I’ve always been a strong, straight man.
As a toddler, I barely cried. I loved breast milk. I took it exclusively until I was three. My favourite colour has always been blue—navy blue. I preferred football to cartoons. I hated cartoons. By 15, I could hold live chickens, start the generator on the first try, and wash my dad’s car all by myself. My uncle said I was already more of a man than many grown-ups. My friends called me “King Kong.” Life was good.
Then puberty hit. And hormones kicked in. But I was ready. As a strong, straight man, I took matters into my own hands. I knew my happiness was in them. Then one day, mid-happiness, it hit me: What if my penis gets used to the grip of a strong man’s hand? Yes, my own hand, but still. A man’s hand. What if it starts preferring strength over softness?
I jumped off the bed and stood in front of the mirror. I didn’t look gay. My thoughts were straight. I struck a pose, flexed my muscles, even twerked a bit just to be sure. Nothing moved.
But still… something shifted.
I panicked. I had to protect my masculinity. I stopped eating bananas and replaced them with uncooked yam. I gave all my yellow and purple shirts to my sister. I sat with my knees at a 180-degree angle. I changed my laugh to a grunt and even stopped using lotion.
But all of that still didn’t prepare me for what came next.
They say an idle mind is the devil’s workshop. Last March, I was home alone. My parents had travelled. The weather was perfect, and that’s when the devil sent in temptation.
At first, I fought it. I started doing push-ups.
Forty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one.
Still, it lingered.
Eventually, I gave in. I went to the kitchen. Brought out a knife. Grabbed an onion. Started chopping. I cried, but I didn’t stop.
Next thing I knew, I was peeling a yam. Slicing tomatoes. Frying eggs. Arranging the plates where they ought to be. I even cleaned the slab. I tasted the egg sauce. It was wonderful.
And that’s when it hit me.
I enjoyed this.
Worse… I wanted to do it again.
I panicked. Called my guy. Told him I was feeling strange. That I had just made yam and egg sauce.
He went quiet. Then he asked, “Did you add onions?”
I said yes.
He hung up.
I called back. Told him I was joking. That I was bored. He seemed relieved. We laughed. I hung up. I cried again. This time not from the onion, but shame.
I had spent years deepening my voice, memorising bro codes, and practising anger. And now egg sauce? Was I still a man? What’s next? Having a skincare routine? Believing emotions are valid? Therapy? Crying in public?
Since that day, I’ve gone to church every Sunday. I pray, fast, and ask God to remove this strange spirit of accurate seasoning. Last week, the pastor asked what spirit I wanted to cast out. I whispered, “Cooking.” He looked taken aback but simply said, “Hmm, well, no problem is too big for God.”
I’m just 18. If this gets out, I’m finished. They’ll stop calling me “Jide” and start calling me “Chef J.” Whenever I feel tempted to do “it”, I slap my chest and scream, “NA MAN YOU BE!” But I know it’s only a matter of time. Last night, I scrolled past a creamy pasta recipe video. I watched it… and mistakenly saved it.
I am not gay. I’m sure of it. But this? This is worse.
I think I might be a woman.
Ameenat Ayodimeji is a creative writer and law student.
