Tuning into queerness: How I found my identity with music
- From writing parody songs as an escape from bullying in secondary school to falling in love with ArchAndroid’s Cindi Mayweather and its themes of love, oppression, and freedom, Raldie Young explores how music has helped him acknowledge his very own experience.
I have never really thought of myself as a queer artist. As a matter of fact, I had a lot to learn about my queerness as much as I had to about music. I started out writing parody songs in boarding school as a means of distracting myself from the trauma of being called a big mouth or a big head or a homo by other students. Other students except Eric. He was a good guy and we’d listen to countdown radio shows together and have impromptu jam sessions. It wasn’t until I created the persona Raldie Young and later dropped out of my first university degree program that I slowly started using music as my journal for documenting my feelings and experiences with the world around me.
I did not have a lot of queer musicians to look up to as a kid. My dad had records of Elton John and Wham! but I never learned about their identities as queer people until several years later as a teenager entering young adulthood in an Internet Age.
I would later discover the masterpiece The ArchAndroid (2010) by African-American musician Janelle Monáe. Their identity as queer and non-binary wasn’t public knowledge at the time, but they stole my attention with this concept album and its parent series subtitled Metropolis. In this series, they take up the persona of a human-looking android named Cindi Mayweather, performing songs about love, oppression, and freedom. In interviews promoting the series of albums, they have described the android as a metaphor for “the other” as it applies to black people, women and/or queer people. Through my younger sister, I was also introduced to the man that is Frank Ocean. It was refreshing to see a black queer male artist challenging the norms of Black masculinity and homophobia in hip-hop with an album like channel ORANGE.
Just as much as I had a love for music by artists in other countries, I was also interested in the music made by Nigerian artists. Over time, however, I found myself getting very sceptical about the Nigerian music industry, particularly because of how a culture of toxicity and homophobia has shaped our society in general. Even before the increasing awareness of homophobic laws in the continent, the works and identities of queer artists have often been concealed, which would explain why I didn’t know much about the existence of Area Scatter – a trans feminine music artist from Eastern Nigeria of the 1970s – not without stumbling on that short video of her playing the thumb piano at a king’s palace.
It could also explain why, up until a few years ago, I was unaware of Brenda Fassie’s identity as a lesbian – and she gave a young Nigerian boy like me the earworm we know as “Vuli Ndlela.” I still have images of some of her music videos stuck in my memory.
I wouldn’t have known representation without encountering people who had similar experiences to mine, or at the very least, acknowledged my very own experience.
This one time I played the demo version of my unreleased debut album for a well-known Nigerian rapper who now calls himself “The Guy,” his response was short and simple: “Leave this country.” My music is often described as “not Nigerian” by listeners who give me their attention. Depending on who you ask, it could be a compliment or the opposite. Regardless, I can’t help but see the irony in being dismissed as “not Nigerian” by a society that also consumes “un-Nigerian” content.
I remember when one of my aunts called me to talk about my profile on the OneBeat Virtual Music Fellowship website. She was particularly curious about the fact that I described myself as queer. I remember explaining to her that it has multiple meanings that perfectly describe me. Within the context of living in Lagos and spending some time in the Eastern part of Nigeria as a product of divorced parents – an Igbo father and an Ibibio mother – while having a condition known as Attention Deficit Hypersensitivity Disorder (ADHD), amidst other issues plaguing the country like tribalism, sexism, poor physical and mental healthcare, and limited access to information and basic social amenities, there is very little room for any Nigerian to function, especially a Nigerian like me.
It is more than just a coincidence that some of the stories I tell in my songs are relatable to diverse audiences: queers and non-queers alike.
I wrote the songs “Talk True” and “UNCOOL” based on my complicated relationship with my father which has been impacted by societal expectations and norms. My recurring struggle with body dysmorphia from my boarding school years into adulthood would later inspire the song “0700-MCM-CASPER.” Did I mention that out of all the songs in my mixtape Songs From My Bedroom, my openly heterosexual cousin says that “ArkAngel” is his favourite? A love song from a human-alien hybrid to his one-time boyfriend?
