May 29, 2019
Dear Binyavanga,
In reply to a friend’s tweet about your death, someone tweeted: Where do gay people go when they die? It was a “simple” question, asked perhaps innocently, perhaps mockingly, but it drilled a hole into my stomach and made me uneasy for the rest of that day. And now that I think of it, it must have been silly of me to let that question bother me the way it did, because really, what sort of question is that? Do we now go about asking people, where do women go when they die? Or where do men go when they die? Or where do Nigerians go when they die? Or where do Christians go when they die? It’s a lame question, that one, because layered behind it is an assumption that to be gay is to be subhuman, unworthy, cursed, undeserving of life and afterlife, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is lazy thinking.
Since my boyfriend texted me that morning to tell me that you left (only after breaking the news did he know that I’d known you personally), I have been thinking back to the few times I had contact with you, at the workshop, your eyes searching me, seeing me, knowing me. Was it the skinny jeans I wore, or the multicolored socks, or the way I gesticulated and walked? How did you know, Binya? How did you see through me?
For years, I tried to hide my sexuality – from myself, from my parents, from my siblings, from my friends, and dare I say that I hid it so well, bottled up any signs of femininity, caged my desire to be with men, pushed them all deep down the depths of my soul. Still, you saw me. Still, you knew. You asked me out for a drink, at the bar, behind the hotel. Asked about my life in Lagos. Asked if I was gay. You knew the answer to this question, Binya, but you asked nonetheless, looking me in the eye, daring me to say it. You were asking me to affirm my truth, to step into my truth, because we’re not who we think we are unless we confess it with our mouths, unless we confess it to ourselves, to others, and start living gracefully in it.
I remember snatches of that conversation. I said I wasn’t sure if I was gay because I was still learning, still searching, still growing. I’d had a couple of homosexual encounters, I said, but I wasn’t sure yet that I was gay. The truth, Binya, is that I didn’t want to call myself gay, that word with so much baggage; I didn’t want myself anywhere near it. You waited for me to finish and then you said you understood because you’d been there before and you know there’s no hurry in coming to terms with one’s sexuality; it could take an entire lifetime to figure out. You asked if I had a boyfriend, if I was having sex, if I went to gay-friendly clubs. I said no. No to everything. No, I didn’t have a boyfriend. No, I wasn’t having sex. No, I didn’t know any gay-friendly clubs, didn’t go to any clubs at all. You seemed a bit disappointed, but you did not look down on me or judge me or grow impatient. You listened, kept your eyes on me, soaked in everything I said, and I was beyond thrilled, Binya. I was beyond thrilled to have you listen to me, to have the privilege of an open conversation with you, a successful writer, whose works I admired, who I deeply respected. I’d watched your TEDxEuston talk. I’d read your book and your lost chapter and your short stories and essays. I’d admired you from afar, your light shining so brightly, and I’d hoped one day to have the courage to step into it.
Before the workshop ended, you asked for my email. You emailed me a few weeks later and introduced me to an email community of queer writers. This group is for gay writers I know with talent. I am used to interacting with writers by email. That is how Chimamanda and I got to know each other. Shortly after, you dropped, on the mail thread, a phone number for people who might be depressed. When you are depressed when you are in Nigeria, keep this [number] on your phone… and pass it on to any gay person you may encounter. Your emails in that thread were urgent; your tone, somewhat impatient. Share resources, lift one another up, you urged. You are each and all very talented, and if not you should help your brother grow. I am very busy, and have no time for selfish gay people. I counted the number of email addresses on the list. Fifteen. I would be interacting with fifteen gay people. I’d never been in the same space, at the same time, with fifteen gay people. I felt ambushed, awfully exposed. Later, I wrote to tell you that I did not think I was ready to be a member of the group yet, and you said, Cool. That’s very cool.
And we never spoke again.
Now, Binya, I wish I’d replied differently. I wish I’d set myself and my fears aside and communicated with you a bit more often. I wish we’d grown a friendship. I wish we’d talked about my first relationship, which came to an abrupt end after barely three weeks. Did you think of me sometimes in the months and years after our conversation? Did you remember me? Do you remember me?
I could have emailed you, a simple message asking about your health, or your writing, or the love of your life (I saw on Twitter that you were going to get married this year, to a fine Nigerian gentleman, and I’d been so excited, so happy for you). I could have asked CNA when I didn’t see you at the workshop in November last year. I could have stayed in touch.
But I didn’t.
Binya, where do people who run from themselves go? What do they do with themselves? At what point do they stop running and learn acceptance and forgiveness and love?
I’ll remember you for a long time, great one. I hope you rest forever in peace and love.
Dewor Jones.
