Growing up as an African girl, I always looked at my mother’s deep, rich dark skin and felt that beauty lived there. Her skin carried a dignity and glow that made me believe Black truly was beautiful. But my own journey with my skin was not as simple. At 13, I began to struggle with acne that would follow me into my twenties. By 25, the scars and hyperpigmentation left behind made me question my worth and whether I was beautiful at all.
It took years of unlearning, of rejecting the messages around me that equated lighter skin with beauty, before I learned to see beauty in my flaws and scars. Not every young girl, however, gets the space to reach this realization. In Kenya, this pressure has created a thriving but largely unregulated skin lightening market.
The Rebranding of Bleaching
In Kenya today, the pressure to change one’s complexion has been repackaged and resold under softer names: “skin lightening,” “tone correction,” and “glow therapy.” These words cover up what it really is—bleaching. What was once openly acknowledged as dangerous is now cleverly marketed as self care.
The Hidden Industry
The industry is thriving, hidden in plain sight. For as little as $4, skin lightening products are accessible to anyone—a small jar of cream that promises brighter skin. For those with deeper pockets, injections costing up to $500 are available. Pills, lotions, drips, the options are endless, and the sellers are everywhere, from informal stalls to Instagram shops. Yet most of these products are unlicensed, unsafe and sold without medical oversight.
The Health Consequences
The truth is these creams and injectables are not harmless beauty aids but toxic cocktails. The World Health Organization (WHO, 2011) warns that mercury, a common bleaching ingredient, can damage the kidneys and nervous system. Hydroquinone, another popular ingredient, thins the skin and may lead to exogenous ochronosis, a condition that leaves permanent dark patches. Sulfur burns and irritates, while high doses of niacinamide disrupt hormonal balance.
The physical scars are devastating enough: veins visible under paper-thin skin, premature wrinkles, severe acne flare-ups and burns that never heal. But the psychological scars cut deeper. Women and girls who bleach are not simply chasing vanity; they are responding to societal pressures that consistently reward lighter skin.
The Business of Colorism
The UN Environment Programme (2019) estimated the global skin lightening industry at $23 billion, driven by aggressive marketing that equates lighter skin with success, opportunity and desirability. In Kenya, the signs are everywhere. Kenya’s beauty industry billboards, commercials and influencer campaigns overwhelmingly feature lighter-skinned models. In social spaces, lighter skin is often equated with attractiveness.
Public figures have begun to speak out. Lupita Nyong’o once admitted she prayed for lighter skin as a child, a painful reflection of how deeply colorism scars young minds (BBC, 2019). Elsa Majimbo has also been vocal about discrimination she has faced because of her darker complexion. When society consistently rewards lighter skin, the decision to bleach is not entirely free—it is coerced, shaped by cultural bias and reinforced by the media.
The Myth of Choice
Some argue bleaching is simply a matter of free will. But how free is a choice when it is made under systemic pressure? A girl does not wake up one day and conclude her natural skin is unworthy; she learns it from the cues society gives her—what it celebrates, rewards and sells. In that context, bleaching is not empowerment but exploitation.
What Other Countries Are Doing
Other African nations have recognized this and taken action. Rwanda, Ghana and Ivory Coast have banned products containing mercury and hydroquinone, citing the health risks and cultural harm (The Guardian, 2019). Kenya, however, has yet to enforce such measures. The result is a flourishing industry that preys on insecurities while perpetuating the lie that beauty is conditional on complexion.
The Path Forward
The fight against bleaching must happen on two fronts. First, the government must regulate and ban harmful products, shutting down the trade that profits off self-hate. But just as importantly, culture must shift. Families must affirm their daughters’ natural beauty. Schools must teach that every shade of melanin is worthy. Advertisers must broaden representation. And grassroots organizations like My Skin Global must continue amplifying the message that Black skin in all its shades is stunning.
This is not just a beauty issue; it is a public health issue, a cultural issue and an identity issue. To bleach is to risk not only your body but your sense of self. To resist is to reclaim dignity, reject a narrative that has long devalued African beauty and remind the next generation that Black is beautiful.
I think back to my mother’s dark skin and the pride I felt when I looked at her. That pride is what I want for every young girl in Kenya—to see her complexion not as a flaw to be corrected.
Because beauty is not found in erasing ourselves; it is found in embracing the skin we are in. Kenya now stands at a critical moment. Will we continue to let dangerous products poison our people and our perceptions? Or will we stand boldly and say: Black is beautiful.
The answer will shape the self-worth of generations to come.