Coming Out Queer in Kenya Has Led to A Life of Activism
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hen Chris Muriithi (they/them) woke up to a stream of messages and missed calls one morning six years ago, their blood ran cold. Their foreboding grew into trepidation when they realized why everyone was reaching out: they had been outed as gay and the news was trending online.
In the years that followed, Muriithi shuttled between fear that their identity would open them up to attack in a country where same-sex activity is criminalized, grief at some family and friends distancing themselves over the news, and anxiety over how the revelations would affect their daily life. Many LGBTQ+ people in Kenya remain in the closet for fear of being ostracised or facing reprisals, such as losing work or being kicked out of their homes.
“[Being outed] exposed me to the realities many people in the community face, where your identity is used as a weapon against you,” says Muriithi, who decided to go public as gay and non-binary on their own terms in a 2021 TedTalk.
“It was letting people in and saying ‘this is who I am’,” says Muriithi, a decision they say helped them find a community of peers and allies.
Three years after the TedTalk, Muriithi, as an LGBTQ+ activist and one of Kenya’s few openly queer figures, has become an outspoken advocate for the community, speaking on issues such as harassment, violence, cyberbullying, and work, school, or health discrimination.
Two years ago they launched the Queer & Allied Chamber of Commerce Africa (QACC), a platform that supports queer-owned ventures to access funding and inclusive markets. A joint venture with two African LGBTQ+ entrepreneurs, the aim is to help build the continent’s “pink economy” – the economic power of LGBTQ+ people – and increase social and political inclusion.
“It’s LinkedIn meets eBay for queer entrepreneurs to trade their services to the community and allies across Africa,” says Muriithi from their flat on the outskirts of Nairobi, as they discuss logistics with the entrepreneurs for the next “market day” – pop-up fairs where community members promote their services or buy goods.
Anti-LGBTQ+ laws and sentiment in many African countries marginalise openly identifying people by keeping them from full access to work, education, healthcare and travel. According to the Open for Business consortium, discrimination against LGBTQ+ people in Kenya costs the country up to £800m a year.
There are roughly 1.3 million LGBTQ+ people in Kenya, according to estimates from Galck+ (formerly known as the Gay and Lesbian Coalition of Kenya), though official figures are unavailable. QACC hopes to leverage and track the African LGBTQ+ community’s economic capacity and influence through the platform, which is now expanding to South Africa, to push for governments to stop sidelining this demographic.
Muriithi, who only ever saw other queer people on western TV shows growing up, believes that the lack of visibility of African queer people in film, documentaries, music and art helps to keep the community on the margins, and is working to change that through their LGBTQ+ storytelling platform, Bold Network Africa. The organisation runs LGBTQ+ events, has partnered with fashion brands to launch gender-fluid collections, and trains corporate organisations in workplace inclusivity.
Living as an openly queer person in Kenya has meant that the personal is often the political for Muriithi, but it has not always felt that way. Growing up on a farm in Nakuru, in Kenya’s Great Rift Valley, their identity was never brought into question. Parents and friends simply viewed them as a “tomboy” for wanting to play cops and robbers, or for preferring safari boots and trousers to dresses through their teens. Even when Muriithi was suspended from high school for writing love letters to a girl, their parents only chided them for not focusing on their studies. Muriithi did not dwell on why their parents never broached the subject, wondering in passing whether they may not have “had the language” to do so, or if it was the kind of quiet acceptance their parents’ generation could offer.
The suspension, however, was an awakening for Muriithi. “It was the first time I understood that I had different feelings to the other people, and that those feelings were frowned upon.”
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After leaving rural life for the Kenyan capital, Nairobi, at the age of 19, Muriithi met more LGBTQ+ people, and faced more scrutiny over their identity. At university, their romantic interests raised eyebrows, and at church they faced stares and gossip over their gender and sexual identity. They agonised over decisions such as what to wear to a friend’s wedding, unable to wrap their head around wearing a dress, yet unsure a suit would meet social expectations.
They joined a theatre, which was relatively gender fluid and rebellious against societal norms, where they got scouted for a popular TV drama called Tahidi High and gained a following. While they enjoyed acting, their dreams of a career were tempered by offers of roles that did not align with their gender identity. They ventured into journalism and were working as a journalist for an international outlet when they were outed. While social progress is slow and painful, Muriithi is optimistic. The queer community is more visible now thanks to organizations such as Galck+, and major countrywide protests.
“I think about how it was 10 years ago when I came to Nairobi, [LGBTQ+] people would be killed and the courts would do nothing,” they say. That’s changing. Late last year, a man was convicted for the murder and sexual assault of a non-binary lesbian, Sheila Lumumba, in 2022.
“Sheila Lumumba’s case sends a message to society [that LGBTQ+ lives matter], so we are seeing progress in the justice system, and while it’s extremely heartbreaking that we lost a life for that to happen, there is progress.”
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The discrimination can take a mental toll, says Muriithi, who keeps a rigorous self-care routine: morning gardening and intense CrossFit workouts. Yet they are also aware that they live a privileged life compared with many others in Kenya’s LGBTQ+ community, with a home in a secure neighborhood, bodyguards on nights out, and a lawyer at hand when their activism lands them in trouble.
Sitting among a circle of friends in their outdoor yard, a married couple remembers agonizing over Muriithi’s decision to come out and reminisce about what life has been like since – from learning not to misgender them, to finding LGBTQ+ friendly places to hang out, and conversations with their kids who no longer call Muriithi “aunt” or “uncle” but simply “friend”.
“I’m not there when they [my friends] are answering questions [about me], but they go ahead and create an accepting environment,” says Muriithi. “But I also don’t overthink it. The thing about being queer is that you have to show up to let people know – I’m here.”
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