Queer literature and fiction in Nigeria is not wide-scope, and has only begun to expand recently, in the late 2010s, following a new generation of writers who have bestowed it upon themselves to explore African queer fictions. Queer arts themselves (think films, music, art, and books) are very nascent, given the several laws in Nigeria which criminalise the existence of homosexuality. For reference, there is the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act of 2013 (SSMPA), which criminalises same-sex marriage and comes with a 14-year imprisonment. In the far North, the Sharia Law punishes all forms of non-heteronormativity. As the fight for queer liberation continues, names like Chinelo Okparanta, Akwaeke Emezi, Eloghosa Osunde, Arinze Ifeakandu, and a few others are ushering in fresh perspectives on queer fiction.

Here, G.T. Dípè joins the pack with her jarring debut “Running’ No More”, which tells the story of two young men. Teniade is a Nigerian forced to flee his country due to homophobia, and the other, Stefan, is a young twenty-something Swedish man who migrates to the U.K. to escape an abusive love interest. The book revolves around love, family, cultural differences, trauma, violence, and oppression. For queer people, especially people of queer identity living in Nigeria, violence and oppression are two main significant aspects they face. Physical violence and assault are rampant in Nigeria, usually operating from a place of systematic homophobia.

In “Runnin’ No More”, while Dípè centres on the familiar intersectionality and multiple disadvantages of queerness, the author does so from a position of privilege, exploring the role class plays in shaping queer identity. For the less privileged fraction of the minority group, the book serves as a Utopia for what life can be if one is privileged.

  Violence and The Privileges of Queerness.

To understand Ade’s assault story, we have to explore the violence queer Nigerians face. One of the most common forms of violence comes in the form of harassment, extortion, and assault. Often referred to as “kitoed”. 

At a party in Lagos, Ade meets Yinka Oguns (he is depicted to have a sort of mutual interest in Ade), and the two begin a relationship which eventually leads to Yinka coming out to him. They decide to go on a date, and this is where Oguns assaults Ade, working together with several others to beat, brutalise, and reprimand him for his sexuality. (In reality, the context of Ade’s assault is often referred to as “kitoed”. This form of violence (kito) means to be harassed, extorted, and brutalised. The origin of the word “kito” itself is unclear, but it has mainly become a term used primarily by the LGBTQ community in Nigeria. 

In real life, Kito perpetrators have often used online dating apps to lure their victims, and the act itself operates from a place of deep internalised homophobia, entrenched discrimination against queerness, societal decadence, lack of empathy, and mostly class difference. For the context of class difference, in Runnin’ No More, Ade is the child of two influential people; he’s privileged. On the other hand, Yinka’s socio-economic status is lower than Ade’s; he lives in the mainland part of the city, a place often associated with low-income earners or middle-class Nigerians, and is plagued by high crime rates and social vices, including the act of kito itself. Dípè explores Ade’s assault with a degree of lightness; this standpoint is not to discredit the character’s experience, as it could be the author’s way of reducing the weight of trauma for readers with similar circumstances. 

But in reality, similar violence is more than just an attack to dehumanise queer identities of their sexuality; it has led to cases of death of the victims, being outed, which mostly leads to rejection from family and even loss of financial and economic independence. 

The aftermath of Ade’s assault explores more layers of privilege. After coming out to his family, they’re accepting of his queerness and suggest he leave the country for safety purposes. In Nigeria, this isn’t always the reality. For the less privileged queer Nigerian like myself and many other kito survivors, they isn’t always enough resources to decide to relocate, at least not immediately. The character also enjoys a form of support system from his immediate family and friends. And as the novel progresses, the option of therapy comes to light. This isn’t always the case for most queer individuals in the country; acceptance often comes with a lot of striving, years of disconnection and estrangement from immediate family and friends. 

Access to adequate therapy is also not always available and could be ineffective given how victims of Kito experience are being sunk back again into a homophobic system.

The SSMPA contributes largely to the violence queer people face; the law also enforces homophobia. In this instance, it has stripped chiefly folks of the right to report this form of violence to law enforcement (mostly the police). Here, privileged victims sometimes seek justice through retaliation. In the book, Ade’s family rounds up Yinka Oguns (Ade’s assailant), and he’s made to tender some sort of apology. This kind of resolution often doesn’t erase the violence perpetuated, but it is mostly the only option for queer Nigerians.

