In Memory of Sheila Adhiambo Lumumba
Before going further, I want to remember Sheila Adhiambo Lumumba.
Sheila was a 25-year-old non-binary lesbian Kenyan whose life was tragically cut short in 2022.
Their name became known to many people because of the circumstances surrounding their death. Human Rights Watch documented concerns about the police response to the case and the treatment of Sheila's identity during the investigation. A man was later convicted of their murder.
But I do not want to remember Sheila only as a murder victim.
They were a person before they became a headline.
They had a family.
They had people who knew and loved them.
They had hopes, experiences, frustrations, friendships and a future that should have continued.
That matters.
Because one of the problems with conversations about queer people is that we can become so focused on the debate surrounding their identity that we forget there is an actual person behind it.
Sheila was not a debate.
They were not a political argument.
They were not a statistic.
They were a human being.
And that is why I dedicate this article to their memory.
Not because their death represents every queer person's experience in Kenya, and not because tragedy should be the only way we talk about queer lives.
Rather, I want to remember Sheila as a reminder of something much simpler:
Every queer person is a person before they are a label.
They deserve to be seen not only when they are harmed, but while they are living, dreaming, working, laughing, loving and building their lives.
May Sheila be remembered for the life they deserved to have, and not only for the way that life was taken from them.
In Kenya, being queer is still considered taboo by many people.
Even talking about it can feel like crossing a line that society has drawn for you.
People are judged, shunned, rejected and made to feel as though something about their existence is wrong.
But before we talk about the debates, the beliefs or the discomfort surrounding LGBTQ+ people, I want to make my own position clear.
I am not here to judge anyone.
I believe every person deserves to be treated with dignity, regardless of who they love, how they identify, what they look like or where they come from.
To me, a person's humanity matters far more than a label.
We are all human beings trying to find our way through life, and I believe there is room for all of us in this world.
This is not an attempt to tell anyone what they should believe.
It is an attempt to open a conversation about the people behind the label: their experiences, their fears, their courage, their relationships, their ambitions and what it can actually mean to be queer in Kenya.
What does it mean to be queer in Kenya?
Being queer in Kenya is not just about sexuality or gender identity.
For many LGBTQ+ Kenyans, it also means navigating family, religion, friendships, employment, housing, healthcare, the law and personal safety while carrying an identity that parts of society may reject.
Kenya's Penal Code still criminalises certain same-sex sexual conduct.Sections 162 and 165 of the Penal Code contain offences relating to same-sex conduct between men, with section 162 providing for a maximum sentence of 14 years in the circumstances specified by the law.
Kenyan courts have also considered constitutional challenges to these provisions.
At the same time, Kenyan courts have recognised important rights.
In 2023, the Supreme Court upheld the right of the National Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission to seek registration as an NGO. The case was significant because the organisation's registration had been opposed on grounds connected to sexual orientation.
That contradiction tells us something important about queer life in Kenya.
Legal progress and everyday reality do not always move at the same speed.
Research published by the African Population and Health Research Center in 2025 examined the lived experiences and public perceptions surrounding sexual and gender minorities in Kenya.
The research drew on a study covering Nairobi, Eldoret, Kisumu and Mombasa and examined experiences including stigma, discrimination, social exclusion, human rights abuses and access to services. (APHRC)
APHRC's research also examined the influence of social, religious and heteronormative expectations on LGBTQ+ people's lives.
These are not simply abstract statistics.
For some people, coming out can affect relationships with family.
others, discrimination can affect employment, housing, access to services or their willingness to seek help when something goes wrong.
APHRC's research found that social exclusion affects different areas of life, including economic, social and political participation. (APHRC)
A 2025 report by the Kenya Human Rights Commission and partner organisations documented more than 2,100 cases of violence, harassment and discrimination against sexual and gender minorities between October 2023 and September 2024.
The report recorded 682 cases of harassment, 440 physical assaults, 91 sexual assaults and 102 evictions. It also found that many of the alleged perpetrators were people known to survivors, including intimate partners, family members, clients and service providers. (Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC))
These numbers tell us something about the challenges that some LGBTQ+ Kenyans face.
But numbers cannot tell us everything.
Because behind every statistic is a person.
The story is not only about suffering.Another part of the queer experience in Kenya is the reality faced by LGBTQ+ refugees and asylum seekers in Kakuma Refugee Camp.
Kenya is the place they fled to after experiencing persecution, discrimination and threats because of who they are. Yet still arriving in the refugee camps did not guarantee them safety.
A 2024 study examining the experiences of queer displaced people in Kakuma documented accounts of discrimination, harassment, violence, threats and exclusion, while it also highlights the support networks queer refugees have built among themselves.
They created spaces where they could find community, support one another and cope with the challenges of life in the camp.
Their experiences are a reminder that there is no single queer experience in Kenya. For some people, the struggle is about being accepted by family or society; for others, it is about finding safety after already having been forced to leave home.
