How one queer African woman is redefining marriage and culture

On 24 March this year, UK-based Cameroonian researcher, LGBTQ+ activist and entrepreneur Bandy Kiki married her female Nigerian partner, Jenny, sparking backlash from some members of her Nso community and acquaintances.

Kiki, who currently serves as the director of Living Free UK, an organisation that aims to validate the lived experiences of LGBTQ+ Africans, asylum seekers and refugees, with a focus on those residing in the UK, came out as gay in 2017.

Coming from a culture where being queer is still heavily stigmatised and criminalised, Kiki sees her same-sex union as the realisation of a long held dream. 

But the Executive Council of the Nso Cultural and Development Association in northwestern Cameroon has expressed shock at what it terms a “disgusting taboo in the name of a marriage” between their daughter and her female Nigerian wife. The association said the marriage was not only “abominable,” but an “insult” to the dignity and pride of Nso women and the Nso community. 

As in most African nations, homosexuality is illegal in Cameroon. Section 347-1 of Cameroon's penal code criminalises same-sex conduct with up to five years in imprisonment and a fine. In 2023, Cameroon’s media regulatory body, the National Communication Council, threatened sanctions against media outlets broadcasting LGBTQ+ content, saying it violated professional ethics and social communication.

Human Rights Watch has previously documented attacks against LGBTI people in Cameroon, some of which have been carried out by security forces. There have been consistent reports of widespread and systemic discrimination and violence committed against LGBTQ+ people in the central African nation in recent years, including assault, harassment, threats, extortion, torture and murder. 

At least 50 people were arrested and detained on charges of homosexuality in the second half of 2024 alone. Earlier that same year, Brenda Biya, the daughter of Cameroon’s President Paul Biya, announced on social media that she was in a same-sex relationship with Brazilian model Layyons Valença. 

Ms. Biya was never persecuted, fueling widespread allegations and anger that anti-LGBTQ+ laws in Cameroon disproportionately target the poor - a view shared by Kiki. For Kiki, being queer and African means navigating the intersection of more than one identity and experience. She considers homophobia “a colonial legacy,” and her same-sex marriage “an expansion” - rather than a rejection - of her Nso culture. 

Speaking with FairPlanet, Kiki opened up about her marriage, the ordeal faced by the queer community in Cameroon and how she is helping to ‘demystify’ queerness in Africa.

FairPlanet: On 25 March this year, you shared news online about your same-sex marriage with your Nigerian girlfriend, Jenny. What does this marriage mean for you and other members of the LGBTQ+ community in Cameroon and Africa? 

Bandy Kiki: We got married on24 March. It was perfect. We held a wedding ceremony and honored the Bibifia, the traditional Ijaw "no-smiling bride" custom, because my wife is Ijaw. After that, we moved into the Nso rites, which were officiated by a woman. 

Growing up in Nso, I had never seen a woman lead that part of a traditional wedding. It was powerful to witness. Both of us had always dreamed of having a traditional wedding, and to finally live that dream meant the world to us.

Queer Africans are often told that we have no place in our own cultures; that our love is foreign [and] that our dreams are impossible. Homophobia has taught many to believe that a traditional wedding is something we must surrender  if we choose to live authentically.

Our marriage is proof that those beliefs are wrong. We did not just celebrate our love. We expanded our cultures and made room for more of us within them.

When did you discover your sexual identity, and how did this affect your relationship with your relatives and friends growing up? 

I realised my attraction to women during my teenage years. While my peers were developing feelings for boys, I found myself naturally drawn to girls. However, growing up in Cameroon, where homosexuality is criminalised and considered taboo, forced me to suppress my true feelings. 

Out of fear of legal consequences and social rejection, my early same-sex relationships were kept secret and carried out in private.

Fear That Doesn’t Respect Borders

It was not until 2017 that you came out as gay. Tell us about your experiences prior to opening up in a country where queerness is still heavily stigmatised and criminalised. 

I came out while living in the United Kingdom. I truly believe I would not have been able to come out if I had remained in Cameroon, given the extreme hostility towards LGBTQ+ people there. Fear and secrecy were so deeply ingrained in me that even after living in the United Kingdom for several years, it still took until 2017 for me to finally come out. 

