I was born and raised in Addis Ababa. Since I was raised in the church, I have always been strong in my faith. My childhood was guided by both secular and spiritual education. From 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., I was at school, and from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m., I spent time at church.
Even though I don’t have much memory of my childhood, I remember I had a close relationship with a male friend of mine in school when I was in fifth grade. This relationship, for him, was just friendship, but what I felt was romantic love. Maybe that is when I learned of love and my homosexuality. We could only meet from Monday to Friday, and since his house was two taxi rides away from mine, we weren’t able to see each other much outside of school. I remember one time I took ten birr from my mom and went to the soccer field where he played in his neighborhood and watched him play. But suddenly, my snitch of an aunt appeared out of nowhere and demanded to know what I was doing there. I was so scared but thanks to God I ended up saying “I came to play soccer with some kids from Sunday school.” She believed me. I survived.
I repeatedly heard men who have feelings like me are rapists, and because of this, they can’t even defecate properly and worms come out of their bodies. In addition to the health problems, I was raised hearing that it was also condemned by religion and that God has already punished such people with raining fire on them. They were described as a sinful community chosen by Satan or commonly known as 666 messengers to fulfill the hidden agenda of Europeans. This was a difficult realization for me, which I assume many others felt too. Because I thought of the matter as a sin and wanted to be cleansed of that sin, I tried repentance, confession, attending Subae (spiritual retreat), taking part in Holy Communion, and similar acts, all in an effort to separate myself from this life. Yet, in one way or another, I never escaped it. The struggle was neither simple to describe nor easy to endure.
The feelings I had for men, when they clashed with what I had been taught and lived, with my faith and culture, created an inner conflict. But the very failure to change became what eventually helped me reach the conclusion: this is who I am.
Now, even though I no longer struggle with self-acceptance, there are still moments, often under the weight of life’s burdens, when I wonder if the life I am living is somehow a mistake at its very foundation.
I have been using social media since childhood. Apart from keeping my identity anonymous, I didn’t do anything unusual. When I first came across queer communities online, I was both amazed and surprised. Above all, it made me realize I wasn’t alone. Honestly, without social media, I might never have had the chance to learn so much. It was through these platforms that I first encountered terms like queer and LGBTQ within our society, and most of what I know about queerness, beyond my own feelings, started there.
I even remember planning to meet someone I had first known online. I arrived early at the place we agreed on, but when I saw him from afar, he was much older than I had imagined. I turned back without saying a word. I didn’t think a man at that age could be in this life.
My first real dating experience happened with someone I met in person.
One afternoon, I was running late for a class at 5 Kilo. I rushed into a taxi, already full, but the assistant kept calling for more passengers. I figured he would squeeze in three per row, so before he told me to move, I slid over on my own. That’s when I noticed the man sitting next to me.
He had his face turned toward the window and didn’t seem to notice me. I nudged him lightly with my hip, the way you do to say scoot, but he didn’t react. His scent was nice. I pulled out my phone and tried to read a writing, but my focus dissolved. My mind was on him. I wanted to see his face, to know what kind of man he was. Was his voice gentle? I pretended to read, sneaking glances as far as my eyes could reach.
His blue shirt, speckled with white dots, made his dark skin glow. He wore black leather boots that matched the weather. I stopped reading and started reading him. Suddenly, he shifted, crossing one leg over the other, and I quickly looked away, pretending to be busy with my phone again. I was startled as if I was caught stealing.
As I was looking for the part where I stopped reading on my phone, the assistant called out for fares, his hand reaching toward us. I eagerly awaited to hear the man’s voice. He asked the price, I think he was smiling. His his voice was soft and magnetic. I glanced at him again looking at him sideways. There was a book in his hand, closed.
My own personality surprises me sometimes. It’s as if I’m a child who always did what he wanted, if I want to do something, it needs to happen. I can’t rest until it does. I wanted to see his face, but how? The way he was dressed, the scent of his perfume, it was exactly like my ex, the one I broke up with years ago.
He shifted back into his seat, straightened his back against the chair, and for a brief second, our eyes met. His hair was curled, glistening with oil. My ex also had the same style on the day we broke up. That image had lived in the corners of my mind for years, haunting me quietly. And now, seeing this stranger, it felt as if I was seeing him right in front of me. But then why was he looking at me too?
