I faced the death penalty because I was gay, but I was unsafe in Britain too

The moment I received a positive decision on my asylum claim, I nearly collapsed with joy.

It was 2018 and I’d already spent 13 years in the UK. Finally, I felt safe after years of danger and uncertainty.

Since I was a teenager, I knew I was attracted to women but I suppressedmy feelings. In my home country in Africa, people believe being LGBTQ+ is unacceptable. We face widespread discrimination and abuse – in public and within our own families.

But living with this secret felt claustrophobic. I was hiding who I really was. 

I eventually married a man because it was expected of me. But it never felt right.

When I was in my 40s, I met a woman at work. We started an affair, meeting up whenever we could. I’d never felt so happy. 

Unfortunately, after a few months we were caught by my husband who came home early when I wasn’t expecting him. He was so angry. Both our careers were at risk. Our lives were at risk.

Desperate for her own name to be expunged, the woman I loved told her employers I’d forced her into the relationship. She threatened to report me to the police.

If this were to happen, I’d lose my job, and could potentially be killed – by being stoned to death. 

I had to flee.

I had a cousin in the UK who’d visited me several times. I didn’t dare tell her anything, just that I wanted to come and see her for a little while.

She helped me to get a visitor visa and I flew into Heathrow in September 2005.

At first, things were OK.

She told her employers I’d forced her into the relationship. She threatened to report me to the police

But it wasn’t long before my cousin became authoritative. She made me work for her at her cleaning job, for no payment. She forced me sleep on the kitchen floor, kicking me in the morning to wake me. If I questioned her, she slapped me across the face.

In December 2005, she kicked me out after I had missed work. She opened the front door, threw my bags at me and demanded that I go. I felt hopeless.  

I wandered the streets, cold and alone. 

I only knew one other person in the area, a woman who lived on the same street. She’d smile or stop and chat to me when we passed each other. 

So, plucking up my courage, I knocked on her door. I told her my story and she said I could stay with her for a couple of days until her family arrived for Christmas. 

But once those days were up, I had to leave, although she did give me £20 and some clothing to take with me. 

I had no idea where I’d stay. Thankfully, through visiting African shops and my church, I managed to find other people who’d let me sleep on a couch or spare bed in exchange for cleaning and childcare. Occasionally, the kind pastor from my church would let me stay with him. 

I wandered for years around London, just trying to find places to stay. Sometimes I’d have to sleep on the bus or outside in the park. Although it was an awful existence, it was paradise compared to what I’d be facing in my own country.

I bumped into my cousin five years after she’d thrown me out. I heard her before I saw her. ‘You can run, but you can’t hide,’ she said in my language. She accused me of stealing from her because I’d lived with her for free.  

She then forced me onto a bus and took me to the police station, where she told officers I’d overstayed my visa. 

They put me in custody, took my DNA, then handed me over to an immigration officer. 

From that moment, I had to ‘sign on’ and report to the Home Office every two weeks from 2010 until 2015, while continuing to work with my lawyer to avoid deportation. I continued to move from place to place with nowhere to call home. 

In November 2015, I went to sign on and was told I would be sent to Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre to await deportation. I was terrified. 

I was put in a white van and driven for hours until we arrived in the middle of the night. All I remember was gate after gate after gate. 

For five weeks, I mainly sat in my room, which I shared with another woman. Every 30 minutes, guards would check on us. They knocked on the door, then walked in. Often we were undressed when they entered. 

The food was terrible. I remember having either chicken thighs and sweetcorn with no sauce, or chicken drumsticks and mashed potato. The portion sizes were tiny, and my stomach constantly rumbled with hunger. But we were never allowed seconds. They’d throw the rest of the food out instead. 

We were allowed to work, so I helped in the kitchen. I was paid £1 an hour. 

And still, no one knew about my sexuality. I hid it in Africa, and felt I had to hide it in the UK as well. I felt like I’d never be able to be myself. 

I was given a female lawyer while in detention and for the first time, I told someone about my sexuality as a reason for fleeing my country. I was told I could claim asylum, something I’d never known was a possibility. 

I was put in a white van and driven for hours until we arrived in the middle of the night. All I remember was gate after gate after gate

Released from detention while my asylum claim was being processed, I slept in Heathrow airport and sofa-surfed for a further three years. 

I had migraines, depression, and was having flashbacks to all the trauma I’d been through. It was a terrible time. But I was like a dead goat. No amount of kicking could hurt me more anymore. 

Several times, my claim was refused, so I appealed. Then, three years after my initial application, in 2018, I received a positive decision. I could finally breathe.  

Five years later, I’m still recovering. I’m on antidepressants and am frequently triggered. 

I work two hours a day cleaning and involve myself in lots of charity work. I still rely on charities to support me, so I like to give back where I can.   

Unfortunately, I still keep my sexuality quiet for the most part but I have come out to women who are part of Women for Refugee Women’s Rainbow Sisters. 

Rainbow Sisters is a safe and welcoming space for women like me. We’re all members of the LGBTQ+ community and we have all had to seek safety. They’re my family. 

To finally feel safe, when for so long all you have felt is danger, is like paradise. 

I can only hope one day I’ll be able to live freely as myself, and that I’ll find love. 

As told to Lauren Crosby Medlicott. The name of the author has been changed to protect their identity.

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