You should read my novel. The story of my life, so far. It’s absolutely fascinating. I promise you’ll never read anything like it again. Ever.
My name is Tiko and I am my country’s most famous young soccer star. I’m also a Cross Dresser.
East Africa’s intolerance of sexual minorities is condemned worldwide; so when I first started displaying my footballing talents life for me was tricky – if not very dangerous.
The weekly bigotry rag ‘Rolling Stone’ – published in our Capital City – regularly circulated paparazzi snaps of celebrities and personalities who displayed deviant ‘sexual’ behaviour – so that its readers could exact devout, dutiful and bloody reprisal.
So, I had to be very careful and keep my Cross-Dressing tendencies under heavy wraps.
Which is why Tiko is merely a fictitious name. But soccer fans will know me – the kid from the slums who scored that wonder goal against Ghana. In the recent Africa Cup of Nations. With the whole world watching. Tiko! The stuff that African boyhood dreams are made of. Shy, stuttering, Tiko! The hottest sports personality on the continent! That was me!
While playing in the East African Leagues I was able to hide in the closet, away from team-mates, local press and fans.
But it was always risky; especially when my special buddy, Oscar, encouraged me to pursue my appetites, with increasingly daring exploits, into the seedy Cross Dressing clubs and Kuchu bars; and to take ‘selfies’ with me in all sorts of shameful apparel.
A precocious talent like mine could not remain in Africa for long, and I needed money to pay for my mother’s palliative hospital care. So pretty soon I flew off to Manchester to set the English Premier League alight. Leaving Oscar lonely, morose and unrequited. One spiteful, drunken night Oscar carelessly allowed his so-called friends to access all those night club photos on his Facebook site. The ones with me in that gorgeous hairpiece and the evocative crimson gown.
And soon back in Manchester, just when I was attaining superstar status, ruthless TV news desks broadcast a gaudy carnival of red dresses and blonde wigs. The airwaves reverberated with homophobia and innuendo.
‘There is simply no such thing as a cross-dressing room,’ they mocked.
The ravenous press, with an ever increasing hunger for each minute morsel devoured my new superstar status and spew it all over the insatiable tabloids.
My new club’s Middle Eastern owners were outraged. Morally and religiously it was untenable. A press conference was called.
And with my timid, sensitive body shaking visibly I felt the full feeding frenzy of the English press – and there seemed no way out, round or through – other than to return to my country; tail between my legs and play football, once again, in Africa. where I started.
That’s my story. funny, sad, heart-breaking and uplifting. Buy it and you’ll help to support this blog and its aim to increase awareness of Cross-Dressing.