“And Then He Sang a Lullaby” carefully spins a narrative set against the backdrop of Nigeria’s increasing homophobia and the aftermath of the Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act. For folks yet to read this novel, – spoilers ahead.
The story unfolds with August, a devout track star and the sole son of a grieving father, navigating the weight of familial expectations and the perpetual sorrow stemming from his mother’s tragic demise during childbirth. August grapples with a pervasive sense of inadequacy, feeling compelled to live a life that justifies the sacrifice made by his mother who knowingly risked her life to bring him into the world.
Haunted by his mother’s face, voice, and unrealized aspirations, August is burdened with dreams that seem intertwined with her unfulfilled desires. He is acutely aware of the pressure to be the perfect son, carrying forward the torch of the family name while running his own unique race.
August’s struggle with his attraction to men is initially framed as a source of shame, manifested as fleeting “lapses” in an attempt to conform to societal expectations. It’s not until he encounters Segun, a fellow student and activist unapologetically challenging societal norms, that August begins to confront the complexities of his identity.
Segun, openly gay and politically active, introduces August to a world where activism meets personal identity. Despite their initial harmony, Segun grapples with the challenges of being in a relationship with someone still closeted, while August faces the harsh disapproval of family and friends. Compounded by the criminalization of their very existence, the mounting societal hostility gradually erodes the foundation of their love.
The novel skillfully delves into important issues such as coming out, internalized homophobia, and the varying impacts of the oppressive Same Sex Marriage Prohibition Act. Segun’s understanding of the personal nature of coming out clashes with August’s reluctance to embrace his identity openly. The novel also navigates the stark differences in their experiences – August’s ability to pass as straight versus Segun’s inability to do so, August’s financial stability in contrast to Segun’s exposure to class violence.
The heartbreaking conclusion leaves readers with a profound sense of sadness, contemplating the potential life these two young lovers might have shared if their circumstances were different. As a queer Nigerian reader, one can easily identify with both August and Segun, recalling the moments of shame and fear in the closet, the first encounters with derogatory labels, the harrowing experiences with police harassment, the steep cost of coming out to family and the first thirst for liberation.
“And Then He Sang a Lullaby” is not just a love story; it’s a mirror reflecting the complex realities faced by queer individuals in Nigeria. The novel encapsulates the struggle for self-acceptance, the pursuit of liberation, and the ever-present hope that our motherland doesn’t become the orchestrator of our demise.
