It was a few days before my 21st birthday in 2017 when my mother pointed out a small lump on my chest. I was weightlifting at the time and often walked around the house shirtless. Three weeks later, the lump had doubled in size. I went to a hospital, where a doctor diagnosed gynecomastia, a benign condition where an imbalance between the hormones testosterone and oestrogen causes an overdevelopment of breast tissues.
The irony was not lost on me: I was weightlifting because I aspired to the kind of masculinity typified by a chiseled chest and bulky muscles, but instead I had acquired a distinctly feminine trait.
The doctor assured me that it was common, although typically occurring in newborns, teenagers and men over 50. He promised it would clear up in time. It did not, and by the following year, when I started studying at Lagos State University, it had become embarrassing.
In Nigeria, where I live, a man having feminine qualities opens you to ridicule and even physical harm. Many associate “unmanliness” with homosexuality, which is illegal.
I altered my lifestyle radically. I wore loose-fitting clothes made of heavy cloth, even in hot weather. In my second year, I started wearing a binder that made my chest hurt.
I avoided activities and places such as swimming pools, where I had to be bare-chested or in the spotlight. I passed up the chance to play in my university football team and avoided giving class presentations. Not once during our six-month relationship did my girlfriend see me bare-chested. I shared an apartment with two other male students and grew a reputation for being the only person they knew who dressed in the bathroom.
I was miserable. I was living my life in hiding. Living so guardedly meant having only a few friends and not enjoying the wild and spontaneous existence that most people have at university.
Once, strolling on campus with a friend, she joked that I needed to buy a bra. Her words cut so deeply that I avoided her for the rest of the term.
One male student habitually tugged at my breast whenever he saw me. Another made a pun out of my surname so that it rhymed with the Yoruba word for “breast”. But even when people did not comment outright on my condition, I could feel their eyes passing judgment. I became socially anxious. My self-esteem was shot to pieces.
Yet this cross I have borne for the past seven years could be alleviated in a matter of minutes with a subcutaneous mastectomy, as a surgeon at the Lagos State University teaching hospital told me recently.
The surgery is prohibitively expensive at nearly 1.9m naira (£1,000). My monthly wage is 132,000 naira.
The current economic crisis has reduced many Nigerians’ purchasing power. In January, the rate of inflation hit 29%, pushing thoughts of surgery even further away.
I recently spoke to two young Nigerian men with the condition who regard the surgery as the Red Sea standing between them and salvation. One of them spends hours watching YouTube videos of the surgery, wishing it could be him.
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I met these two men, and many more with the condition, through a Nigerian chatroom. I found hope and comfort knowing my experiences were not unique, and that others who previously had gynecomastia, had gone on to lead fulfilling lives after surgery.
Hearing testimonies from those who have chosen to live life fully even without surgery has helped me. I still wear mostly loose-fitting clothes, but my social anxiety is less crippling. I have learned to love my body as it is, even as I dream of the day I finally undergo surgery.
There are no official figures on the number of Nigerian men with gynecomastia and it is rarely reported in the media. There are not enough support groups to ensure the mental wellbeing of people with the condition.
The Nigerian government and healthcare organisations must do more to create awareness about the condition. These efforts will not only help to de-stigmatise gynecomastia but give those with it the support they need.