Seemingly casual comments like “You’d be prettier if you were light-skinned” cut deeper than most realise — subtly nudging some women towards skin bleaching.
I was barely 11 when a classmate in junior secondary school compared my skin tone to charcoal. He laughed so hard, his voice echoing across the dusty hallway, and his friends laughing with him. That moment has lived rent-free in my mind for decades. My skin — the rich, dark brown that glows in the sun, yet society treats it like a problem that needs fixing.
Today, I see women — colleagues, aunties, celebrities, influencers — lightening their skin. Some do it subtly. Others get full-on transformation. And while the internet feigns shock and moral superiority with statements like “She used to be dark o!” or “Why would she do that to herself?” I shake my head in disappointment. The truth is: we all have skin in the game. Pun intended.
Colourism isn’t new — it’s generational, inherited, and deeply rooted
Colourism is not unique to Nigeria. Historically, white or proximity to whiteness defined beauty. In the Elizabethan era, Queen Elizabeth I started painting her face with white foundation to achieve a ghostly complexion. Although it was to cover the scars caused by smallpox, the fair-skin image sparked a new beauty standard, and the concept of “whiter skin = higher class” was born.
Whiteness was historically associated with beauty, purity, and superiority, while Blackness was seen as undesirable and inferior. This racist ideology created division even within the Black community, with skin tone becoming a marker of value. They often favoured lighter-skinned Black women over their darker-skinned counterparts.
During the colonial era, this hierarchy was starkly visible. Light-skinned individuals were frequently given preferential treatment — they were more likely to be employed as domestic workers within colonial households while they relegated darker-skinned people to hard labour in the fields. This deliberate stratification deepened internalised bias and enabled further prejudice within Black communities. Over time, many began to measure their worth and beauty in relation to proximity to whiteness.
The widespread practice of skin bleaching today manifests through this painful legacy — a desperate attempt by some women to access privileges long denied to those with darker skin. These skin-lightening products remain popular in many developing countries, particularly in Nigeria, due to the persistent privilege and social advantages often associated with lighter skin. The World Health Organisation (WHO) stated in its report that 77% of women in Nigeria use skin-lightening products, the world’s highest percentage.
This is a consequence of the beauty standards we confine ourselves to. We must challenge the unfair perpetuation of a societal standard that dictates lighter skin as a prerequisite for desirability. This is colourism — discrimination and prejudice against individuals with a darker skin tone. While colonialism deepened and institutionalised it, colourism wasn’t entirely born from it. In many pre-colonial societies, lighter skin was already sometimes associated with privilege, often due to class or lineage. But colonial rule reinforced these divisions through the elevation of whiteness as the ultimate standard — a legacy that still shapes our beauty ideals today. We inherited the idea that lighter skin is superior, more refined, more desirable — and then made it gospel.
Read also: The whispers of shade: Navigating the complexities of colourism and bleaching
The many ways I’ve faced colourism
The most painful place I’ve encountered colourism wasn’t on television or social media. It was in school. Secondary school — those brutal years when identity is fragile, and peer validation is everything — taught me that my skin was something to apologise for.
Classmates would make derogatory statements like: “If only you were a little lighter, you’d be fine,” “You are too black for my liking”, etc.
And it wasn’t just students. Teachers, too, made such comments. A teacher once advised me to move closer to a fair student; maybe she could “rub off” some fairness on me. I also remember feeling invisible next to my light-skinned classmates, who were called for queen roles or school yearbook and billboard pictures, while they constantly overlooked me, even when I volunteered.
I never forgot how the colour of my skin shaped how I was perceived before I could speak a word. As I grew older, I started editing my pictures to make them look like I was more light-skinned, wore brighter foundation, and Snapchat filters became my best friend. At one point, I even dabbled with skin-whitening creams — just enough to brighten my face a little. However, I stopped the moment I started hearing, “You’re getting fairer,” “You’ve started bleaching your skin.” The irony is obvious: mocked for my dark skin, yet judged the instant I sought even a subtle lightening.
The industries where fair skin is currency
We often blame women who engage in skin bleaching, but we should question the companies that make these harmful products and the entertainment industry that favours lighter skin. We also need to challenge the societal beauty standards that discriminate against dark-skinned women.
I don’t just blame the companies that manufacture these products — society fuels the demand by treating light skin as a gateway to beauty and success. Of course, in a capitalist world, revenue takes priority — and beauty companies continue to profit from skin-lightening products. But what’s dangerous is how they exploit the insecurities of dark-skinned women, selling harmful products wrapped in promises of enhanced beauty, all while ignoring the long-term health risks.
However, the market always follows demand. If there is demand, there will always be supply. That’s why the Nigerian skincare market remains saturated with skin-lightening products. Walk into any cosmetics store in Lagos or other parts of Nigeria, and you’ll find entire aisles dedicated to “toning,” “brightening,” “glowing” — all euphemisms for bleaching. Brands know the market. Influencers do, too. Instagram skincare vendors push “biracial packages” and “caramel glow kits” like candy. And we, the consumers, find ourselves complicit — not intentionally, but because society has conditioned us to equate light skin with beauty and worth.
The movie industry is no exception. From casting directors in Hollywood and Bollywood to Nollywood, and even the models and vixens in music videos, the message is clear: to be light-skinned is to be desirable. Filmmakers often cast light-skinned women in movie roles even when the role calls for a dark-skinned actor. Many prominent dark skin Nigerian actresses, like Mercy Johnson, have shared how difficult it was to get movie roles due to their skin complexion. Casting directors often give light-skinned women the roles of well-spoken, wealthy, and “refined” characters — while assigning darker-skinned women roles of uneducated, poor, rural, or comedic characters.
