Queer Africans Are Reshaping The Meaning of Grassroots Mobilization Through Their Underground Blueprint

Introduction

Across Africa, queer individuals are being forced to navigate legal systems, social hostility, and institutional violence that define their very existence as a crime. Over 30 African countries criminalise same-sex relationships (AntiGayLaws.org). In countries like Nigeria, for example, the law doesn’t just criminalise same-sex relationships, it goes a step further to also criminalise being part of any type of queer gathering. In Uganda, the 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Act goes as far as prescribing the life imprisonment punishment for LGBTQ+ individuals. In these types of hostile environments, the truth is that survival does not demand courage; it demands a completely different resistance strategy.

Many times, when we speak about grassroots mobilisation with regards to the African LGBTQ+ movements, we think about public-facing activism as proof of impact and progress. But this is not always the case. For queer Africans, visibility can mean surveillance, arrest, or even death. As a result, LGBTQ+ movements across Africa are reclaiming and redefining the underground as a tool of liberation by moving through the shadows and building power away from the reach of those who would seek to dismantle it. Especially in countries like Kenya, Zambia, Nigeria and Ghana where colonial-era sodomy laws remain enforced, these queer individuals have had to reshape the meaning of grassroots mobilisation to survive  (AntiGayLaws.org; Amnesty International 2024). From secret spaces that provide a safe haven for queer individuals, to underground sanctuaries that provide shelters, these movements are proving that visibility is not the only currency of resistance.  

Through this article, I will explore how grassroots queer movements in Africa are drawing from the historical tactics of resistance movements to shape a new approach to grassroots mobilisation that is ungovernable by design. And if support is to be meaningful, it cannot come in the form of imposed Western blueprints or performative allyship. It must be centred on those who live this reality. Not through visibility, but through the freedom to mobilise on their own terms – unseen.

Applying Historical Tactics in Today’s World

Throughout African history, resistance movements have relied on discretion and trust. Despite the claim that same-sex relationships are “un-African”, they existed in Africa long before colonialism (Okwenna 2021). During the colonial era, queer Africans resisted not through open confrontation, but through strategic invisibility and cultural adaptation. They sustained same-sex relationships by embedding them within spiritual, social, and traditional structures. In Northern Nigeria, for example, homosexual men known as YanDaudas were integrated into the Bori cult, a pre-Islamic traditional system where gender-nonconforming individuals held ritual and mediating roles. These men dressed femininely, performed sacred dances, and were granted status within their own recognised class (Okwenna 2021). Similarly, among the Ovagandjera people in Angola, there were structured same-sex unions in which older boys entered formal, public relationships with younger male partners. These relationships usually involved some form of bride-price payments and cohabitation and were traditionally recognised even when the older partner later married a woman (Okwenna 2021).  

Resistance, back then, took the form of cultural preservation and queer Africans continued their relationships under different social signifiers to avoid detection by colonial authorities. The African LGBTQ+ movements today have inherited the practice of this legacy. Queer initiatives like the Trans and Queer Fund (TQF) in Kenya demonstrate what this legacy looks like today. TQF was formed in 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic by queer Kenyans who saw their communities facing hunger, eviction, and unemployment. They started redistributing food, rent, and emergency funds among themselves as opposed to waiting for international aid because they recognised the fundamental problem with international aid is that it is often tied to visibility, which does not benefit them (openDemocracy 2025).

According to a 2025 openDemocracy report, TQF now supports over 80 individuals per month with basic needs, all without legal registration, project-based funding, or bureaucratic oversight. The collective operates on trust and a belief in community autonomy. Its guiding principle is redistribution. People with something give. People in need receive. And everyone remains anonymous. This mutual aid model has a direct and immediate impact. These groups are not just responding to crises, they are applying the historical tactics of survival. They are unregistered, underfunded, and still very effective. This is what it looks like to apply the historical tactics of survival through discretion, and it is becoming a model utilised across the African LGBTQ+ space by people who know that movements built in silence can endure much more than those built for show.

Nigeria

In Nigeria, the Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act of 2013 outlaws gatherings, support groups, advocacy networks, and expressions of solidarity for same-sex relationships. This isn’t just a ban on relationships, it is a deliberate attempt to dismantle the queer community itself by criminalising the act of organising anything around queer identity. As a result of the hostile environment this has created, queer Nigerians have developed underground organising models. Emergency shelters, like those offered by Rainbow Alliance Nigeria, provide temporary shelter for banished young LGBTQ+ individuals.  

This underground model prioritises discretion and safety. Individuals can stay for weeks or months, depending on need, receiving not just housing but access to healthcare, counselling, and community support. Financial assistance is raised internally or through discreet international networks. There are no public fundraisers, and the work is done invisibly, because visibility in Nigeria is a liability.

Religious practice has also been reshaped in Nigeria. The House of Rainbow is a fellowship group for queer Christians with informal gatherings and support networks, and is sometimes referred to by the media as “Nigeria’s first gay church”. Groups like these demonstrate a deliberate refusal to be erased and a desire to ensure that even when the law says you cannot exist, the community continues to do so anyway. 

Ghana

Ghana is often described as one of West Africa’s more stable democracies, but this is not the case when the country is examined through the lens of LGBTQ+ rights. Same-sex relationships remain criminalised, and while enforcement is a bit sporadic, the law legitimises widespread public hostility and discrimination.

In 2021, Ghanaian activists opened a physical LGBTQ+ community centre in Accra. It was designed to be a safe space for education, healthcare referrals, mental health support, and community building. But within weeks, it became a national crisis. The community centre was raided, government officials condemned it, the people working there received death threats, and religious leaders demanded that it be closed. Eventually, the community centre was forced to shut down, but this did not mean that they stopped the work they set out to do. They just shifted to an invisible space.  