The conductor, as I expected, made us sit three together, and we started the journey. I turned and looked at him once in a while. He kept turning his phone on and off as if he couldn’t focus. He kept looking out the window. From Megenagna through Shola, the British Embassy, Kebena, and then when we reached Arat Kilo Silase Church, he said, “I will get off here.” I got off too and looked at my watch until he came out. I had 45 extra minutes. I stood there, pretending to be lost, though really, I was waiting.
He followed another passenger out of the taxi, and when he saw me, he looked surprised, then started walking toward the Victory Monument.
I told myself I wouldn’t let him leave without talking to him. But I didn’t know his name, so I shouted, “Hey, hey!”
He turned. I had never spoken to a stranger before. “Do you know any restaurants that serve shiro around here?” I asked. (I don’t even like shiro, not at home, let alone pay for it in a restaurant.)
“Umm… not sure, I don’t know the area much,” he replied.
“Oh, I thought you’re from around here.”
“No, I’m just running errands. If you want something else to eat, there’s a restaurant there,” he said, pointing toward the Ministry of Finance.
“All the way there to eat?” I said.
“Well, I came all the way from Kaliti to eat,” he replied with a smile. My teeth wanted to show themselves; my heart fluttered. “You came all the way from Kaliti to eat?” I laughed.
“I mean, I am working to eat,” he replied, the smile still there.
“I’m also from Kaliti,” I said.
“I had a hunch,” he said. “You kept looking at me in the taxi.”
“Can we introduce ourselves?” I asked, summoning all my courage.
“Yes,” he said, and extended his hand.
I was so happy I couldn’t stop smiling. “Naz,” I said. “Nazrawi.”
“Bahir,” he said. His hand didn’t let go of mine.
“I stared at you a lot earlier,” I said.
“Didn’t you memorize me by now?” he replied.
“I’m not good at memorizing things that don’t have tests,” I teased.
“Wouldn’t you say a human test is worse?” he shot back.
We went back and forth making fun, and I thought, he likes me.
“Why don’t you let me take a photo of you?” I said. “So, I can study you better.” I asked for something I knew I wouldn’t say no to if he let me.
“Wouldn’t a tattoo be better?” he laughed. Then, followed up, saying, “Why did you look at me for that long though?”
“You reminded me of my ex…my ex’s brother,” I said. I think he just knocked a point off me. (Who says that?)
Even though he looked like my ex, he was playful, so he smirked and said, “Instead of wasting your time following her brother, wouldn’t it have been better to apologize to her?”
I was happy he was talking to me; I didn’t want the conversation to end.
“When did I say I was at fault?” I said, trying to catch his eyes.
“It’s not always about who’s at fault,” he said. “Sometimes you apologize just so you don’t lose the one you love.”
I didn’t know what to say next, but I felt I had to keep talking. “When did I say I love her?” I asked, confused.
“Oh, is that why everything reminds you of her?” he replied.
When we reached the campus, I said, “I’m here,” with a hint of sadness.
“Weren’t you saying you had to eat?” he asked.
“I had time, but thanks to you, it’s gone now,” I replied playfully.
“Sure! Are you a student?” he asked.
“Yes. Isn’t it better than being mischievous?” I said, teasing.
“Brother, are you okay, though?” he asked, as if to underline the cultural expectation that a man shouldn’t talk to another man like that.
But I already knew his queerness he was trying to hide.
“Who’s mischievous? Me?” he said, playfully grabbing my hand and laughing. Not only did he hold my hand, but we also exchanged numbers to meet again.
After four days of daydreaming about him, he called on the fifth. From soft conversations at first, it turned into daily calls, then spending time together through the distance we had, just three minutes away from each other. Our first meet-up lasted only a few minutes. We were both grieving then, but we met when missing each other became too much. It was not a special day. Our unspoken love and longing made everything slow. We walked, talked about trivial things, and parted.
After that, we started meeting every day, walking, going out when there were things to see together. We went to church for the first time during a worship night in his neighborhood. We sang side by side. Like me, he grew up in church, so he knew all the movements, lyrics, and melodies, which made me happy.
