READ: 9 Nigerians Talk About Being Queer And Religious

For many queer Nigerians, silence is survival. Beneath the genuine desire to love and be loved lies the fear of becoming the next tragic headline, punished simply for existing. Of all those fears, the possibility of being kitoed (which the BBC describes as when people, usually gangs, use online dating apps to entrap gay people – and then blackmail them) is the most incessant. 

What happened to Hilary? 

Macualey describes the events leading up to Hilary鈥檚 death as 鈥渁 brutal homophobic attack in Port Harcourt.鈥� According to the heartbreaking announcement released by the House of Rainbow founder, Hilary was deceived, lured into a meeting under false pretences, and subjected to targeted violence. The attackers reportedly beat him and threw him off a two-storey building. Despite fighting for his life, Hilary eventually died from severe spinal cord injuries caused by the attack.

He also added that Hilary represents another queer life taken far too soon, mourning it as the second reported kito-related death in just two weeks. 

He ended with a call to unity: for the queer community to hold one another close, to mourn and rage together, and to keep speaking truth to power until safety and dignity are no longer privileges but rights. 鈥淗ilary鈥檚 light will not be forgotten,鈥� he wrote. 鈥淢ay his memory strengthen our resolve for justice and peace.鈥�

As the call for justice continues to gain momentum, the hate and systemic failure against queer Nigerians remain persistent. In the comment section of Macaulay鈥檚 post, several social media users were seen mocking the grief and dismissing the violence as something almost deserved.

Unfortunately, even the Nigerian Police Force has refused to treat this alleged murder with the urgency it deserves, which in itself is deeply problematic. 

Who鈥檚 behind Hilary鈥檚 death?

The details surrounding this homophobic attack are still unfolding; however, some social media users have identified one Kenneth Iseoluwa Olonta as the alleged mastermind behind the attack. Though they allege that this is likely not his first attempt at attacking a queer Nigerian, it is important to note that we cannot confirm the authenticity of these allegations until the Nigerian Police Force releases an official statement to this effect. 

What are Nigerian security authorities doing about Hilary鈥檚 death?

Since news of Hilary鈥檚 attack spread across social media, human rights groups, including , have joined thousands of Nigerians in calling for justice. They鈥檙e urging the Nigerian government to open a public investigation into the brutal attack and ensure those responsible are held accountable.

, an organisation that offers legal and paralegal services to Nigerian minority groups, and Obodo Centre for Advocacy and Equal Rights have also jointly written addressed to the Nigerian police, demanding an investigation, arrest, and prosecution of all those involved in the incident.

However, as of the time of publication, there鈥檚 been no public response or indication that the police have begun investigating the case.

What does the Constitution say about attacks like this? 

Even though the Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act (SSMPA) of 2014 prohibits same-sex marriage, civil unions, and public displays of affection, Section 33 of the 1999 Constitution guarantees every Nigerian citizen the right to life.

The law specifically states that 鈥淓very person has a right to life, and no one shall be deprived intentionally of his life, save in the execution of the sentence of a court in respect of a criminal offence of which he has been found guilty.鈥�

This law, it appears, holds true for every Nigerian except the queer ones. Ironically, victims of kito who entrusted the police with their safety and quest for justice have been dismissed and exposed to more danger in the past. Human Rights Watch that the 2014 Same-Sex marriage law has been used to justify widespread discrimination and violence against LGBTQ+ people in Nigeria, adding that the police have often been complicit in these abuses. The of over 160 queer Nigerians without proper investigation in 2023 (justified with this law) also corroborates this claim. 

The government鈥檚 silence enables these murders

The Nigerian government鈥檚 consistent refusal to address violence against queer Nigerians makes it hard to believe that every human life is truly valued in the country. In so doing, it encourages the cold-blooded murder of innocent Nigerians merely for leading an alternate lifestyle.

In 2024, a Nigerian cross-dresser known as the “Abuja Area Mama” was on the roadside with a visible gunshot wound. Even though the Nigerian police launched a probe into Area Mama’s killing, we cannot confirm that the murderers are currently behind bars.  

