When she was six, an aunty once asked her if she wanted to have a baby.
In her usual sassy way, she said, “Of course.”
Then the aunty asked, “How about your husband?”
My sister wrinkled her nose, “Ewww.”
That same aunty never let us forget the moment; especially once my sister hit her teenage years and the tomboy energy became full effect.
The thing about Nigerians is, we like to pretend the truth isn’t right in front of us. And homosexuality is one of those truths. Whether we like to admit it or not, everyone knows at least one person from their childhood who’s always been different.
We try to force it out, pray it out, flog it out, “train” it out. But isn’t the fact that you still remember that person the way they were – before any concept of sex or identity or reproduction was even a topic for us – enough proof that some people are born different, and always will be?
So yeah, I think I always knew my sister liked girls. I just couldn’t see it through the walls of religious and cultural conditioning. I was too young. We’re just a year apart, and people used to think we were twins. (She hit puberty first, and for about three months she was taller than me. Not that I ever admitted it.)
Because we were close growing up, I had a front-row seat to who she really was; even before I fully understood it. But now, looking back, I know I knew, but was just not ready.
But the shift came when Weird MC performed at her secondary school. She was in JSS2 or 3. I remember the raving beforehand, but everything snapped into focus after.
For context, Weird MC is a pioneer Naija hip-hop MC/artiste who was not just known for her lyrical abilities and 1996 hit ‘Allen Avenue', but for her weird dress sense, at least by Naija fashion standards. She was probably our first ever celebrity tomboy who defied every gender box we had been handed.
After she saw her, something changed – it was like she came back from school a different person. She had always been confident and headstrong, even stubborn. But this was different, because when I came back from boarding school the next holiday, she had started dressing in a way that even “out-masculined me”.
She was more sure. More herself. It was like something had unlocked.
Even then, I knew, but still didn’t know.
Years later, when she came out to me and my brother, we just looked at her like: “Okay. So?”
By that point, my entire way of thinking had already shifted. The world was slowly becoming darker, clarity became a byproduct. So much happened after that, stories that are hers to tell: being dragged out of the closet by an ex, her traumatic ordeals in ways even I still can’t imagine during her first years in the UK, her painful rift with our dad, their eventual reunion, his sickness, his death.
And here we are.
Sunday morning.
His funeral thanksgiving mass.
And of course, she strolls toward the altar; unfazed.
Just before she stepped into the front pew to join us, she paused, adjusted the agbada, looked straight at the packed church like:
“......?????”
Then she sat beside me.
We held hands.
And only then did the tears come.
I squeezed her hand and told her to breathe, but I was overwhelmed too. Feeling the weight of what I had just witnessed; all those eyes behind us. I looked at the white agbada, and I just started laughing.
It wasn’t just that she looked AMAZING. Or the dramatic entrance.
It was the liver it took to wear it.
The audacity.
I shouldn’t have been surprised or impressed, it’s Jean, after all. Who else would walk into a village church in her father’s agbada, in all her queerness, in front of a congregation trained to disapprove, and dare them to look away?
Jean. My younger sister.
I had known she was going to wear our dad’s agbada, like she had so many of his clothes. And the crazy thing? She made all of them look like they were tailored for her. That’s the thing – it’s almost never about the clothes; it’s about how you wear them. Or in her case, who wears them.
But we didn’t plan for the transport hitch. We didn’t plan for the late arrival. Why would she choose to arrive late, especially for her own Dad’s funeral Sunday Mass? Especially in the village? But she made an entrance – whether they were ready or not.
And let’s be real: many of the villagers had never seen anyone like her. Some still sadly view her existence as befuddling, even abhorrent – until money enters the picture, of course. But that’s another story, hers to tell.
Even the priest, the same one who had judged me for my locs at our grandma’s funeral mass months earlier somehow managed to make parts of our dad’s funeral sermon about lesbianism.
I’d look at her, wondering if she knew the importance of what she’d just done. The statement her entrance made. Hoping she held on to that. The power. Focusing on that positive, rather than giving sight to those who cannot understand.
Because what that Weird MC performance was for her, is what her walk up the aisle was for someone else that day.
That one girl in the pews, still learning how to breathe in her own skin. The one battling with self-identity and acceptance. The one who watched my sister step down that aisle – bold, unapologetic, free.
The one who realised, it is possible to be who you really are, with your head held high. That living openly, accepting and loving oneself is possible.
Not every moment is planned.
Not every revolution looks like a riot.
Sometimes, it looks like a grieving daughter who refuses to dim her light.
The way Weird MC once cracked the world open for her. That day, she cracked it open for someone else.
All because…
A lesbian in a white agbada walks up the aisle of a Nigerian village Catholic church for Sunday morning mass.