Now, circumstances have made him my priority among everything else in life. Through life’s ups and downs, warmth and coldness, his love, touching my heart, is my vibration. He and I are like nature itself: slow, calm, and a love that only happens once in a lifetime.
It’s not an exaggeration to say he is my whole world. The way he looked at me with care, as if I were a child, when we sat on top of the mountain in our neighborhood and talked; that is proof enough. The sun we sent away walking together, the moon that passed us by, they are witnesses to our love. To think that we are hidden, special, loving each other even living in this society, makes me wonder how far our love could go if it were free.
I now see myself as an LGBTQ member and know it’s not a sin or a bad thing. But sometimes I have moments when I wonder if we are doing something wrong. Mostly, it’s because I see that in the queer community we belong to, adultery and promiscuity are often portrayed as the only ways to live. There are many kind people, but they are hidden; no one listens to them. Some, even though they are among us, still haven’t accepted themselves. They are not at peace with God and are unwilling to fix their lives.
In a country where same-sex love is criminalized, being part of the queer community is more than just being one person. One person is already too many. To act straight at home, in the neighborhood, in media, we must become different people all at once. Our lives are lived in hiding and exposure, so we become secretive and miraculous. But this life of hiding makes it hard to trust each other. These burdens provoke questions, make me think about things I don’t want to, and force me to wonder if the life I am living is wrong from the start.
Other than that, there is no particular struggle I face to accept myself.
The pressure at church is not easy. It is very complicated and difficult. The feeling it creates is one of guilt, loneliness, and loss, which is heavy and can grow into self-harm. There was a guy I studied with at church who used to rant about how much he hated our community, using every homophobic slur imaginable. Years later, I found him on social media and discovered he was queer too.
From what I saw with him and other experiences, I realized that the most viciously homophobic ones are often queer themselves. Even though I believed my life wasn’t a sin, even back then, I wasn’t as certain as I am now. Things said during sermons made me doubt myself, made me feel like my dating life was sinful. Though honestly, my dating life wasn’t even that active.
One thing I wish churches understood is that instead of rushing to condemn us, they should try to understand who we are, to recognize that this is not something we chose or prayed our way into, but something inherent to us. Churches should teach that God loves all people, and more than anything, that those who try to erase us are the ones who should be condemned. A movement that aims to erase human beings is not Godly, it’s evil.
The country we live in is 98% religious, and our childhoods are steeped in faith. The fact that every religious institution stands against us creates self-hatred and various harm. I think because I know God intimately and have studied His Word deeply, I can move freely in church even among those who oppose me. Being there reminds me of God’s grace and makes me feel as if I have a father who loves me for who I truly am. Now, I’m so grounded in this truth that even if I hear condemnation from the pulpit, my spirit remains undisturbed.
I hope that someday there will be a time when I can go out in public and say, “This is a mistake.” I hope people will leave cruelty behind and have the capacity to receive the true blessing of love. I hope for a life where, together, supporting each other, we can survive these difficult times and create a life where we can share our knowledge and experience with many.
In Bahir’s life and mine, because our hidden life is criminalized in the country we live in, we are not open to making other friends. I sometimes fear what will happen if we have differences that would require others’ opinions. Since we have no one to turn to, I fear our differences will destroy us. I don’t think conflict can be resolved unless through prayer or by one of us taking responsibility, even when we’re not at fault.
Fortunately, Bahir is not the type to create conflict; he is a quiet person who waits two or three days before speaking with certainty. We also listen to each other and speak from the heart. Even if he enjoys listening to gospel music, he does not go to church as much as I do. We go together once in a while. He likes wearing netela. He looks like a different person when he wears it.
When we go out to church and meet on the road, the first thing I do is fix something on his netela. It upsets me to see even the slightest wrinkle in something that looks so beautiful on him. I always tease him, saying, “Kid! Why don’t you wear it properly?” He replies carelessly, “God is going to judge my thoughts, not my netela.” He is always in my prayers, and as we pray standing outside the church, I know he is there when, in the midst of prayer, we look up and find each other. It means we are both praying for our love and God listens.
We have passed through so many things that could have separated us, first in silence, then through communication. This has made us feel that God is not only present in our lives, but also a vital force guiding us.
I feel we will spend many long years together, serving as an example for ourselves and our community. That is my wish. May God allow us to live it.