In my Bed

People always ask me about my sexuality, and how it is that I am lesbian. Many times, some have asked me whether it is a “behaviour” I “learned”, or “picked up”. Recently, a lady, whose daughter, attended an all-girls school, asked me if she should worry about her being “infected” with “lesbianism”, as she put it. Some have gone on to ask whether I was sexually abused as a child, in a bid to connect homosexuality to sexual abuse. Others have asked whether I am lesbian because I attended an all-girls school, albeit for only three years.

All of these suggest that homosexuality is something I must have learned from somewhere or someone. But I was raised by heterosexual parents. My mother and father lived in the same house with my siblings and I. There was nothing extraordinary about our home. It was the very typical Nigerian household. My mum was a civil servant for a while before she became a banker. My dad was a geologist, working in the public sector where he continued to work until retirement. Relatives and other people lived in our house too. My parents went to work everyday and they provided for our physical and financial needs, as is the responsibility of every parent.

My mother played her role. She cooked or supervised cooking in the kitchen. She bought our school uniforms, shopped for the house, bought clothes for us, made sure we did our homework, took us to visit relatives, and made sure my sisters and I learned how to cook by helping in the kitchen.   

My father played his own role. He went to work, and came home to watch the news, or entertain visitors. If he was not in his bedroom, he was in the living room, or in his study. When he was not in any of these three places, he was out of the house. He provided money for the smooth running of the house. I never saw my father do much more around the house. He played with us from time to time but that was it. I never tasted a meal my father cooked because he never cooked. At least, not that I recall. Maybe he helped with homework when we were younger, but I do not recall. He was present, but he was not available. He seemed to love from a distance. 

When it came to providing physical needs and making sure we went to good schools and church, my parents were excellent. When it came to emotional needs, and providing emotional support, they were absent. We barely talked about emotions. We never talked about sex. In fact, I do not recall a time when either of my parents verbally told me they loved me. The few times they did, it was in writing. I never felt they were available to discuss things that were not about school, Jesus, money, the latest video games, or how my brother was getting on my nerves. 

It was no surprise then, that when my male cousin, who was much older than I, kissed me in our house, I could not tell my parents for fear of what might follow, let alone the time when my father’s brother brought out his penis and asked me to stroke it. What about when my mother’s sister’s son fingered my eight year old vagina at the back of my parent’s car during a family trip? There was no way, within the parameters of my consciousness, I was going to tell my parents that the same person, who was living with us at the time, lured me into the guest room downstairs, asked me to lie on the bed, whipped out his erect penis, told me what he was about to do would not hurt, asked me to open my legs, and was about to insert his hard penis into my eight year old vagina, but was only stopped because someone else in the house screamed my name? 

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Fingering, kissing, fondling, or attempting to have sex with, an eight year old child is pedophilia, sexual, as well as psychological abuse. Although I was a victim of all, I had never thought about it as abuse. The real dangers are within our homes, but which emotionally unavailable parents do not see. When children do not feel emotionally safe and secure with their parents, or they do not believe their parents trust and will support them, it creates a breeding ground for abuse of all kinds. A parent that is emotionally distant or absent cannot expect to be emotionally trusted by their child(ren). 

The truth is I never knew anyone who was homosexual. In fact, I was taught that homosexuals are not only from the devil, but the devil himself. 

I did not “learn” homosexuality, neither was I “forced” or “initiated” into being lesbian. 

I am simply lesbian.

If a person’s sexual orientation was learned, I will be heterosexual, considering that I was, and still am, surrounded by heterosexuality. But I am lesbian. My experience with abuse did not cause me to hate/fear men. 

I love men. I just do not want them in my bed.