When I left the U.S in July 2001 after a short stay, I didn’t know that I’d be back here as an asylee.

Back in 2001, I remember walking the streets in New York City and wondering how such a big city could fail to house its people. I visited a shelter, and I was shocked to realize that adults could find themselves in a situation where they have no place to go. Until then, I knew nobody in my country in the same situation. No matter how poor someone is, there will always be a friend or a relative to accommodate her or him. Unfortunately, nowadays, hospitality becomes a critical issue for gays and lesbians in Africa where my roots are.

Although I was shocked by homelessness in such a big city like New York, the excitement I got from talking to people was beyond words. Men and women who shared their life stories with me impressed me. They were Americans with a passion and vision for justice and equality. They were men and women to whom my sexuality was neither a threat nor a subject of curiosity.

I was back in my country before September 11, 2001, happy to meet family and friends again, but fearful because of the lack of hospitality for gays and lesbians. Although nobody there is parading as a gay or lesbian, the violence against us is blatant, but nobody names it. Nobody talks about it. Until then, I knew other lesbians who suffered physical abuses but really never thought of myself a potential target. At least, not in the ways that were about to be revealed to me. Then, the unexpected happened.

My activist work until then was mainly centered on women and sexual violence against them. As part of my involvement with women, I realized that many were/are victims of incest. I remember my college professor telling our class that incest was only common between white people. This false belief unfortunately is widespread, and the silence of the victims reinforces the assumption that African men are not as incestuous as other men. Some women victims in this case won’t speak because of the shame, but many are they who are just not able to. Leslie is one of them.

Leslie was born mentally retarded. She is almost blind. The technology that could restore her sight is neither available in her country nor affordable to her parents. She has no intelligible speech. Although she was ten years old when she was raped by her father, her IQ was less than that of a two-year-old child. With her, all the normalizing theories about rape fail. As a consequence of this failure, those who cannot speak for themselves need people to speak for them. I decided to sue her aggressor which resulted in an unprecedented trial in my country that changed my entire life.

One should expect that a matter such as this would be brought to court to be judged as a case of rape and incest. Instead, the defendant used my sexual orientation as his only argument: “She is a lesbian, she hates men!” That was enough to make me the target of the judiciary system. The corrupted magistrates shamefully violated the law to
accommodate my opponent. Neither the police nor the justice department was willing to protect me. Instead, I was illegally arrested and locked in a cell at the police station for one night with several men. For the first time, I felt like an alien in my own country. When I got out of that cell and I started receiving threats of death and then later a car ran over me, the seriousness of the matter became real to me. My life became impossible and I had no alternative than to flee because of my sexual orientation.

I turned to the U.S consulate in my country for help. I got my visa, and friends and people I did not know in the U.S raised money to cover my airfare. When I arrived back in the U.S., people I had never met welcomed me and provided a friendly space for me – as a woman and as a lesbian. My visa allowed me to stay for a short period of time. The U.S regulations on immigration gave me a year after my arrival to apply for asylum.

Richard Parkins, director of the Episcopal Migration Ministries, having heard of my case, invited me for lunch. He spent a whole day with me trying to gather relevant information that would help hasten the process of finding support. As a result of his research, he recommended me to a legal assistance organization that accepted my case pro bono. My lawyer and I were able to file for asylum a few months after my arrival. Exactly one year after my arrival in the U.S., my application for asylum was finally approved with its corollary benefits.

As I reflect upon my journey into exile, I count myself lucky to have known people and organizations that made my stay in the U.S enjoyable and safe. Going into exile can be very traumatic. To feel uprooted is painful. But people make all the difference and those I have to thank include the U.S. embassy in my country and the officials of the
Department of Immigration and Homeland Security for their discernment, Richard Parkins and Episcopal Migration Ministries, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, The Witness Magazine, The Order of St. Helena, Christ Church Episcopal (Poughkeepsie, New York), St. Elizabeth’s Franciscan Friary (Brooklyn), Sylvie Ndoonou, Mary and Harvey Flad and family, The Rev. Barbara Crafton, The Rev. Elizabeth Kaeton, Louie Crew, Ethan Flad, Cathia Sae, Nganoah V.Sylvie and many others that I love and cherish.