This is where conversations about LGBTQ+ life can become complicated.
When we discuss queer people in Kenya, the conversation often centres around discrimination, criminalisation and violence.
They should not be ignored.
But there is also a danger in telling the story only through suffering.
Queer Kenyans are not simply victims of discrimination.
They are people with friendships, families, careers, businesses, ambitions and ordinary routines.
They fall in love.
They laugh.
They go to work.
They worry about money.
They argue with their partners.
They celebrate birthdays.
They make plans for the future.
They create art.
They build communities.
They live.
That part of the story matters too.
When cinema gives people a voice
Kenyan LGBTQ+ cinema provides an interesting way of looking at these experiences.
One of the clearest examples is Stories of Our Lives, an anthology film created by The Nest Collective.
The project began as an effort to document stories from people identifying as gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and intersex in Kenya. The collective collected hundreds of stories before adapting some of them into five short films based on real experiences. (The Nest Collective)
The film became internationally recognised, but its journey in Kenya was much more complicated.
The individual filmmakers initially kept their names off the film's credits because of concerns about the potential risks of being publicly associated with the project.
The Kenya Film Classification Board later banned the film from public exhibition in Kenya, citing objections to its content. The film's executive producer, George Gachara, was also arrested over the production of the film, although the charges were later dropped. (Jim Chuchu)
The controversy demonstrated just how difficult it could be to tell queer stories publicly.
But why does that representation matter?
Because representation is not simply about putting a gay, lesbian or transgender character on a screen.
It can also mean allowing people who have spent years feeling invisible to see an experience that resembles their own.
And it can give people outside the LGBTQ+ community an opportunity to encounter queer people as human beings rather than as an abstract political or cultural argument.
Rafiki and the question of visibility
Wanuri Kahiu's Rafiki became another important moment in Kenyan cinema.
The film centred on the relationship between two young women and became internationally recognised. Its reception in Kenya, however, became a major legal and cultural controversy.
The Kenya Film Classification Board restricted the film in 2018, citing its homosexual theme and concerns about Kenyan law and culture. Kahiu challenged the decision in court.
The legal story did not end there.
In January 2026, the Court of Appeal partly allowed Kahiu's appeal. The court declared two provisions of the Films and Stage Plays Act unconstitutional, while also holding that the statutory framework for film classification remained relevant. Importantly, the court stated that a film that merely depicts homosexual life is not necessarily the same as a film that promotes, advocates, glorifies or glamorises homosexuality.
That distinction matters.
Because there is a difference between asking whether a film contains a particular story and asking whether society believes that story should be allowed to exist publicly.
Cinema cannot resolve every disagreement about sexuality, religion, morality or culture.
But it can make something abstract feel human.
The human being behind the argument
This is the part of the conversation that gets lost most easily.
When discussions about homosexuality become political, religious or cultural arguments, it becomes easy to forget the person at the centre of them.
There is an actual human being behind every argument.
Someone with a name.
Someone with parents.
Someone with siblings.
Someone with friends.
Someone with fears.
Someone with ambitions.
Someone who may be trying to build a career.
Someone who may be trying to support their family.
Someone who simply wants to live without constantly having to calculate whether it is safe to be themselves.
The murder of Sheila Adhiambo Lumumba in 2022 became one of the most widely discussed cases highlighting the vulnerability of some queer Kenyans. Lumumba was a 25-year-old non-binary lesbian, and Human Rights Watch documented concerns surrounding the investigation into their death. A man was later convicted of Lumumba's murder. (Human Rights Watch)
Cases like this are painful reminders of the consequences that discrimination and violence can have.
But even here, I think there is something important we should remember.
A queer person's life should not only become visible after they have been harmed.
People deserve to be seen while they are living.
Not only when they are victims.
Not only when they are statistics.
Not only when they become part of a political debate.
Beyond the label
Being queer in Kenya can mean navigating fear and courage at the same time.
It can mean having to think carefully about who you trust.
It can mean keeping parts of yourself private.
It can mean finding unexpected community.
It can mean building a life in circumstances that do not always make things easy.
But it can also mean friendship.
Love.
Creativity.
Family.
Work.
Laughter.
Ambition.
Hope.
That is why conversations about LGBTQ+ people should go beyond arguments about whether someone agrees or disagrees with homosexuality.
People are entitled to their beliefs.
But disagreement does not have to erase someone's humanity.
You can hold your own beliefs while still treating another person with dignity.
You can have a different understanding of sexuality while still recognising that the person in front of you has feelings, responsibilities, dreams and a life of their own.
Perhaps that is where the conversation should begin.
Not with a label.
Not with an argument.
Not with politics.
But with a person.
Because behind every debate about homosexuality, there is an actual human being behind it.
Someone with a name.
Someone with a family.
Someone with dreams.
Someone who wants many of the same things that everyone else wants:
To be safe.
To be loved.
To work.
To build a life.
To have a future.
And, ultimately, to wake up tomorrow and simply be allowed to live.
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