Over the course of the show, we learn his dad’s behaviour is not about a malicious intent to restrict his son, but based on an anxiety that expression outside the scope of ‘normality’ can lead to physical and emotional abuse.īut Eric rebukes this attempt at protection, delivering the lines “I’ll be hurt either way. Mr Effiong is a parent trying he does not at all understand Eric’s sexuality, but fiercely wants to protect him. Eric’s father is paradigmatic of what I see in a lot of West African parents of queer children – he is not the stereotypical close-minded parent who violently rejects their child, but he is certainly not wearing a baby pink PFLAG t-shirt and attending Black Pride in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens either. “Eric resolutely affirms to young queer people watching, that while there is no undermining the fact that your identity and aesthetic are tied to the reality of your safety, there is strength and joy to be found in living as your true, queer self”Įric’s relationship with his father embodies one of the most authentic and moving relationships in the show.
He attempts to fashion himself into the stoic and masculine figure that is expected of young, Nigerian boys, asking his father, “what kind of man do you want me to be?”. As is often the response to such violence against queer and gender non-conforming people, he retreats from queer expression and dresses down in dull, olive-brown tones. This sparks a turning point in his narrative where these tensions are explored. In one episode, Eric is victim to a homophobic attack, having been left out alone in drag after being stood up by Otis. As queer, West African diaspora, our relationship with queerness is fraught with tension, as we attempt to resist the expectations imposed on us by culture and tradition. Far from remaining a disregarded enigma on the edge of the plot or school social hierarchy, Eric enthusiastically throws himself into life there – whether it’s joining the swing band (even though he sucks at the French horn), or donning attention-grabbing (and often garish) outfits, so much about Eric embodies the confidence I try to carry myself with to this day.īut while his electric energy and playfulness with drag and femme identity is invigorating for black queer audiences, what stands out for me is how Eric is distinctly a Nigerian in diaspora.
He is hilarious, energetic, annoying, caring, and confident. He exhibits his favourite gay porn scenes to alien erotica writer Lily, and at a house party he hosts a 101 dick-sucking workshop with a banana.īy refusing to solely frame him through the lens of shame, the writers of Sex Education provide space for Eric to experience and express a multiplicity of moods and emotions. He is proud to have given exactly two and a half handjobs over the summer.
Though it would be easy for a series which centres on the sexual awakening of high school students, there is no exhausted bildungsroman format attached to Eric about overcoming sexual shame – Eric is confidently homosexual. Eric, played by British-Rwandan actor Ncuti Gatwa, might be the best friend of the central protagonist, Otis, but to me he steals the show. In an age where we’re allowed no rest from television’s often shallow attempts at ‘diversity’, Netflix’s Sex Education offers an impressively multi-layered and relatable portrait of a black queer boy through its ebullient character Eric Effiong. Note: Some spoilers for Netflix’s Sex Education below