The location of the prom had to remain secret.
This was a strange occurrence and in Nigeria, where same-sex relationships or public displays of affection are illegal, everything dedicated to embracing this culture is in danger.
Celebrating Pride month here in any way is an act of defiance.
Organizers of the Fola Francis Ball – named in honor of a transgender woman who died last year – only announced venue details hours before the opening.
But this did not stop more than 500 people from turning up in a district close to the thriving waterfront of Nigeria’s commercial heart, Lagos.
Surrounding the closed-off site were abandoned car parts and warehouses known for rave parties.
A thumping bassline came through the door and crossing the threshold felt like entering an alternate reality.
Inside, the gay community of Lagos, the location, was a cloak that protected them from the outside world.
For security reasons, many LGBTQ+ Nigerians use the word “queer” as a broad term to encompass their identity.
Excited chatter and laughter filled the air. This was the joy of casting off fear.
Everyone was dressed to match the neo-Gothic theme.
In the dimly lit room, strobe lights painted the skin of those present in different colors. The flashes captured figures in various poses – a kaleidoscope of movement.
Androgyny and eccentricity were in full swing. A woman with a shaved head and sparkling make-up paraded confidently next to a man in a flowing black dress.
People who had to conform to the idea of what a man should look like outside the party’s walls felt empowered to wear wigs and bodycon dresses, and use their faces as a canvas for glitter and bright hues.
The creative duo behind the ball – Ayo Lawanson and Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim – were inspired by a similar event they had attended.
“We thought we were very strange and very outrageous, but experiencing a ball really changed our perspective on what it is to be queer and what queer joy really is,” Lawanson told the BBC.
Last year the first edition of the event was held in honor of their queer film 14 Years and a Day, but this year they wanted to honor Fola Francis.
Until she drowned near a beach in Lagos late last year, she was at the heart of the burgeoning underground ballroom scene.
She organized, organized and invited queer people to all the big parties.
For many, the Fola Francis Ball was an opportunity to pay their respects.
“I want to celebrate Fola,” said one of the partygoers in platform heels, who wore a black choker, dark corset and lace leggings under a red plaid miniskirt that matched her nails.
“When I first started going out, she would always say to me, ‘You look so good,’ and it went to my head. It gave me the confidence that I could be myself,” she says.
Fola Francis had a profound impact on the entire gay community in the country. But for many trans and non-binary people, her death was personal, and honoring the life she lived was important.
A transgender, non-binary person who wore an African print dress said Fola helped them realize the importance of appearing authentic. “Her existence gave me freedom,” they added proudly.
Another trans woman, attending her first ball, told the BBC that the event was a “dream come true”.
She was forced to move to Lagos after experiencing transphobic violence in northern Nigeria and Fola Francis offered to help her find safe housing.
LGBTQ+ ballroom culture can be traced back to the US and underground African-American drag events in the mid-1800s. It has since flourished in the US and abroad, with a well-developed infrastructure, including ‘houses’, which provide support networks and the basis for competitions.
TV shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race, Legendary and Pose have also taken the concept mainstream.
At the Fola Francis Ball, some of those who came competed against each other in different categories: butch queen realness, femme queen realness, body, face, voguing and best dressed.
The audience sang and clapped as people danced and walked onto the stage.
For organizers, the purpose of a ball in Nigeria is clear: to be a space for self-expression and to celebrate the beauty of diversity, even in the face of fear.
And that fear is never far away, because it feels like the 2014 Gay Marriage Ban Act criminalizes who they are.
“I’m not 100% relaxed or safe. One minute you’re safe and the next minute you’re arrested,” a gay man at the scene told the BBC, citing past cases of police arresting people at an all-male party.
Amidst the fun, he thought about those who wouldn’t show up.
“A lot of my friends would have been here tonight, but because of that fear [of arrest]they chose not to come.
“It makes me sad because ballroom culture, queer culture, is our way of celebrating who we are,” he added.
“I can’t fully experience it with them. It also makes me angry because there is no reason why we should have to live in fear when we can just express ourselves, be ourselves and just live and be happy.”
But the organizers did everything they could to create a safe environment.
Safety measures included providing changing rooms for those who wanted to dress as their most authentic selves, but avoid homophobic and transphobic violence on the way to the venue.
They also partnered with a private security company committed to inclusion.
There was some criticism that organizers were allowing cisgender and heterosexual people to come into queer spaces, but they insisted they wanted to invite allies, families and friends.
“Queer joy is one of the greatest forms of resistance,” Ikpe-Etim said, and they wanted people to experience the culture.
“We want to push the narrative that queer people exist. Changing the narrative on how queer people are perceived in Nigeria.”
Author Eloghosa Osunde, one of the judges, saw the Fola Francis Ball and others who liked it as “spaces where people feel less ashamed”.
“There is no identity that is greater than another just because it is validated by the law. I really believe that we can create legitimacy for ourselves, and that is one way our world can grow.”
And it looks like the underground ball scene in Lagos will continue to grow as more queers feel the support of the community.
“These kinds of spaces are so important,” said another jury member, fashion designer Weiz Dhurm Franklin.
“Knowing that you actually have the space that you can call home, and be free, and be yourself without judgement, without prejudice. It’s so important, not just to have fun, but to live.”
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