Until the age of 13, every boy I ever had a crush on threatened to hurt or kill me when they found out. You would think it led to me having fewer crushes over the years, but you’d be wrong.
I’ve always loved love—mostly in theory, but still. As a child, my crushes and the empty hope of a “more” were often the only things that made school bearable. Without them, I was just suspended in my loneliness. I grew up in Nairobi, and when I was 8, my parents transferred me and my siblings to an American school downtown where I didn’t make any real friends until the eighth grade—right before I left the country to attend boarding school. After the move, I was severely depressed, although I didn’t have the language to express it at the time. The only thing that made me forget about my loneliness was love.
Looking back, I know that most of those boys weren’t serious about their threats. They were children anyway, so even if they were serious, they were incapable of following through—but I’m not sure younger me understood this. I won’t rehash every encounter I’ve had. In fact, I don’t remember every encounter I’ve had, but I remember that when I was seven, I didn’t know how to swim, and when my crush, Reuben, found out I liked him, he threatened to push me into the deep end of the pool if I didn’t tell everyone it was a lie. There was another crush, Luke—one of the white missionary kids at the American school—who would always hold up his fists like he was ready for a fight when I came near, so I stopped coming near him. There was also Töran, a friend of my older brother who I had been crushing on since the first day I saw him. My brother knew this, and one day he let it slip that I liked Töran. Töran frowned, pointing to himself as he asked, “Me?” as though he couldn’t have heard right.
Horrified, I said no and tried to laugh it off. Somehow, I managed to convince him that I didn’t like him, but my heart was in my throat the whole time. I was ready to run if I needed to.
And then there was Kamau—who was, incidentally, my biggest and longest crush—and he actually did succeed in hurting me. It was year five, and we were out playing during break. He found out I liked him earlier that day, and when I went to the field to play with everyone, he told me to get away. That he didn’t want to be near me. I, being as stubborn as I’ve always been, obviously didn’t listen to him. I knew that I had no chance with someone as handsome and Kamau, so I didn’t mind annoying him. I figured enemies was a better relationship to have than none at all, but Kamau disagreed. He warned me a second time, and again I didn’t listen, so he began to chase me away. I didn’t know what he would do to me, but I didn’t like the look in his eyes, so I ran.
I had always been a fast runner—in fact, I was the third-fastest girl in my class, so I thought I would be able to get away, but Kamau was faster than me. He caught up to me and twisted my arm behind my back, pulling until my shoulder popped out of the socket. And then he said something to me that I can’t really remember—something about him hoping I had learned my lesson. When I got to the nurse’s office, I lied about what happened to me because I didn’t want to get Kamau in trouble, and when I got home later that day with a sling around my arm, I lied again to my parents and said that I had fallen during intramurals.
I remember many of my crushes vividly—how exposed they left me. I’m forever grateful for the ones that were never revealed.
 

The safest I have ever felt was in the arms of another girl. Behind closed doors, where nobody could rebuke us.
It wasn’t until I got older and came to terms with my sexuality that I realized all my formative sexual experiences had been with girls. And there was one girl in particular whom I loved. Who held me even when the rest of the world left me suspended in my loneliness.
Her name was Patience, and from the day we met, we were instant friends. Our fathers were old college peers from Imo State University whose relationship had spanned decades and continents. Patience and I were destined to be in each other’s lives.
We lived down the street from each other, so I was at her house often, escaping from my real life and into the little universe we had created just for the two of us. I loved Patience as a friend, yes, but it was more than that. More than I had loved any of my friends before. Back then, living where I did in the family that I did, I didn’t even know being queer was a possibility. I assumed that the things I felt and thought were things everyone felt, so they didn’t mean I was different. I wanted to be close to Patience and yet still hold onto all the violent things my community had taught me.
It was a few years into our friendship that I fucked up.
The feelings I had for Patience had begun to consume me in ways that terrified me because I’d heard all the warnings about hellfire and demons in disguise. I knew I would burn if we kept loving each other the way we did—if I tried doing even half of the things I wanted to do. I was scared of my own emotions, and what I really needed was space to explore them, but I didn’t know how to ask for it, so I told my mum about her instead. I made it seem like I didn’t want what I so clearly did.
Patience and I didn’t see each other for a few months after that. I know my parents spoke to hers, but I still don’t know what they actually did. When we eventually were allowed to spend time together again, it was always supervised, so we never spoke about it. And then I left the country for boarding school, knowing I had done irreparable damage to our relationship all because I was too scared to look myself in the eye.

Now that I can see myself as I truly am—now that I accept myself—I understand that Patience was the first person who ever truly loved me, even if I was too scared to love her properly. I know now that love is a choice, and that no promise of love is real if it does not keep me at least as safe as Patience kept me every single day.

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