Trauma is Universal. (Exploring Ade and Stefan’s trauma from different cultural perspectives).

 G.T. Dípè explores trauma as one of the multiple disadvantages of queerness in her debut novel. As a black queer person, Ade’s character embodies trauma, carrying it from his assault in Nigeria. After moving to the U.K., he begins a love affair with Stefan, a young man originally from Sweden. While their relationship blooms, Ade cannot get intimate with his partner. As a kito survivor myself, I resonate with some part of Ade’s trauma and struggle. Following my assault, which led to me being outed, for the first few months, I thought I had gotten over it, but most of it still finds its way into my present life as a young queer Nigerian. It affects how I think and my relationships with people in general. Similar to Ade’s character, I once struggled with intimacy and grew very sceptical when it came to meeting and connecting with new romantic interests.

The author explores trauma as a setback and restriction from fully expressing love. The book also examines trauma universally, in the context of Stefan, who also flees his home country following an abusive phase with a love interest. The two characters are made to navigate their trauma from two different lenses. Ade’s own experience as an African queer person of identity contrasts with Stefan’s through privilege. Unlike Ade, Stefan is fortunate to enjoy queer joy and liberation at an early age and in the process, he gets entangled in an abusive relationship.

While the theme of trauma is universal, this writer believes Ade’s trauma overshadows that of Stefan’s, a reminder that queer bodies from Africa often have to bear the burden of several disadvantages. The author’s choice to examine trauma from a different cultural perspective offers a wholesome conceptualisation of queer identity.  

Queer Love and Joy.

Queer love and joy take centre stage in G.T. Dípè’s debut, offering a glimpse into how queer people navigate love. As mentioned earlier in this review, queer expressions are relatively nascent in media (films, music, art, and books), and Runnin’ No More helps contextualise how people of queer identity express love amidst conflict, cultural differences, background, and trauma. The book illustrates how love can help build and sustain relationships, from romantic love (as explored between Ade and Stefan) to familial love (as explored between Ade, his immediate friend, and his family). The same thing can be said for Stefan, who also experiences self-liberation and familial love. These two forms of love interplay in helping Ade’s character grow confident in his identity and also to help him overcome trauma. In the text, after Ade establishes the fact that he is unable to get intimate due to the result of being assaulted, he plans to pull back from his lover. However, this begins to affect their relationship, and certain conflicts and misunderstandings arise, further threatening to separate the two lovebirds. However, with support from his family (Ade’s) and even a sense of understanding from his partner (Stefan), he experiences a form of safety, love, and trust, which enables him to cope with and overcome his trauma. 

In the end:

Runnin’ No More strikes a balance in exploring queerness and the multiple disadvantages that come with it, mostly violence and trauma, using the many layers of privilege as a major context. It also explored the role of love in navigating queer identity. The book succeeds best in romanticising hope for queer liberation, providing a form of escapism and reimagining what life could offer once privileged. At a point in the text, after Ade meets Yinka Oguns before the character assaults him, Ade starts to reminisce about what life could mean for him and Yinka outside of the country. Despite his privileges as an upper-class young man, Ade is aware of the limitations surrounding his identity as a queer person. He imagines the freedom he and Yinka could enjoy in Europe,

“There’s freedom in Europe- a kind of liberation neither of them can fully taste in Nigeria. London, Paris- cities where love between two men isn’t a political statement or a death sentence”. The author highlights Ade’s thought. 

Furthermore, in the novel, following the aftermath of Ade’s assault and the decision to flee the country, the author asks: “What happens to the less fortunate in minority groups, those who don’t have the option to flee?”. This question resonates with me as I write this review. I came up with a response. 

The less fortunate in minority groups (people like me, victims of Kito attack), living with trauma, displaced and homeless queer Nigerians, can only hope and dream of a better life. We must remain resilient, fight back, claim our rights, and continue seeking liberation and safe spaces. To keep treading water and hoping that one day, maybe just one day, we get to live happily, liberated and experience love without hate and prejudice. As the famous human rights activist, Fannie Lou Hamer says, “Nobody’s free until everybody’s free.”  For a broader context, this saying means that as long as minority groups like the LGBTQ community continue to face oppression, the majority itself is not excluded from struggles. Queer rights are human rights and should be treated as such with no limitations.