Following his death, Minority Watch, in collaboration with two other NGOs, submitted to the Commissioner of Police in the Federal Capital Territory (FCT) on the very day of the incident, and another on February 12, 2025. Both petitions called for a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death. But despite these efforts, the organisation鈥檚 effort has only been met with a silence that mirrors the lack of justice in Hilary鈥檚 case.

There鈥檚 an uncomfortable pattern here that鈥檚 difficult to ignore. When murder cases spark public outrage on social media, the Nigerian Police Force often jumps into action and releases statements to allay public fears, outrage, and confirm the investigation into such cases. But when the victims are queer Nigerians, the silence is deafening. No press releases. No public condemnation. No assurance that justice will be served.

That silence is not ignorance; it comes off as an endorsement. By refusing to speak or act, the police send a dangerous message that targeting queer Nigerians comes without consequence. And in that way, they actively enable these killings. 

We condemn these acts of injustice and affirm that the Constitution stands above personal bias, prejudice, or hatred toward the LGBTQ+ community. If the Constitution declares that all Nigerian lives matter, then all Nigerian lives without exception must truly matter. 

How can you get justice for Hilary?

• Demand justice by joining the #JusticeforHilary social movement.
• Support organisations like Minority Watch, who are already following up on the legalities of this case by sharing their updates and driving more visibility to their work.听
• Spread messages of love and support to the queer community as they navigate this loss.

The subject of this week鈥檚 Sunken Ships is Arike* (26), who tells us how her mum was her best friend until she came out to her as bisexual.听

Tell me about your mum

Arike: When I was three years old, my dad died. It was just my mum, my two older brothers and I from the moment he passed. And they were hit harder than I was. I barely knew the man and was too young to understand the loss. 

My mum tried so hard to compensate for my dad’s death. She worked so hard to put the three of us through school, and she still put in the effort to be there for us emotionally. She came for every PTA meeting, open day, visiting day, Christmas carol, etc. She always found a way to just be there for us. 

The older we got, the fewer responsibilities she had to bear alone. She relaxed a bit when my brothers grew older and started caring for themselves and me. 

Whenever people told my mum to remarry, she would say it wasn鈥檛 something she was interested in. She told them we had a system and adding someone to our lives meant we鈥檇 disrupt this system we spent so much time perfecting. 

What was the system like?  

Arike: If anything was wrong with the home’s generator, fridge, television or any other electrical appliance, my oldest brother handled it. He had a knack for separating things and trying to put them together again. 

My second brother handled the cleanup. He鈥檚 very tidy and obsessed over which cleaning products to use for which part of the house. He took great pride in having the place spotless. 

My mum and I handled feeding. She鈥檇 started teaching us all how to cook by the time we turned eight, but my two brothers were disasters in the kitchen. That鈥檚 how my mum and I became very close. We鈥檇 spend time cooking and just talking. About each other鈥檚 day, school and life. 

Our bond grew with each meal we made, and when it was time for me to go to secondary school at 11, I didn鈥檛 want to leave her. After my first year, I begged her to remove me from the boarding house and make me a day student. The thought of her spending so much time alone because all her children were in school? I didn鈥檛 like it. I think she didn鈥檛 like it too because she agreed without fighting. 

Was it only cooking you bonded over? 

Arike: No. When  I was the only child at home, we did everything together. I basically moved into her room because I thought actively living in two different rooms gave me more places to clean. 

We鈥檇 run errands, watch movies and go to the spa. All my mum鈥檚 friends called me her handbag because she never went anywhere without me. We鈥檇 even go on international trips together. She was my best friend, and I was grateful to have her in my life. She was there for all my significant milestones, from my first period to my first heartbreak. There was nothing about myself I couldn鈥檛 tell my mum, but all that changed.听

Why did it change? 

Arike: Valentine鈥檚 Day of 2011. I was 14 and was waiting around school with a friend who was a day student as well. School had closed, but we stayed back in class to finish some assignments. 

