IIt was a few days before my 21st birthday in 2017 when my mother pointed out a small lump on my breast. I was lifting weights 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 me gynecomastiaa benign condition in which an imbalance between the hormones testosterone and estrogen causes overdevelopment of breast tissue.
The irony was not lost on me: I was lifting weights because I was striving for the kind of masculinity typified by a chiseled chest and big muscles, but instead I had acquired a distinctly feminine quality.
The doctor assured me that it was common, although it usually occurs in newborns, teenagers and men over 50. He promised that it would disappear in time. That didn’t happen, and by the next year, when I started studying at Lagos State University, it had become embarrassing.
In Nigeria, where I live, a man with feminine qualities exposes you to ridicule and even physical harm. Many associate ‘unmasculinity’ with homosexuality, which is illegal.
I radically changed my lifestyle. I wore loose-fitting clothes made of heavy fabric, even in warm weather. In my sophomore year, I started carrying a folder that made my chest hurt.
I avoided activities and places like swimming pools, where I had to be bare-chested or in the spotlight. I passed up the opportunity to play on my college football team and avoided giving class presentations. During our six-month relationship, my girlfriend never once saw me bare-chested. I shared an apartment with two other male students and developed a reputation for being the only person they knew who got dressed in the bathroom.
I felt miserable. I lived my life in hiding. Living so cautiously meant you only had a few friends and couldn’t enjoy the wild and spontaneous existence that most people have in college.
Once, while strolling across campus with a friend, she joked that I should buy a bra. Her words cut so deeply that I avoided her for the rest of the semester.
A male student used to pull my breast when he saw me. Another made a pun of my last name so that it rhymed with the Yoruba word for “breast.” But even when people weren’t openly commenting on my condition, I could feel their eyes judging. I became socially anxious. My self-esteem was blown to bits.
Yet this cross that I have carried for the past seven years could be alleviated in minutes with a subcutaneous mastectomy, as a surgeon at the Lagos State University Teaching Hospital recently told me.
The operation is prohibitively expensive at almost 1.9 million naira (£1,000). My monthly salary is 132,000 naira.
The current economic crisis has reduced the purchasing power of many Nigerians. Inflation hit in January 29%which pushes thoughts of surgery even further away.
I recently spoke with two young Nigerian men with the condition who view the surgery as the Red Sea standing between them and their salvation. One of them watches hours of YouTube videos of the operation and wishes it could be him.
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I met these two men, and many more with the condition, through a Nigerian chat room. I found hope and comfort in knowing that my experiences were not unique, and that others who previously had gynecomastia had lived fulfilling lives after surgery.
It has helped me to hear testimonials from those who have chosen to live a full life even without surgery. I still wear loose-fitting clothes most of the time, but my social anxiety is less crippling. I’ve learned to love my body just the way it is, even as I dream of the day I finally have 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 well-being of people with the condition.
The Nigerian government and healthcare organizations must do more to create awareness about the condition. These efforts will not only help destigmatize gynecomastia, but will also give those struggling with it the support they need.