“It’s incredibly frustrating”: Queer Lagosians made alté cool. Now they’re being pushed out

Image Description: 2 Black queer figures dancing in an underground rave. They both wear outfits that are reminiscent of the early 2000s Nollywood era. One figure in the foreground wears a pink shirt and large neon-yellow hoop earrings. The second figure, partially facing forward, wears a lime green beanie, dark sunglasses, and vibrant pink hair.

Editors note: This story is published in collaboration with Obodo Nigeria as part of Intersect, a series on the ways queer love, trans identity, and cultural expression collide with and sometimes push back against social expectations. Read a foreword from the editor, Richard Wills and other stories in the series here.

In a corner of Lagos, the lights dim and the hypnotic pulse of electronic dance music fills a room where young people gather under neon strobes, their outfits as defiant as the music. This is one of the city’s rare safe havens. Queer spaces in Lagos have always existed on the margins, born out of necessity in a country where LGBTQ+ identities are criminalised. 

“They weren’t just playing music; they were curating a vibe that told queer people, ‘You’re safe here.’ That’s what made it special,” recalls Ayo, a raver who has been a regular at these events since their inception.

Nigeria’s Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act (SSMPA) of 2014 not only criminalises same-sex unions but also penalises public displays of affection between same-sex individuals, with punishments of up to 14 years in prison. The SSMPA has fuelled widespread discrimination and harassment, forcing queer Nigerians to seek safety in underground spaces. 

Human Rights Watch reports indicate that violence against LGBTQ+ Nigerians increased following the law’s enactment, with many facing extortion, harassment, and arbitrary arrests. This prompted the rise of underground clubs, secret house parties, and private therapy groups, which became lifelines for those seeking refuge from society’s hostility. 

For decades, LGBTQ+ Nigerians have used fashion, music, and art as tools of both survival and self-expression. The shared emphasis on individuality created a natural overlap between the queer and Alté scenes in Lagos’s creative underground. 

The alté movement, which emerged in the late 2000s as a response to Afrobeats’ dominance in Nigerian pop culture. While Afrobeats celebrates high-energy sounds and conventional expressions of Nigerian identity, alté—short for “alternative”—carved a niche for nonconformity and personal freedom. 

Artists like DRB LasGidi, Ajebutter22, and Show Dem Camp (SDC) pioneered the genre, blending R&B, soul, rap, and dancehall to create an eclectic and boundary-pushing sound that defied convention.  Their fashion choices— vintage, gender-neutral, and avant-garde—further cemented the movement as a symbol of rebellion. 

“Alté culture would not exist without queer influence,” says Efosa, a 23-year-old queer creative director. “A lot of the style, the vibe, even the courage to be different in a place like Lagos, all of it stems from queer people’s resilience and creativity.”

Queer people found resonance in Alté’s rejection of traditional norms. However, as the Alté movement grew in popularity, attracting a more mainstream audience, tensions began to surface. 

While Alté individuals drew heavily from queer aesthetics—gender-neutral fashion, bold expression, and fluid identities—they often failed to engage with the struggles that gave rise to these choices. This disparity is underscored by a 2019 survey, which found that only 7% of Nigerians believe homosexuality should be accepted by society. 

“It’s incredibly frustrating,” says Chika, a trans activist and designer. “Alté people walk into our spaces wearing what we’ve always worn, dancing how we’ve always danced, and they’re praised for being edgy, creative, or different. But when we do the same, it’s not just about style or fun, it’s a statement. For us, it’s political. It’s survival. The way we dress, the way we move, everything about us challenges a society that wants us to disappear. And the worst part? These same people who borrow from us sometimes don’t even see us. They come into our spaces, claim our aesthetic, and still perpetuate the same homophobia that makes it dangerous for us to exist. For them, it’s a cool trend, but for us, it’s life or death.”

For queer people, the elements that made the alté scene distinctive are not fleeting styles but acts of defiance in a country where queerness is criminalised. Living authentically means constant risk. While members of the Alté community, many of whom are cisgender and heterosexual, can dip in and out of these identities, queer individuals live them everyday. 