Groups like LGBTQ+ Rights Ghana began operating through encrypted channels, offline referral systems, and diaspora-based advocacy. Today, the LGBTQ+ movement in Ghana is deliberately decentralised. Meetings are held in private homes or safe locations only disclosed at the last minute, and advocacy is often coordinated from abroad. The movement has not disappeared; it has simply evolved into a more resilient and less visible form. For queer Ghanaians, visibility has often come at the cost of safety and stability. So, rather than seeking public affirmation or applause, activists are now investing in structures that cannot be raided or interrupted such as relationships, knowledge-sharing, and a support infrastructure designed to survive for much longer.

Kenya

In Nairobi, the queer movement is structured around community resilience and networks of mutual support that operate outside of traditional NGO models. One of the clearest examples is the UmaUma Collective which is a decentralized queer mutual aid network that started with a ‘buy nothing’ WhatsApp group. Today, the collective includes over 170 members who exchange goods and services like groceries, clothes, mental health support, and access to safe spaces, without monetary exchange. It is a trust-based support system that was born from necessity.

These forms of organising are not just responsive, they are strategic. According to a 2024 report by openDemocracy, queer mutual aid collectives in Kenya and Uganda not only withstood the withdrawal of U.S. development funding, but adapted and grew. Choosing not to rely on external project-based funding or visibility metrics allowed them to continue their work without being interrupted.

Workshops run by UmaUma focus on activities that offer both practical tools and emotional grounding. The collective also has food shelves across Nairobi to provide anonymous access to basic necessities. These are long-term systems of survival that challenge the idea that visibility or institutional recognition are necessary for impact. UmaUma and other initiatives like it operate on values of care, self-determination, and community governance. Their work is small in scale by design. It prioritises depth, trust, and adaptability over growth and exposure. In this part of the world, it is clear that resistance does not need to be loud to be effective. It just needs to be consistent and responsive to the people it serves.

The Ungovernable Survival Approach

So we have seen that the same covert tactics that once guided our ancestors to freedom in Africa now shape the underground blueprint queer individuals across African countries rely on for survival. This is a revolutionised form of grassroots mobilisation. I have chosen to call it the ungovernable survival approach because they are not waiting for governments to legislate safety or for NGOs to govern their way to freedom. Instead, they are creating survival systems that function independently. These networks are designed to be decentralised and deeply relational. They avoid the risks of hierarchy, visibility, and dependence on external support.

The design of this approach is deliberate, and leadership is distributed in such a way that no single person holds power or risk. The key strengths of this approach are that it is resilient, difficult to infiltrate, and capable of rapid response. In hostile environments where queer people risk arrest for simply gathering, this low-visibility approach is the wise strategy. However, the invisibility that protects could also isolate. This approach is not void of its flaws. These underground networks are sometimes underfunded, inconsistent, and emotionally taxing. There is often no formal support for those providing care, and without the public-facing infrastructure, it can be difficult to advocate for sustainable change. Still, this is the approach that exists and works in Africa.  

The ungovernable survival approach is an intentional strategy that recognises the risks and needs of queer communities in Africa. It is more concerned with outcomes, and in many cases, it is succeeding where formal structures have failed.

What Kind of Support Is Useful?

The relationship between African queer movements and international solidarity efforts has always been uneven. While foreign attention can bring visibility, it often brings exposure to harm. While funding can provide support, it can also impose frameworks that are incompatible with local realities. The challenge is not that support is unwelcome, it’s that it often results in bigger problems. Western donors and advocacy organisations frequently frame visibility as the main goal of any intervention. But in countries where queerness is criminalised, visibility can lead directly to violence or even death. For instance, Nigeria’s 2014 Same-Sex Marriage Prohibition Act was not only rooted in colonial law but was also a reaction to perceived Western encroachment and visibility-focused advocacy (Quadry-Adekanbi 2024). After international attention was drawn to queer groups in Nigeria like the House of Rainbow, this level of visibility became a major risk factor for the group and lead to targeted violence from religious, social and political figures alike (especially considering that the group was being led by a pastor).

The pressure to conform to external models of activism, particularly those that privilege linear advocacy or public demonstrations, often undermines the very safety local communities have fought to preserve. And too often, Western institutions ask for stories before asking what is safe to share. In Ghana, for instance, the 2021 backlash against the LGBTQ+ community centre in Accra was intensified by international attention. The international backing and foreign media coverage led to increased visibility, and the result of this was a raid, threats to staff, and the centre’s eventual closure (The Guardian 2021; Human Rights Watch 2024). The question, then, is not whether support is needed. It is, what kind of support is useful? In my opinion, the kind of support that matters needs to be consistent, and unconditional. It is important that any form of support offered is one that respects autonomy, funds discretion and understands that success may look very different to what is expected. There needs to be an understanding that a life saved is not always a story told. Support may look like testimonials in internal reports that never get to see the light of day.  

Support could also mean stepping back and relinquishing the idea that international allies should direct or define the African LGBTQ+ movement. Support looks like acknowledging the agency of African queer organisers who are developing and testing their own practices. This is not a rejection of international aid, it is a request for a different form of support. The movements happening across Africa are not invisible because they are weak; they are invisible because they have learned that staying alive sometimes depends on it. And those who want to support must be willing to follow, not lead.

The revolution people keep waiting for has already started in Africa. It just isn’t playing by the rules people expect. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point. That’s why support, when offered, has to be different! It can’t look like performance or external leadership. There is a very important need to respect what’s already working and what has already saved lives. These queer Africans are not ‘passively’ surviving in the shadows. Far from it, actually. They are intentionally building in them without anyone’s approval, and they will continue to.

Written By

Unwana Johnson