We’re Done Healing In The Dark

A few days ago, a video of a queer man being kitoed in Nigeria was shared in a WhatsApp group I’m in.
It was brutal. It caused shock and disgust, and then, as usual, silence. That silence hit me hard. It reminded me of how often we’re expected to heal quietly, to cry behind closed doors, to forgive people who never said sorry.

When someone is kitoed, it means they’ve been lured into a trap, usually by someone pretending to be interested in them romantically or sexually.
It’s a term used in Nigeria and Ghana to describe what happens when queer people are set up, attacked, humiliated, or extorted just for being who they are.

Most times, the victim thinks they’re meeting another gay person, but instead, they’re ambushed by men who beat them, film the assault, and sometimes demand ransom before letting them go.

Being kitoed isn’t just violence, it is terror used to shame and silence queer people.
It’s a reminder that even something as simple as wanting connection can become a matter of survival.

Every time a queer Nigerian discusses pain, someone always says:

“Move on.”
“Don't embarrass the family and yourself.”
“You can stop talking about it; God has forgiven you.”But how can you get better when you can't even name the wounds?How can you be at peace with yourself when everyone keeps denying your pain?

If you elaborate on your trauma, they will call you bitter.
You will always feel bad about yourself if you don't say anything.
They call it peace, but it's really just pressure to act like it's not there.

To heal, you can't act like it never happened.
I can’t forgive if people still laugh at my scars.
Telling your story over and over again until it doesn't own you is part of healing.
You can cry in public if you need to, there is no shame in doing so.

My healing is loud.
My healing is visible.
My healing is mine.

In the culture of Nigeria and the Igbo people, emotional pain is ignored as if it doesn't matter:
You are told that you'll be fine, so don't think too much.
However, queer Nigerians are emotionally separated from their families, communities, and religion, leaving them feeling alone.We’re not okay. Being free is something we are still learning.

As a queer African, taking care of yourself is a sign of defiance.
Things like therapy, writing in a journal, being with other people, and laughing are all radical.
We are telling you, "You didn't win," every time we choose softness, joy, or rest. When we love, laugh, or rest, that's resistance.

We are entitled to share our healing publicly.
To be free from shame and guilt while crying.
To speak without apology.
To live without pretending.
Our healing is proof that they didn’t win.