Intersectionality has always been just as important in art as it is to social discourse, considering that art in itself is an extension of the artist. As a music lover, it helps to unveil the multiple layers that make up a person’s identity. Take, for instance, the title song of Temmie Ovwasa’s album E Be Like Say Dem Swear For Me. The song talks about the struggles that come with being born into a broken system and its impact on our mental, social and economic well-being. This is something that a lot of Nigerians can relate to: queer or not. The rest of the songs on this album explicitly talk about queer love, sex, and the persistent struggles of fitting into a society with an extremely problematic foundation.
I had the opportunity to collaborate with Yéla (an underground artist that I was a huge fan of) in his sophomore album Existence Resistance and one of the songs titled “Spectrum” uses the metaphor of colour to address prejudice as it affects various demographics including those based on race and sexuality.
Works like these help to re-emphasize the common struggles we have as a human race in modern times while acknowledging my very own existence.
Although my approach to presenting queerness in my work is not so overt, I have had the opportunity to listen to the works of other African music artists in favour of the LGBTQ+ community in Nigeria and across Africa.
Ghanaian trans music artist Angel Maxine released the song “Wo Fie” in collaboration with fellow Ghanaian artists Wanlov the Kubolor and Sister Deborah in support of the #KillTheBill campaign against the homophobic laws to be passed in Ghana including but not limited to the criminalisation of LGBTQ+ advocacy. This song was released in 2021 and quickly gained popularity among the West African LGBTQ community on social media.
In the song “Hypocrite,” Nigerian musician, lawyer and human rights activist Falz addresses the hypocrisy in Nigerian society while asking fellow Nigerians who they are to “judge the homosexual.”
So far, I have found strength in a small community of open-minded music lovers who encourage me to keep making the music that I want to make. In the process of trying to build an audience for my music, I discovered that I gained the interest of a small number of queer people in Nigeria. It occurred to me over time that a lot of queers find escape in the arts and fashion, just like I do. With the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was able to gain access to queer spaces via virtual pride events. This was how I got contacted by Lucid Lemons and later on by QueerCity Media to perform at the maiden edition of Glow Up Pride.
In 2021, I was invited to perform an opening sequence for an Electronic Dance Music festival in Lagos called Sweat It Out. This festival has always maintained a zero-discrimination policy, making it a safe space for queer folks.
Another highlight of my career would be my recent performance at another QueerCity Media event: the 2023 Pride In Lagos opening party. I would later share clips of this performance on TikTok. A lot of queer users were both surprised to find out that there was a queer event happening in Lagos and sad that they never got a chance to attend the event, indicating that there is a need for queer-friendly spaces that offer entertainment and leisure.
In a future where the rights and safety of queer people are ensured by state actors and citizens, queer artists would be further encouraged to make music that is honest to their lived experiences, adding to the diversity of the African experience while embracing our commonalities as a continent.
This can be made possible by repealing laws that threaten the security of LGBTQ+ lives in Africa and enforcing anti-discrimination measures in favour of queer people. In combination with socio-economic reforms that benefit the common good of the diverse citizenry, this would cause a ripple effect, creating a more favourable environment for openly queer artists to thrive.
To further nurture queer talents among us, it would also be vital to provide mentorship programs, artist residencies and grants to fund music projects by queer artists. TIERs Nigeria recently launched the Media Advocacy Project, a mentorship program aimed at empowering LGBTQ+ creatives in Nigeria that I was also fortunate to participate in. OneBeat Music Fellowship, although not catering to exclusively queer artists, has also assisted not just me, but Umlilo: a trans musician and AI enthusiast from Johannesburg, South Africa. Similarly, the Prince Claus Fund offers grants for artistic projects by creatives of various nationalities and identities. I have also been honoured to take part in the Goethe Talents Program, which provides collaborative and networking opportunities for artists. Thanks to them, I was inspired to make the music project BAHN.
Maybe I’m a queer artist or maybe I’m just an artist who happens to be queer. It shouldn’t have to matter what I identify as because humanity has proven to be fluid and complex. However, I shouldn’t be silenced or shamed on account of what I identify as either. Sometime in the future, a young kid should be able to listen to my work and that of other amazing souls. While listening, they can either find solace in the fact that they’re not alone in being who they are or they can just listen for pure entertainment.
Edited by Caleb Okereke and Banjoko Samuel.
