Being born dark-skinned is my identity.
But the environment I grew up in made it feel like something I needed to fix.
In my community, light skin was praised openly. It was called beautiful. It was called lucky. I remember parents referring to their light-skinned children as “nwa mu ga-eji mara obodo oyibo”(the child that would take them abroad).
My parents weren’t left out of this thinking. And although I acted like it didn’t affect me, it did.
Slowly, quietly, I started to believe the lie; If you’re not light-skinned, you’re not beautiful. You’re not attractive. You’re not enough.
School didn’t help. Light-skinned classmates made comments; sometimes joking, sometimes cruel. All they saw were colours. That was the society I grew up in.
So, as young as 13, I did what many girls around me were doing. I tried fast whitening creams. When my skin became fairer, I thought my problems were solved. But new ones appeared; uneven skin tone, dark knuckles, breakouts. I forced myself to ignore them, pretending no one noticed.
But people noticed.
I remember a school magazine submission where a classmate mocked me, calling me a chameleon, joking about what colour I would be the next day. Thankfully, it wasn’t published. But the damage was done. My confidence and self-esteem took a deep hit.
Another time, a teacher commented on my knuckles in front of my classmates, criticizing where I came from for “allowing such things.” That moment broke something in me.
I carried all of it alone. I couldn’t talk to my parents. I didn’t think they would understand.
Every time I tried to stop bleaching, I was reminded, by comments, by stares, by silence, that being dark-skinned was “dirty” or undesirable. So I continued. I hid my hands and toes. I only bought covered shoes. Even shoe vendors made demeaning remarks about my knuckles, People laughed it off. I didn’t. What they didn’t see was how deeply it stayed with me.
I continued bleaching through secondary school and university. I became very light-skinned with severely dark knuckles. I tried stopping in university, switched to normal creams, and then the comments came again:
“Oh, you’re getting dark. Is everything okay?”
So I relapsed.
At my lowest point, I even convinced dark-skinned friends that bleaching was better. I recommended creams. Some followed. One refused. And yet, even while doing all this, I still hated myself. I couldn’t wear what I wanted. I tried knuckle removers; temporary fixes that never lasted.
After university, something shifted. I was tired; tired of hiding, tired of low confidence, tired of not recognizing myself. I wanted to be seen for who I truly was. I realized my skin is my identity, and I couldn’t keep destroying it forever.
I spoke to my best friend, who was on the same journey, and we made a promise to stop. Stopping wasn’t easy. My skin reacted badly to normal products. My face was fair but rough, my hands dark, my legs yellow. Nothing matched. Everything hurt, physically and emotionally.
She encouraged me to go all-natural, using dermatologist-recommended products. They were expensive, and I hesitated. But then I told myself something that changed everything: My skin deserves the best. That was the end of cheap creams for me.
It’s been two years now. I haven’t relapsed, not once. Even with comments. Even with people who only knew me as light-skinned. Even with societal pressure.
Instead, I started speaking to teenagers who were already developing the same mindset I once had. I see the damage early, and I speak up. And thankfully, I’ve seen change.
Recently, I looked at old photos of my light-skinned self and wondered why it took me so long to stop. It looked unnatural. It wasn’t me.
Today, I am proud of my skin. Being dark-skinned is my identity. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I am proud of who I have become; a confident, self-assured young woman.
There is no going back.
