By Kumenjue Nimely
I’ve lived and seen it all.
The protests. The clandestine meetings. The joy of finding community, even if only in shadows. The heartbreak of betrayal. The sting of rejection. The empty bed at night.
Still, the silence echoes loudest.
Loneliness is a b!tch. And for a gay man in Liberia, it’s a relentless companion, one that arrives uninvited and overstays its welcome.
Most people think survival means you’re fine. That once you’ve endured the worst (being outed, disowned, stalked by rumors, chased by mobs), you’ve somehow grown immune to the ache. But nothing toughens you for the type of emptiness that curls around your chest at 2 a.m., when you’re staring at the ceiling, wondering if love is something you’ll only ever write about.
It’s the kind of loneliness that makes you lie in conversations. You pretend to be busy. You say, “I’m good.” You say you’re focusing on work. That you’ve grown past needing companionship. All while your heart mourns for the love you’ve never known, and the arms you’ve never fallen asleep in.
Here in Liberia, being gay means being in constant performance mode. You’re always on edge, always protecting your heart, your body, your truth. Because even your sadness is political. Your grief is suspect. You can’t afford to be vulnerable when your very existence has been deemed a mistake, a sin, an un-African anomaly.
So you walk with your head high, you laugh a little louder, and you carry yourself like rejection doesn’t sting. But when the doors close and the lights go out, the performance comes to an end. And the silence (God, the silence) is deafening.
I’ve had love. Or what felt like it. Sweet beginnings that quickly turned sour the moment reality crept in. A neighbor asks too many questions. A coworker starts to stare. Suddenly, the man who once texted “good morning, sunshine” stops replying altogether. The risk is too high. And you’re left there, halfway between heartbreak and understanding. Because in Liberia, love isn’t just risky. It’s damn near forbidden.
And yet, people ask, “Why don’t you just leave?” As if love or safety is just a plane ticket away. As if home is something you can discard because it doesn’t love you back.
I stay because this is my soil, too. My flag, my people, my truth. And I believe we’re worth fighting for, even when that fight feels like shouting into the void.
journalRAGE was built to amplify the voices of those like me. They tell the stories that others want to erase. They archive queer resistance, joy, pain, and possibility. But behind the headlines and hashtags, there’s a reality that they don’t always say out loud:
Even the most visible among us are lonely.
We’re praised for our bravery but go home to empty beds. We’re invited to speak on panels but rarely invited to be loved. People respect our work, applaud our resilience, but don’t stick around when the curtain drops.
I don’t want to be resilient anymore. I want to be held.
I want soft, public, inconvenient, beautiful love. I want someone to share silence with, not because there’s nothing to say, but because their presence is enough. I want to cook for someone who isn’t afraid to call me “babe” out loud. I want to bring someone home, not as a “friend,” but as mine.
But I live in Liberia.
So I write. I vent. I talk with others who are walking this same lonely path. We trade survival tips. We laugh to keep from crying. We dream of escaping, of building lives elsewhere—places where our love won’t have to hide behind fake names and coded emojis.
Yet even in those group chats, the loneliness lingers.
Because truth be told, no one can truly hold your heart unless they’re allowed to hold your hand.
I don’t want pity. I don’t need a savior. I just want people to understand that surviving is not the same as living. And for many queer Liberians, we’ve mastered the art of surviving. Now we’re daring to dream of more.
Sometimes I picture a different Liberia. One where queer love isn’t whispered or hidden or exiled. A Liberia where two men can walk down Carey Street holding hands and no one bats an eye. Where kids grow up seeing reflections of themselves in love stories, not cautionary tales.
Maybe one day.
Until then, I carry on—wounded but walking, lonely but alive. And that, too, is a kind of hope.
Because even in a country that refuses to hold space for us, we keep showing up. We keep breathing. We keep loving, even when it’s dangerous to do so.
Loneliness is a b!tch. But she hasn’t won yet.
About the author: Kumenjue Nimely lives and works in Monrovia at a government agency.