This tension is particularly pronounced at events like Group Therapy and Sweat It Out, which were founded with a commitment to community and safety, and to provide a haven for those seeking an open and respectful environment. 

Ebi, one of the organisers of Swear It Out, noted in an interview with NightOut that the goal was to establish “an open safe space where we don’t care about what you do with it, as long as you respect it.” These events offered a rare sense of safety and community in a city where public queerness often attracts harassment or violence. 

“When Group Therapy first started, it was magical. You could dance how you wanted, kiss who you wanted, and nobody would bat an eye,” says Tope, a 28-year-old non-binary artist who remembers those early days fondly. “Now, it feels like people are watching us, judging us. It’s like we’ve become part of the entertainment instead of the community.” 

Globally, queer communities have faced similar battles to protect their spaces. In Berlin, for instance, the WHOLE Festival—a queer electronic music event—was created to reclaim and protect queer spaces. 

A DJ performing at WHOLE told DJ Mag in 2022, “It’s such a different feeling to party without this low-level anxiety of assault, which is very prevalent in cis spaces. Just being able to wear whatever I want or not wear whatever I want, and walk around and hear songs that I have played before in my sets, I was like, ‘These people get it!’” 

Such initiatives demonstrate how intentional, community-driven events can preserve queer spaces in the face of mainstream encroachment. In Lagos, many queer attendees have noticed a shift in atmosphere as more non-queer Alté participants enter these circles. 

“I was at Group Therapy last month and it felt different,” says Dara, a 26-year-old lesbian filmmaker. “There were so many people who weren’t queer, and the energy was off. I danced with my girlfriend, and I could feel eyes on us. It was very different. Very weird.”

The growing presence of heterosexual individuals in these spaces has further complicated matters. While some are genuine allies, others bring behaviours that disrupt the safety these events were meant to guarantee. 

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Ayo, a long-time attendee, recounts an incident involving a friend at  Group Therapy. “She was just trying to dance, and this guy kept touching her. When she told him to stop, he laughed and said she should loosen up. She hasn’t come back since.” 

Stories like this are increasingly common. Many queer people now avoid EDM spaces altogether, feeling their once-reliable sanctuaries have been compromised, leaving them isolated and alienated. 

“These spaces used to be the one place where we could let go of the stress of living in Lagos as queer people,” says Ayo. “Now, a lot of us don’t even bother going anymore. It’s just not worth it.” 

This sentiment is echoed by others who feel that the mainstreaming of queer aesthetics within Alté culture has diluted their significance. It brings the question: how can queer and Alté communities coexist without one overshadowing the other? 

For Ayo, the answer is in intentionality. “We need to reclaim our spaces. That doesn’t mean shutting people out, but it does mean being deliberate about who we centre. If an event is for queer people, it should feel like it’s for queer people.”

Others, like Dara, suggest creating more exclusive queer-only events while maintaining spaces for broader interaction. “We’re not necessarily being exclusionary,” she says. “It’s preservation. We need places where we can breathe without worrying about who’s watching.”

During a recent interview with Zara, an Alté artist and vocal ally, she acknowledged the need for balance. “I get it,” she says. “I can see how the lines between Alté and queer spaces are starting to blur, but we need to remember why these spaces exist in the first place. For us Alternatives, it’s more of creative freedom, but for the queer community, it’s about safety and belonging. We can’t just show up and claim inclusivity without understanding that history. It’s on us to support, not overshadow. But I also think there’s room for both communities. We’re all breaking boundaries and being ourselves. Isn’t that what these spaces are about?”

As Tope puts it, “We don’t need walls around our spaces. We just need to know that when we walk in, it’s still ours.”

Edited/Reviewed by Richie Wills, Samuel Banjoko, Caleb Okereke, Awom Kenneth, Sarah Etim and Uzoma Ihejirika.