I remember the first time I visited Manchester’s Gay Village, specifically a lesbian bar called Coyotes, which has since closed. I went there before I came out, and even though I was in what should have been a safe space, I could not shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. I kept expecting the police to show up out of nowhere and arrest everyone. Fear does not respect borders. It follows you wherever you go. 

Growing up in Cameroon, I learned that the law can say one thing while the police do another. The fear I carried as a queer person growing up in Cameroon stayed with me for years, even after I was living in a country where I was legally protected. Although coming out in the United Kingdom meant I was safe from physical harm, I faced a wave of online harassment and bullying, particularly from members of the Cameroonian community. 

I received death threats, and a Cameroonian movie producer even publicly threatened to rape the “spirit of lesbianism” out of me if I ever set foot in Cameroon. People cheered him on. 

While my family’s reaction was not fully accepting, it was not as devastating as I had feared. Some friends, however, simply disappeared from my life. To this day, there are people I once considered close friends whom I have not spoken to. 

I have chosen not to reach out to them, because I want them to come to me on their own terms. That way, I know their acceptance is genuine. The fear of reaching out and being rejected is something I still carry with me.

Love Is Not a Rejection of Culture

Your recent marriage hasn't gone down well with the Nso community in northwestern Cameroon - where you come from. It dismissed it as “abominable,” a “taboo” and an “insult” to Nso women and the community as a whole. How did you receive this backlash and others from across the board? 

I understand that my marriage challenged some people's deep rooted beliefs, and I respect that conversations about change are never easy. It is important to remember that queer Africans have always existed across different African ethnic groups, including among the Nso. Our presence is not new.

I see this moment as part of a larger conversation about belonging, tradition and acceptance. My marriage was never intended as a rejection of Nso culture but as an expansion of what it can hold. 

I am proud of who I am, and I am proud to still call myself Nso. I hope that, with time, more people will come to see that living and loving authentically does not diminish our dignity; it strengthens it.

This backlash certainly tells of the stigma still associated with same-sex relationships and marriage in Cameroon. What does it mean to be gay or lesbian in Cameroon? 

Being gay or lesbian in Cameroon is extremely difficult. People live in constant fear, not just of arrest but of being attacked, humiliated or rejected by their families and communities. The law gives people permission to discriminate. 

In reality, harassment starts long before anyone steps into a courtroom. Many LGBTQ+ people are blackmailed, extorted by the police, publicly shamed and even physically assaulted. 

Some are forced out of their homes by their families and left with nowhere to go. Others are forced to hide who they are just to survive. There is no protection. There is no law that says it is illegal to discriminate against someone because they are gay. 

That silence leaves queer people in Cameroon vulnerable every single day. Being gay in Cameroon means always having to calculate what to say, how to act and who to trust, because being seen can cost you everything.

How severe are Cameroon’s  laws on same-sex relationships compared to other African countries, such as Nigeria (where your wife is from) and Uganda?

While Cameroon’s laws on same-sex relationships are harsh, they are unfortunately not the harshest on the African continent. In Nigeria, the Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act of 2014 makes same-sex marriages, relationships and even advocacy punishable by up to fourteen years in prison. 

In northern Nigerian states where Sharia law is applied, same-sex acts can even be punished by death. The level of enforcement is severe, and the social stigma is extremely strong.

Uganda has gone even further. The recently passed Anti-Homosexuality Act introduced life imprisonment for same-sex relationships and, in some cases, the death penalty for what they call “aggravated homosexuality.” Uganda’s laws are now considered among the most extreme anti-LGBTQ+ laws in the world. 

When the Law Protects Power, Not People

Many human right activists claim that anti-LGBT laws in Cameroon disproportionately target the poor. Do you support this assertion? 

In Cameroon, as in many other places where LGBTQ+ people are criminalised, it is often the poor who suffer the most. People with fewer resources are more vulnerable because they do not have the same protections that wealth and influence can sometimes offer. 

When someone from a wealthy or well-connected background is accused of being gay, there are often ways for them to shield themselves. They might use bribes, legal connections or benefit from simply being treated differently. Poor LGBTQ+ individuals do not have those options. The police often target vulnerable communities where people cannot afford lawyers or bribes. Many are arrested on suspicion alone, without evidence and are forced to endure violence, extortion and public humiliation. 

In some cases, even being perceived as different in dress, mannerisms or company can put poor LGBTQ+ people at serious risk. Poverty also makes it harder to escape danger. Someone with money might be able to move to another city or even another country. Someone without resources is trapped, both by their circumstances and by a legal system that does not protect them. In that sense, the law becomes a tool of oppression not just against LGBTQ+ people in general, but especially against those who are poor and powerless.

