LAGOS, Nigeria — Services at the Tribe Lagos church in Nigeria are held in a chic, urbane cafe resembling many others like it in the area: a long, fairly spacious room with stark white walls and light casings made from woven raffia palms.

On a recent Sunday morning, around 80 congregants in their 20s and 30s began trickling in for the 9 o’clock meeting, per usual. Their fashion choices were hip, personalized and elaborately conceived — bright vintage tees paired with baggy, gently rolled-up jeans; colorfully patterned dresses flowing above high-rise sneakers. There was an undeniable metropolitan vibe suggesting an uncontested comfort in their skins.

It was my first visit to the Tribe, having learned of it through friends who are regular attendees and speak highly of its impact on their lives for its nontraditional approaches. I was curious to see if it might have the same effect on me, a queer millennial in search of fellowship in a country where homophobia has been written into law.

I observed an opening prayer, followed by musical performances by the church band. Everyone seemed to know each other, and the service moved freely from one form to the next — at times it could have passed for an open-mic session or karaoke among friends. The casual and collaborative atmosphere stands in stark contrast to the Nigerian churches I grew up in, where authority is concentrated at the altar. Here at the Tribe, everyone seemed to be equal in their participation; even the pastors could easily be mistaken for congregants.