The Walls We Keep Building

Ade Adegbenro (MBA ‘26) reflects on identity, belonging, and the limits of protection.

I recently came across a tweet from a lady who had set up a women-only gym in the UK. I thought it was remarkable that she created a space where women could feel safe, comfortable, and free from harassment or the fear of violence. It is not often that someone takes a real step toward addressing a persistent issue, and I admired her for doing so. Many of the women I know, and certainly the ones closest to me, have been harassed, threatened, or assaulted at some point. I hate admitting it, but I often feel uneasy when they are out alone, working late, going for a run, or even taking a walk.

Thus, it made sense to me why spaces like this matter. It is hard to ignore the reality that many women live with daily. They move through the world with an awareness that is both instinctive and exhausting, unsurprisingly shaped by experiences that have taught them caution. Nevertheless, that these spaces remain necessary reveals something troubling about the world we live in. We still struggle to ensure that everyone feels equally safe in shared environments.

A few days later, I saw another post from her. This time, she clarified that the gym was only for biological women. She said she believed trans women were women but would still be excluding them. Now, I do not want to wade into debates I have no personal experience with. I am neither a woman nor trans, and I will never fully understand what it means to navigate life in their shoes. I know this subject, like so many others, has become extremely political and divisive, and I want to be careful with my words. However, I was a little disheartened by her statement and the exclusion of transwomen.

In my view, this situation presents a rather complex contradiction. Creating safe spaces through exclusion often replicates the very marginalization such spaces aim to remedy. The question becomes whether safety and inclusion must compete, or if they might complement one another through more nuanced approaches that recognize the vulnerability of all involved.

Growing up, one of my best friends was Christopher. Chris is possibly one of the purest people I know. He was very, very effeminate as a child, loved to dance, had an incredible singing voice, and carried himself with an ease that defied the judgment around him. Despite the societal stigma and the numerous amounts of ridicule, bullying, and mockery he faced for being effeminate, he showed up every day with a smile on his face. At least once a week, a group of bullies would pick him up on his way to church and beat him. Instead of returning home, he would wipe his tears, come to church, and proceed to sing his soul out.

He struggled deeply with his identity and how he presented himself. He tried to change his voice, the way he dressed, and the way he moved. He became depressed, and at one point, we had to go to his house and remind him that we loved him as he was. Chris’ childhood sass that we enjoyed reflected courage I only fully appreciate in retrospect. His presence enriched our community in ways impossible to quantify but essential to our collective experience. I lost touch with Chris for a few years when I got into Uni and traveled to England. We did not speak for a long time until we randomly reconnected. By then, he was no longer Chris. She was Mary.

She told me she had started transitioning and had moved away from Lagos for her safety. She was still deeply religious and did not want to let go of her love for singing. She joked about her weight and mentioned struggling to find a gym. She had been harassed at multiple gyms and could not find a personal trainer who would respect her. One trainer even pulled up a gang to beat her up after inappropriately touching her and finding out that she still had her male genitalia. I was aghast.

Mary faced exclusion on multiple fronts. Knowing this, I could not help but feel a profound sense of sadness. Here was my sweet childhood friend who once brought so much laughter to our faces, whose voice and songs brought so much joy to our souls, and whose presence brought color to our childhood. Now, she has been stripped of every colour, joy, community, and love by a society that has decided to ridiculously politicize her life and harass her. She had no community, could not safely take strolls for fear of being harassed as a woman, and when it was discovered that she is transitioning, was severely beaten. And above all, she could not go to gyms.

The truth is, when I heard the news about the women-only gym, I was happy and hoped that people like Mary might finally be able to find some community and connect with other people as they navigate a very lonely and isolating life experience. However, the news of the exclusion really hit hard. Life is hard for many adults around the world. For example, it is difficult enough to be a black man, and I cannot begin to imagine navigating life as a black woman, let alone as a black trans woman. I am not sure about the economics of having a trans-only gym, or a black-trans-only gym. I just know that we cannot keep fragmenting society simply because we refuse to be more accepting. Societies do not advance by erecting walls within walls.

I believe that the proliferation and, in many ways, the imposed necessity for identity-specific spaces signals a Kafkaesque unravelling of our social contract. In fact, it strikes me as a quixotic attempt to create safety in a society that continues to meet differences with needless hostility. Rather than addressing the root causes of harassment and intolerance in the first place, we risk institutionalizing a cycle of fragmentation that masquerades as protection while reinforcing exclusion. A society that cannot create security for all will forever be chasing the illusion of security for some.

As I reflect on Mary’s experiences, I am reminded that behind every exclusionary policy stands a real person seeking basic dignities like acceptance, safety, community, and freedom to move through the world and express themselves authentically. When we fail to create spaces that honor these basic needs for everyone, we fail not just the individuals, but also our collective aspirations of justice.