“small acts of visibility can create lasting change”

You're known for creating content on YouTube that ‘demystifies queerness in Africa’ - particularly using your influence to help and assist displaced LGBTQ+ persons seeking asylum outside Cameroon. Can you tell us about the impact you’ve had so far and the challenges you’ve faced? 

I started my YouTube channel because I wanted to join the few queer African voices speaking openly on the platform. At the time, there were very few spaces where African LGBTQ+ experiences were represented authentically, especially when it came to sharing tips and advice that were specific to queer Africans. I wanted to create content that demystifies queerness in Africa, challenges stereotypes and shows that being queer and being African are not in conflict.

Through storytelling, education and honest conversations, I have been able to reach people across different communities. The impact has been powerful. I regularly receive messages from viewers who tell me that seeing someone like them helped them feel less alone, gave them courage or even started important conversations within their families. 

For many people, representation is not just important - it is life-affirming. [But] the work comes with challenges. Speaking openly about LGBTQ+ issues attract harassment, online abuse and sometimes threats. There is also the emotional toll of constantly pushing against cultural stigma. It can be exhausting. 

However, every time someone reaches out to say, “Your video helped me accept myself,” it reminds me why I [should] continue. Even small acts of visibility can create lasting change, and I am proud to contribute to that through my YouTube platform.

How do you reconcile same-sex marriage - which is viewed by many in Africa as a product of western culture - with your African heritage and culture?

In the early days, it was difficult. I struggled with the feeling that I belonged to two worlds that did not fit together. On the one hand, I was proud of my African heritage and the traditions I grew up with. On the other hand, I knew I could not ignore the way I felt about other women, or girls at the time, even though many said it was un-African.

As I deepened my understanding of queer African history, I came to realise that homophobia is a colonial legacy and that I am more African than those who condemn me. This realisation empowered me and strengthened my confidence. 

By the time I got married, there was no need for reconciliation. I had already done the internal work. I had fully embraced my identity before deciding to settle down.

In your earlier responses, you described the hostile environment LGBTQ+ people face in Cameroon. How is the community responding? Are there support networks, mutual aid structures or other forms of solidarity that have emerged in response to this climate?

There are both formal and informal support systems, but they are extremely limited, especially outside urban areas. Formal networks operate with very little funding and are mostly found in cities. They offer services like temporary shelter, legal help or basic healthcare.

Informal networks fill in the gaps and step in when someone is in crisis, often through word-of-mouth and trusted community members. But overall, these systems are stretched thin and cannot meet the full scale of need.

Speaking from personal experience, growing up queer in a rural area meant being completely isolated. There were no safe spaces, no visible community and no access to support. So while these networks exist, most LGBTQ+ people, especially outside the cities, simply cannot access them.

Can you talk a bit more about how LGBTQ+ people are organising, even if in the shadows? 

People are organising, but always with caution. Most of the work happens underground or online, using encrypted apps or private groups. These platforms help people connect, share resources and offer emotional support. But access to technology is still a privilege. Not everyone has the internet, a smartphone or the privacy to use them safely.

In many cases, mostly outside cities, personal relationships become lifelines. Many rely on close friends or their chosen family. When someone is in danger or needs help, they turn to the people they trust. These informal support circles are not always reliable, but they are deeply rooted in care and resilience.

When someone is outed or arrested, a quiet but effective chain of support often activates. It helps them access legal aid, get medical care or find a safe place to stay. These systems are under-resourced, but grounded in community solidarity.

Not every case is reached. Some go unnoticed simply because the person has no way to ask for help. Legal support sometimes comes from people like Alice Nkom, one of the few human rights lawyers in Cameroon who openly defends LGBTQ+ individuals. Her work has been critical, even though her reach is limited. She represents a rare form of institutional protection in a landscape where most systems are hostile.

Safety also depends on word-of-mouth. Through trusted circles, people learn which public places, such as specific bars, are relatively safe. These informal maps of survival help people navigate everyday life, even if only within narrow margins.

But again, this kind of support is mostly limited to cities. Outside those spaces, access is almost nonexistent. These underground systems are strong in spirit, but they are fragile and inconsistent, and they're often out of reach for the people who need them most.