Recently, Queen Theresa has appeared on a few songs. Modern reinterpretations of her traditional Egedege style, fusing highlife and Afrobeats. In the videos for all four tracks, I always expected to see the fullness of her signature style on display, but I have consistently been disappointed.

While Queen Theresa still dresses in her usual regalia and adornment, the dancers and instrumentalists, who brought the charm into her music, have been left out. Instead, these people are replaced with contemporary choreographers and other artists or vixens. These changes demystify the person of this woman, who is still highly revered as a spiritual and enigmatic figure by many Igbo people.

The fact that these dancers and instrumentalists, who still feature in live performances with Queen Theresa Onuorah, are excluded from the recent videos for her music collaborations makes me question if there was ever a distinction between them and Onuorah herself. Of course, she is their leader and can perform solo, but I strongly believe that these other members of the group have genuinely contributed to whatever success or popularity Egedege has earned. I understand that the actions of the directors or artists themselves could be a way to gain a larger audience or appeal from a predominantly conservative population that may repulse, complain heavily or actually boycott the music videos if done otherwise. It could also be culturally or financially motivated. Yet, sidelining a group whose efforts birthed the genius we are celebrating is not merely an avoidance of spite but also a step toward neglect and relegation.

I also believe that to people like me, who did not have anyone to look up to in their distinctiveness, these dancers and instrumentalists symbolized affinity and hope. They allowed a child to understand that they, too, could dance and sing and play instruments. That they could wear makeup and beads and sashay to the energizing sound of music. That they were neither pariahs nor taboos but were simply normal in their own way.

Sometimes, I still watch the music videos of the Egedege Dance Group of Unubi, videos of songs like ‘Onyilo-Kanyi Naso’, where the men in their androgynous outfits of skirts, blouses, beads, body paint and makeup sit on the floor with their legs crossed or thrown together at the ankles while they support their bodies with their hands on the floor. In one video, the men gossip as they play ‘ncho’, an Igbo game played with dried okpa nuts or smooth pebbles in shallow holes dug into the ground (also called ‘ayo’ in Yoruba). The men make gestures as they play. Another group of men sits behind them, watching them and having their own conversation. These effeminate men continue with their games and gist with a touch of arguments for about three minutes into the video before they hear the sound of an instrument playing nearby. It is a flute call. Two men stand and cover the six holes beside them, then proceed to drag the other two men up, but these two refuse. The first two men dance around the others who are determined to continue their game, persuading them to stop. They do not stop until the sound of music grows louder and they finally must join in. Then all four join the sashay, jiggling their beaded waists and going reckless with their bodies, even under the judgmental gaze of the other seated men.

Videos like that remind me that men like me have always existed. They remind me of my years going to church just to smile at the growing number of effeminate boys. I know we are never going extinct, no matter how much the system tries to reduce us. I do not go to church just to affirm that anymore; instead, I watch content on TikTok. I see the boys doing their things. The ones complaining about rejection, the homosexual ones who have classified themselves according to heteronormative patriarchal terms and perspectives (thinking of themselves as women needing the protection, love and money of masculine men), and the ones who form cliques. I also read comments on posts and videos of crossdressers or effeminate men and boys doing nothing but living their lives. These comments from outraged people often range from musing about whipping these guys with phone charger cords, to ‘One man down,’ to ‘We have lost another brother,’ to the outright incitement of murder: ‘Make we join hands kpai dis one.’ Such threats are no longer empty or flimsy; they happen. These things happen. Hate lives, thrives, is rife and brewing even more in the hearts of the people from my generation who should know better.

But I am consoled because this minority we represent is no longer a tiny island bordered by a vast ocean; we are growing, we are becoming a peninsula. I am constantly reminded that those men in the Egedege Dance Group danced so we could sing. We will use our voices. And when the younger ones come, they will not only infiltrate the system from our peninsula, but will rule, not just their world, but the entire world. And it is with power that we will really know how far we can go for all of us, how ready we are to accept ourselves, the us in others, mirrored daily and expecting us not to despise ourselves. Someday, we will look up to ourselves. From the children to the adults, we will say that we can because we have, or simply just because we can⎈