This year’s Pride season has felt heavier, more sobering.
Across the globe, especially in the West, places we’ve long considered beacons of progress there has been a disturbing rise in anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment. These are countries that have historically granted legal recognition and protection to queer people, becoming safe havens for many fleeing persecution in the Global South. But watching the rights we once thought were untouchable now hang in the balance has reminded me of something essential: no place is infallible. Even in “progressive” societies, queer safety remains conditional.
And so I began to think about us queer Africans. For years, we have watched from afar as Pride parades blossomed in their thousands: joyful, defiant, celebratory. We’ve watched drag queens and trans activists take up space in major cities. We’ve watched rainbow flags fly freely without fear of being torn down. And yet, back home, we’ve celebrated Pride behind closed doors, in WhatsApp groups, in living rooms, on burner accounts.
But maybe that’s also part of our pride.
What the world often overlooks is that our queerness is not just a response to oppression, it is creativity, resistance, and community in motion. We’ve learned how to protect each other, how to signal safety in a glance, how to turn silence into song. Our Pride isn’t just about visibility; it’s about survival. It’s about thriving despite.
This reflection comes just weeks after the controversial “Family Values” conference hosted in Kenya, a gathering of far-right Christian lobbyists determined to insert themselves deeper into African politics under the guise of “protecting tradition.” But the truth is, what they’re peddling isn’t African. It’s colonial shame dressed up in scripture. African traditions have long held space for fluidity, kinship, and chosen families. The real danger isn’t queerness, it’s the imported hate we continue to internalize.
So when I say “African Pride,” I’m not just talking about a parade or a party. I’m talking about the everyday acts of resistance that make queer life possible here. I’m talking about the underground ballroom scenes in Nairobi. I’m talking about the lovers who risk it all for a kiss in public. I’m talking about the trans folks who keep showing up despite being erased in policy and public discourse. I’m talking about our elders, those who dared to love before it was “allowed.”
Yes, we may not have the same kind of Pride celebrations as New York, London, or Berlin but that doesn’t mean we have less to be proud of. In fact, I’d argue we have more.
It’s time we imagine a Pride Month for ourselves. Not one that simply mimics global dates, but one rooted in our own timelines and legacies. South Africa has set a precedent but there is room for more. Kenya, Uganda, Nigeria, Ghana, we deserve our own moments of joy. We deserve to commemorate the people who shaped our movements. To honour our queer icons living and lost. To tell our stories on our own terms.
So what does Pride mean to me?
It means gathering without fear. It means recognizing each other in a crowd and smiling anyway. It means creating space when there is none. It means knowing that even when laws fail us, love won’t. And it means realizing that we, as queer Africans, are the architects of our liberation not in some distant future, but right here, right now.
Because even when the world tries to forget us, we remember each other. And that, to me, is Pride.
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