Representational Issues of Homosexuality in African Literature and Film

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The representation of homosexuality in African literature and cultural production has long been fraught with tension, stereotype, and ideological contestation. While homosexual practices have historically existed in various African societies, their literary and cultural portrayals often reduce same-sex desire to symbols of political corruption, social decay, or moral failure. Over time, however, shifts in critical consciousness and creative expression have begun to challenge these narrow depictions, paving the way for more nuanced and sympathetic representations.

This article explores how homosexuality has been represented in African literature and film, focusing on early negative and monothematic portrayals, subsequent critical re-readings of canonical texts, and the emergence of more positive depictions in contemporary cultural production.

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Homosexuality as Exploitation in African Literature

Chris Dunton’s influential survey of homosexuality in African literature highlights how most works depict homosexual characters in a monothematic way. In such portrayals, homosexuality is not treated as a valid form of identity or desire but is instead reduced to an allegory of exploitation or social failure.

Examples include:

• Ayi Kwei Armah’s Two Thousand Seasons (1973) – Homosexuality between Africans and Arabs is portrayed as exploitative, tied to colonial domination.
• J.P. Clark-Bekederemo’s The Raft (1964) – Homosexual encounters with Europeans are represented as alienating and morally reprehensible.
• Camara Laye’s A Dream of Africa (Dramouss) (1966) – African students in Europe experience homosexuality as a form of dislocation and exploitation.

These early works reflect a broader postcolonial anxiety in which homosexuality was framed as foreign, unnatural, and harmful to African identity.

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Negative Portrayals of Indigenous Practices

When African writers did represent indigenous, traditionally sanctioned same-sex practices, they too were often coded negatively:

• Wole Soyinka’s Season of Anomy (1973) – Features a Zaki (head of a Muslim court) who desires boys, linking homosexuality with political corruption and repression.
• Mariama Bâ’s Scarlet Song (1981) – Introduces an effeminate young man, labeled gor djiguene (man-woman), who is depicted as a social failure in the eyes of his community.

In both cases, same-sex desire is framed not as legitimate but as symptomatic of societal decline.

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Complex Associations of Desire and Disintegration

Some African texts complicate this negative tradition by associating homosexuality with both creativity and psychological instability.

• Bessie Head’s A Question of Power (1973) – Explores same-sex desire alongside themes of madness, power, and creative imagination.
• Calixthe Beyala’s It is the Sun that Burned Me (1987) – Engages lesbian desire but links it with social disintegration, blending empowerment with instability.

These portrayals neither wholly condemn nor fully celebrate homosexuality, but they show its potential to disrupt conventional social narratives.

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Re-Reading Canonical Texts: Ambiguity and Critical Complicity

As critical perspectives evolve, scholars are re-examining canonical African texts to uncover more nuanced possibilities of homoerotic representation.

A key example is Yambo Ouologuem’s Bound to Violence (1968). While the novel portrays a world saturated with incest, rape, and bestiality, one relationship stands apart: that between Raymond Kassoumi, a young African, and Lambert, a Frenchman. Despite stereotypes of the predatory European, Ouologuem presents this relationship with tenderness and affection—qualities absent in other sexual encounters in the novel.

Earlier critics, trapped in homophobic assumptions, dismissed this relationship as equally violent simply because it was homosexual. Newer readings, however, reveal its potential as a counter-narrative, forcing us to confront not only textual ambiguities but also the complicity of criticism itself in perpetuating anti-homosexual readings.

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Shifts in Representation: Literature and Film

Two key developments mark the shift toward more inclusive and positive portrayals:

1. Self-representation by African sexual minorities – Underground presses, essays, poems, and short stories are increasingly documenting same-sex lives with nuance and authenticity.
2. Emergence of sympathetic film portrayals – Cinema has become a powerful medium for challenging stereotypes and humanizing homosexual identities.

Dakan (Destiny, 1997)

Often cited as the first feature film on homosexuality in sub-Saharan Africa, Dakan tells the story of two Guinean schoolboys, Manga and Sori, whose parents attempt to separate them. The film captures the social pressures against same-sex love, but its final ambiguous scene—where the reunited lovers drive off together—leaves open the possibility of hope and resistance in a censuring world.

Woubi Chéri (Darling Woubi, 1998)

This documentary from Côte d’Ivoire is groundbreaking for its internal perspective on queer subcultures in Abidjan. Introducing terms like woubi (male “wife”), yossi (male “husband”), and toussou bakari (lesbian), the film provides a vocabulary for African sexual minorities to define themselves on their own terms. Unlike earlier depictions, Woubi Chéri centers pride, community, and visibility.

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Conclusion

The representational history of homosexuality in African literature and culture reveals a shift from reductionist negativity to emerging inclusivity. Earlier portrayals cast homosexuality as foreign, exploitative, or symptomatic of failure, but critical re-readings and new cultural productions complicate this narrative.

The rise of films like Dakan and Woubi Chéri, alongside underground queer literature, demonstrates that African artists and communities are actively reshaping how sexuality is represented. This not only challenges entrenched stereotypes but also signals the urgency of recognizing diverse sexual identities as part of Africa’s cultural fabric.

As representation evolves, it becomes increasingly clear that African literature and film are not simply sites of repression but also of possibility—spaces where alternative sexualities can claim visibility, dignity, and complexity.