A young, queer Nigerian’s journey from shame to healing

‘I had no pride left’, he tells his free, non-judgmental Qtalk counselor

LGBTQ+ Nigerians benefit from the support provided by volunteer counselors via the Qtalk app, which is supported by this site and by the St. Paul’s Foundation for International Reconciliation. Download Qtalk from Google Play or the Apple Store.

This series presents their stories. For Qtalk users’ security, they are identified only with pseudonyms.

In a cramped hostel room on the edge of a federal university in Nigeria, Prosper learned how quickly laughter can turn cruel. He was 21, soft spoken, careful with his hands when he spoke. Students clapped when he walked past. They mocked his voice. They called him names meant to wound.

“They used to clap when I walked past,” he wrote months later, describing the memory in a late-night message. “They would say, ‘Show us how you talk again.’ Sometimes they pushed me, just to see me react. I started to feel like I was not even a person in that place.”

The teasing grew into open harassment. He stopped going to lectures. He stayed in his room with the lights off. Sleep came only with pills.

“I needed something to quiet my head,” he wrote. “A friend offered drugs. At first it was to sleep. Then it was to forget.”

One night he overdosed. A roommate found him. His parents took him home and arranged counseling. Prosper sat through those sessions without speaking openly. The advice he received was about prayer and discipline. He felt judged and afraid.

“I sat there like a ghost,” he recalled.

Months later, alone in his room, he searched online and found Qtalk. He stared at the blank chat window before typing his first words.

“Hello. I don’t know if this place is safe.”

The reply was simple and calm. He was told he could share at his own pace. No one rushed him. No one told him to hide who he was. Prosper said that single exchange loosened something tight in his chest.

The conversations were slow at first. He described the hostel corridor, the laughter, the fear of being seen. He spoke about the overdose, about waking up in a hospital bed, about the shame he carried home with him.

“I feel like I am a mistake,” he wrote one night.

The counselor did not argue or preach. They asked him to talk about what had happened and how it made him feel. They helped him name the bullying for what it was. They asked about moments in his life when he had felt proud, safe, or respected. Prosper struggled to remember. He finally wrote about a debate prize he won in secondary school.

“I forgot that boy,” he wrote about himself.

Over weeks of text exchanges, he and the counselor worked through memories that Prosper had buried. They discussed how shame can grow in silence. They talked about internalized fear and about ways to stay safe in hostile spaces. When panic rose, the counselor guided him through breathing exercises, asking him to describe his surroundings and slow his thoughts.

He confessed that he still kept pills hidden in his bag.

“I am afraid if I throw them away, I will need them,” he typed.

The counselor helped him build a plan. They agreed on small steps. He would remove the drugs from his room. He would message when cravings grew strong. He would list people he could trust and places he could go if he felt unsafe. Each step was written down and returned to in later sessions.

“No one had ever asked me how to stay alive,” Prosper said in one message. “They only told me how to behave.”

The hardest part came when he spoke about his sexuality. He typed the words slowly.

“I think I am gay. I hate myself for it.”

The counselor answered without judgment, reminding him that his worth was not defined by insults or fear. Prosper said he stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

“No one had told me that before,” he wrote. “I cried, but this time it was relief.”

Months passed. Prosper began to sleep without drugs. He returned to class. He answered questions again. He told his parents about the bullying. They did not understand everything, but they listened. His father sent a short message that Prosper shared on Qtalk.

“He wrote, ‘We love you. We are learning.’ I cried again, but it felt lighter.”

At 24, Prosper is sober, but still checks in on Qtalk every now and then. However, the conversations are quieter now. They talk about work, about friendships, about the fear that sometimes returns without warning. He has learned how to notice the warning signs and how to ask for help.

“You did not save me,” he wrote to his counselor recently. “You helped me see myself.”

Across campuses and towns in Nigeria, many queer young people search for care that sees them without judgment. For Prosper, healing began with a blinking cursor on a phone screen and a stranger who answered with patience.

“I am not ashamed of who I am,” he wrote in his final message of the year. “I am still here. That is my victory.”

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