Dad found out I’m queer – he called me an abomination

‘You are an abomination!’ my father shouted.

‘You will burn in hell.

You cannot be queer and religious, ’ he screamed.

I’d heard this so many times, long before I even had the language to describe myself as queer.

Even now, despite having begun to reconcile my faith and my sexuality , the accusation hangs heavily over me.

I remember the exact weight of the silence in my parents’ living room that morning.

It was four years ago, and I was only 18.

We had finished saying our prayers – a daily ritual in our Catholic household in Nigeria.

My mom held up her phone to me and my stomach dropped.

On the screen was a photo of me and another guy, whom I was seeing at the time, in an intimate position.

Below the image, someone had written ‘Ndi hòmó’, meaning ‘gay’ in my native dialect.

The photo, I assume, had been sent by a member of our church.

.

My mom didn’t say anything, she just stared whilst my dad shouted at me.

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I couldn’t speak – I just sat there, frozen in shock.

Growing up faith wasn’t only belief, it was law.

Sunday sermons often condemned homosexuality.

I sat in the pews, terrified for my soul.

There were days when I would look at my rosary wrapped around my hands – some of the beads uniquely crafted to form a word ‘COUNSEL’.

I needed counsel –  on days when I felt lost and turned to God for guidance, but at most times it seemed no one was on the listening end.

After being outed and branded an abomination, my dad told me to leave.

There was no negotiation, only a finality which made it clear I no longer belonged.

I packed a few things into a small bag, barely remembering what I grabbed.

I glanced at my sister before leaving, seeing only a broken expression looking back.

She didn’t say anything.

Only presented a somewhat pitiful look.

I called a friend in a panic, who arrived within the hour, reassuring me I could stay with him as long as I needed.

He already knew I was gay and was welcoming of me.

For two years after, I was a mess.

I struggled with anxiety and isolation.

Most days, I stayed indoors, avoiding people and questioning everything I had been taught to believe.

I cut off my family and the church.

I felt angry – at my father, at religion, at myself, lost, convinced there was no God, and if there was, people like me were not loved by him.

Then, I found a queer support group, about two years later, in 2023.

Sitting in the community centre, I had never been in a room full of people like me before – who had also been called sinful, broken, unworthy.

Over the following weeks, that room became a refuge.

I made friends – some of whom still attended church, some who had left it entirely.

We talked about religion, about existing in bodies and identities we hadn’t chosen.

For the first time, I began to form my own understanding of God.

I realised I had no control over who I loved.

I was not beyond grace.

It took time to piece myself back together.

Eventually, I returned to church, a year after finding the support group, in 2024, but on my own terms.

No longer was I paying heed to others’ opinions.

I chose what masses I attended, and avoided spaces where I felt unwelcomed.

I rejoined the choir because singing had always made me feel whole, even when I was distanced from religion.

I finally realised faith was something I could interpret for myself.

Not everyone was accepting, but I found comfort in certain spaces, especially through the choir, where I even met other queer people.

My mother and I speak, but carefully.

Conversations stay surface-level, never about my identity or the incident.

My father and I remain distant, rarely talking.

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But faith does not have to hurt.

It does not demand erasure.

It’s been an assault of emotions.

I am still healing, but I am no longer lost or inadequate.

I have built a life where my faith and identity can coexist.

To anyone sitting silently in a room that feels too small, your existence, and love, is valid.

No one can take your faith from you unless you allow it.

I spent years turning a rosary bead marked ‘COUNSEL’ over in my hands, waiting for a voice above to tell me I would be okay.

I eventually found it in community and the quiet strength of my own heart.

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