Queer Nigerian man Teddy Meks (writing for PinkNews anonymously to protect his safety) survived a horrific attack after a Grindr sting from a man he thought he was excited to meet…
I’ve always had a very creative imagination, but I didn’t expect that searching for connection would almost cost me my life. Two heavy blows to the gut, and a strike to the face, my life flashed before my very own eyes.
I regained consciousness with a slight headache and managed to escape from the grasp of my captors, only to be recaptured in the next minute. They punched me in the face for trying to escape before taking me to a nearby abandoned building where I was firmly tied up so I wouldn’t escape again.
Stripped of all my belongings, including my clothes, I was at this moment, a naked boy praying to be swallowed by the ground and out of sight of the number of savage men that surrounded me.
‘Being a homosexual in Nigeria is considered a felony by the constitution’
Growing up queer in Nigeria meant learning how to hide parts of myself, but it also meant living with a constant sense of isolation. This forces us to navigate our idendity in secrecy which made me desperate for a connection with a kindred spirit. Like many others, I turned to digital spaces in the hope of finding people like me; somewhere I could feel seen, even if only briefly.
I realised I was gay back early in secondary school. It was a strange concept to me, but it felt… right. However, I didn’t act on my feelings. Rather, I was conditioned to conceal them.
Being a homosexual in Nigeria is considered a felony by the constitution, and there exists a 14-year jail time penalty for anyone who is caught practicing as such. I didn’t have any queer friends, didn’t know any other queer person like me. I bottled up my emotions for fear of being found out and felt alone for a very long time, but that changed when I discovered queer dating apps.
A year into college, I decided to explore my sexuality covertly, and discovered this app called Grindr that allowed a safe space for queer people to associate. At first, it felt like a lifeline; a space where I could finally connect with others who understood me. After weeks of tentative conversations, I met someone who seemed kind, attentive and safe. We spoke often, and for the first time, I allowed myself to feel a sense of excitement about what could be. This was “Hilary”.
“Hilary” was also a closeted queer and a working class individual who lived in the same city. We talked about anything and everything. He was so kind and affectionate to me. The attention I lacked from my parents, and the generosity I lacked from my peers, he all but possessed. I was drawn to him, and readily agreed to see him when he finally insisted, a couple months after our online interaction.
“I can’t wait to see you, my princess”
Then came the D-day, I woke up super early and super excited to prepare for our meeting because had just sent me the location where we’d meet, and a text that read: “I can’t wait to see you, my princess.”
It was a bit difficult getting there because it was quite a distance from home. My heart beat in trepidation and excitement throughout the journey. I was finally going to meet someone who saw me and accepted me for who I was.
Once I got to the address, I dialled his number and pondered the fun things we’d do as I idly listened to the line ring. Suddenly, my phone was yanked away from my hand, and that was when I saw six guys, out of nowhere, who accosted me. One of them brought out a knife and told me to be quiet. I panicked and tried to scream when I felt an object collide with my head with great force, rendering me unconscious.
I could smell the soothing scent of roses around us, rough yet soft hands on my face caressing me. Soft music was playing in the background and in that moment, I felt happy – but this didn’t last as the music turned into a loud disconcerting rambling, and the scent of roses turned into a hot stench of garbage. My eyes snapped open and I was faced with reality, followed immediately by two sharp blows to my stomach.
Moments later, four of them advanced towards me unbuckling their belts. I tried to process the scowl on their faces and movements towards me. Before I could even mutter a word they began to strike me with the belts while I screamed and begged them to stop, until I passed out again.
After I got a hold of consciousness again, in the corner of my blurry vision, I saw “Hilary” walk up to me.
“If you ever try to continue with this disgusting act, I promise you won’t be shown this much mercy,” he said, with so much spite lacing his voice that I laid there in shock wondering if this was the same guy I was speaking with, who was so sweet to me. Moments later, a guy flung some tattered clothes and a five hundred naira note at me, asking me to leave at once, before he changed his mind.
‘I found myself withdrawing from the world’
I eventually made it out, but not without lasting impact.
In the days and weeks that followed, I found myself withdrawing from the world. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. I wasn’t getting any better. The experience didn’t just affect my sense of safety, it changed how I relate to people, how I understand trust, and how I navigate my own identity. I struggled with fear, isolation and the lingering weight of what had happened.
Speaking about it felt almost impossible. I barely manged to report to police but it’s no news that the police here and the justice system are unreliable – especially in the context of these types of situations. In a country where being queer is already seen as wrong, there is little room to be both a victim and believed. Reporting the incident felt futile, and opening up to those around me didn’t feel safe.
So I carried it alone.
Over time, I began to realise that my experience wasn’t isolated. Stories like mine exist quietly, often unheard, in places where being visible can come at a cost. For many queer people in Nigeria, the search for connection is not just emotionally vulnerable, it can be dangerous.
What happened to me changed the way I see the world. It made me more cautious, more guarded, and at times, more distant. But it also revealed a reality that deserves to be acknowledged: that for many queer people, something as simple as seeking love or companionship can carry unimaginable risks.
Sharing this is not easy. But it feels necessary.
Because behind every hidden story is a life shaped by fear, resilience, and the hope – however fragile – that things can one day be different.
Share your thoughts! Let us know in the comments below, and remember to keep the conversation respectful.
The post ‘I survived a violent attack for being queer in Nigeria, and I’m still learning how to live after it’ appeared first on PinkNews | Latest lesbian, gay, bi and trans news | LGBTQ+ news.