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I met an older fellow, a soft-spoken farmer from Uganda who’d raised his children before leaving his home, his wife and his country. There was a young Nigerian who lingered on the sidelines for weeks before inching out onto the dance floor, but then moved in an explosion of long-suppressed joy at finding himself dancing in public across from another man. There was the middle-aged man from Zimbabwe, formerly married, whose brother had plotted to have him killed because of the shame he’d brought to his family when he’d switched to dating men.
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Many of them literally had had the idea beaten into them that they were part of a cursed, despicable, tiny minority. You could always spot newcomers because they usually sat off to the side in the shadows, on broken-down couches, their eyes wide and jaws slack. To get to Simply Blue’s curved bar and large dance floor, patrons had to climb a long flight of stairs and go through a security pat-down. The very existence of the place posed an answer of sorts to the claim of homophobes that there was something un-African about being black and gay. The age range was wide, class lines were smudged, and there was a symphony of languages. The club was a collecting spot for Africa’s gay diaspora, and its patrons came from every part of the continent. It was always a revelation to spend an evening at Simply Blue. When word began to whip around the world that the Ugandan parliament would take up a bill making lesbian or gay sex a capital crime, my thoughts went first to a nightclub I frequented when I lived in Johannesburg, South Africa, a few years ago.