After a while, we gave up on the assignments and started talking. That鈥檚 when she gave me a note for Valentine鈥檚 Day. I always knew I treated her differently than I did a lot of people, but I thought it was because we were very close friends. 

After I read the note, we hugged. Then she kissed me. I was shocked, and my initial reaction was to pull away, but then, I relaxed a bit and actually liked it. From then on, something changed in how I spoke to my mum. I started keeping secrets from her.听

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Why secrets? 

Arike: After that kiss, I kissed many more girls, either at parties or in empty classrooms. I liked it a lot. I knew I鈥檇 always want to do it, but I wasn鈥檛 sure how to define myself. I still liked men, but I wasn鈥檛 sure how my realised attraction to women fit in. 

I liked to read, so I Googled a lot of questions like, 鈥淚s it possible to like men and women?鈥� That鈥檚 when I figured out bisexuality. 

I couldn鈥檛 tell anyone. As much as I liked kissing girls, I also realised it wasn鈥檛 something society encouraged. I remember church services in which they鈥檇 preach against homosexuality and my mum’s comments about queer Western couples we saw in the media. I鈥檇 heard stories of how being queer had scattered families, and I didn鈥檛 want to lose my mum鈥檚 love and friendship. 

But you eventually told her?

Arike: Yeah, I did somewhat recently. My brothers had found out about it. They followed me on social media and saw some of my comments and posts, so they asked me one day if I was gay. I told them I鈥檓 bisexual and they took it pretty well. They asked if I would tell our mother, but I said I was looking for the right time. 

That time came when I visited my mum for a couple of days. I had moved out when I was 23 and occasionally came to spend time with her when I could tell she was missing me. 

The night before I left on that particular visit, I stayed in her room like I used to and told her I had something to say. I told her about my first kiss with a woman, liking women and how I鈥檝e even dated some in the past. 

She listened to me without saying a word, and although it made me scared to talk about it, I had to. I knew it鈥檇 significantly reduce my anxiety, so I powered through. When I was done, she said she was going to bed. I went back to my room and slept too. 

The following day, she didn鈥檛 leave her room. I don鈥檛 know what she was doing inside, but I knew she wouldn鈥檛 come out until after I left. I won鈥檛 lie; it hurt 鈥� a lot.

I considered my mum my closest confidant, but she couldn鈥檛 even look at me when I told her I was bisexual. It took a month before we spoke again. She told me being bisexual meant men were still an option and I should choose it. That鈥檚 when it dawned on me that she wouldn鈥檛 get it. I couldn鈥檛 decide who I would fall in love with, and if she couldn’t accept that, then we鈥檇 have problems. 

What was the worst part of not being able to talk to her? 

Arike: The fact that I couldn鈥檛 tell her anything anymore. I couldn鈥檛 tell her about my girlfriend or all the new queer friends I鈥檇 made. I couldn鈥檛 tell her about funny relationship drama or when I got my heart broken. I couldn鈥檛 go to her house and have her make me amala and ewedu while we gist in the kitchen.

However, I still tried to keep her up to date with my life. I鈥檇 send her gifts like I usually do, texts about what鈥檚 going on in my life and why. She hardly ever replied, and if she did, it was with an emoji or 鈥渙k鈥�. My mum has always been chatty, so it wasn鈥檛 because she didn鈥檛 know what to say.

Did she ever come around? 

Arike: Yes, she did. My brothers were talking to her. They asked if she would choose homophobia over speaking to her only daughter again. I think that made her realise if she continued ignoring me because of my sexuality, I鈥檇 stop making an effort too. I was already reducing my texts and gifts. Slowly, I was removing myself from her life. 

Now, she鈥檚 making baby steps. She still occasionally prays for me to find a good husband, but when my girlfriend and I broke up, I told her about it. She listened and sent me some cookies she baked to cheer me up. 

I know she鈥檚 trying her best, but our old relationship is gone, and I don鈥檛 think it鈥檒l ever come back.

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