medium sizeThe early years in Nigeria were difficult. From a young age I knew I was different. At school, I was bullied mercilessly for being LGBT+. Where I grew up, there were no annual celebrations of difference, but I’ve attended Pride events in London and the US and know how impactful it can be to show young people that being LGBT+ is nothing to be ashamed of.
In 2019, I launched Nigeria’s first month-long Pride protests in Lagos and Abuja. But soon after, I realized I had been designated a person of interest by the government. It was no longer safe for me to stay in Nigeria and in November 2019 I came to the UK to escape persecution.
I arrived a few months before the first Covid lockdown and didn’t realize how much my life was going to change. I was taken to the detention center and my phone was confiscated. I was held there for five days without any meaningful contact with the outside world. I was bullied and sexually assaulted by other detainees. The Home Office gave me a stupid mobile phone to make calls and send text messages. But I couldn’t access the internet with it – I was completely isolated.
I went from being a rich man in Nigeria to having nothing. When I left the center I became homeless. I access the internet wherever I can find it – at McDonald’s and the library. Apparently this was unreliable, so for a while I couldn’t email my lawyer or ask for help. I can’t afford my phone bill or my broadband connection. And I had a bad cell phone battery at the time, so I was always out of battery.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, things got worse. You can’t see anyone face to face. Everything has to be online. But entire sections of society are unable to connect with anyone. How would you call someone or contact a charity without a phone or internet? How do I join a support group on Zoom if I don’t have digital access? At the time I was receiving £39 a week from the government and was unable to work while my asylum application was being processed.
When you live in poverty, you have to decide whether to feed yourself or pay for the internet. Going online may sound like a luxury – but think about how people now access GP services, report crime and file their taxes. Everything is done digitally.
I thought England would be some kind of utopia, but it’s not. I’ve been through a lot of hardships since I first came here, and I’m still living in temporary accommodation. My asylum application was approved in 2020, but the denial of my digital rights is still with me today. The charity Safe Passage has been arranging free SIM cards for me and other Safe Passage Young Leaders for many years.
Last week when I tried to register at a new GP surgery I was told to register online. It makes me angry at all those people who have been in my situation and been excluded from services. Not even just us asylum seekers and refugees. British people born here face the same problem. The digital divide is real – affecting large swaths of the population. Poverty is its root cause.
Becoming a refugee does not solve all problems. I am still a person of color and an LGBT+ person. Sadly, I feel probably less safe here than I did in Nigeria. At least there I was a rich man. But at the same time, I’m grateful that I’m still here. Things could have gone very differently for me. In the same detention center where I was held, Oscar Okwurime, a Nigerian, died of a subarachnoid hemorrhage. An inquest jury found negligence caused his death. I often think about how different our lives are.