In today’s entertainment industry, skin is capital. Lighter skin, more so. Music videos, Instagram campaigns, and reality shows like Big Brother Naija — all place a premium on fair women. A candid example is the backlash Halimotu Shokunbi faced after appearing as the leading lady in Rema’s “Baby (Is It a Crime)” music video. Instead of celebrating her beauty or performance, some viewers bullied her for being dark-skinned, criticising her appearance in the music video and reinforcing the harmful stereotypes that dark-skinned women constantly face in the entertainment industry.
The beauty industry breaks my heart the most. Yes, the situation has improved slightly — especially with more Black-owned brands creating inclusive products — but it’s still bleak. Dark-skinned women barely found their shades and had no choice but to wear foundations that were too light. Back in 2014, I’d stand in front of shelves lined with several shades of foundation, knowing none of it was for me. So, like many dark-skinned girls, I settled for the closest shades, hoping to at least blend in with light-skinned girlies.
Even advertisements predominantly featured light-skinned models for these products, contributing to a profound sense of invisibility. Makeup artists, too, often seemed fixated on applying lighter foundations to dark-skinned women, under the misguided belief that this was essential for the makeup to ‘pop.
Many of these scenarios put immense pressure on dark-skinned women who aspire to enter these industries. And for those who don’t, the desire is often simpler — to be seen, affirmed, and called beautiful.
Read also: When beauty becomes a burden: The unseen side of privilege
The responsibility to change the skin bleaching narrative rests with us all
Apparently I’m not lightskinned enough to run for Miss NYSC 🙃
— 𝐻𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓉 ྐ❤︎ (@h_theeqsycho) June 18, 2025
So when we ask, “Why do women bleach?” we must look in the mirror. We are all complicit: The boy who only dates light-skinned girls and talks down on dark-skinned ones. The HR manager who hires only light-skinned women “because she looks better for the front desk.” The music video director who only casts biracial girls for the lead vixen. The teachers, the makeup artists, the manufacturers of these harmful products, the influencers, the pageant organisers, the advertisers. You. Me. Us. We created a world where being dark-skinned is a disadvantage. And then we mock those who try to escape it.
What we must do differently to curb skin bleaching
To dismantle the grip of colourism, we must start by changing the narrative in the media, decolonising and redefining beauty standards by actively promoting our natural skin tone and beauty. Nollywood, magazines, and advertising spaces must begin to reflect the full spectrum of Nigerian beauty. It’s time to support productions that cast dark-skinned leads not as villains or background characters, but as layered, powerful, and desirable protagonists. Representation matters — and so does who gets to be seen as beautiful.
Education plays a crucial role in shaping how girls see themselves and others. Schools must go beyond teaching tolerance; they must actively challenge colourist ideals. From literature to history and extracurricular clubs, we need curricula that affirm blackness in all its shades and equip students to unlearn harmful biases. Teachers must also eliminate biased classroom practices — like always choosing lighter-skinned children for leadership or performance roles.
Influencers and celebrities, too, have a responsibility. Many subtly promote skin-lightening under the guise of skincare or glow-up routines. It’s vital to hold them accountable. We must demand transparency and amplify beauty narratives that prioritise health, self-love, and authenticity over Eurocentric ideals.
On a policy level, the Nigerian government must take a firmer stand on product safety. Despite bans, retailers still openly sell hydroquinone- and mercury-filled creams in markets and online. The National Agency for Food and Drug Administration (NAFDAC) must continue to ensure the removal of these harmful products from circulation and hold their manufacturers accountable for endangering lives in the name of beauty. To support government efforts, we also need comprehensive community education and movements that raise awareness about the dangers of skin bleaching.
And perhaps the most powerful change begins at home. Compliment your dark-skinned daughters, nieces, sisters — remind them that their skin is beautiful the way it is. Celebrate their beauty openly and often. Remind them that their skin is not a flaw to fix, but something to be proud of — because self-worth, when planted early and nurtured well, grows into resistance against every message that tries to convince them otherwise.
From loathing to loving my skin
It took me years to unlearn what society taught me about my skin. I’m still unlearning. But the healing began when I started asking hard questions. Why do I hate my skin? Why do I associate beauty with fairness? Who taught me to hate myself?
I began to seek out images that reflected my beauty. I remember watching a video of Agbani Darego being crowned Miss World in 2001. It felt like a wholesome, affirming moment. Yet, it’s still surprising most people speak less of how proudly she wore her dark skin while taking centre stage. I also follow women like Lupita Nyong’o, Nyakim Gatwech, Beverly Naya, and Tiwa Savage — women who wear their melanin like silk. I read, journal, and surround myself with affirming voices — people who always tell me how beautiful my skin looks. I stopped editing my pictures to look fairer. I stopped comparing myself to fairer girls. I ditched brighter foundations. I started caring for my dark skin — using the right products while focusing on my melanin glow. I still hear derogatory comments about my skin sometimes, but I have learnt to ignore them.
To the dark-skinned girl — I see you. Your beauty is not an exception; it is the rule that society refuses to acknowledge. You don’t need to bleach your skin to be worthy of love, respect, or admiration.
Until we stop glorifying light skin, until the media, schools, and industries embrace the full spectrum of our beauty — we will all remain complicit in the harm. The change begins when we no longer whisper affirmations in private but declare them loudly in public. Until every shade is celebrated, not tolerated, we are all to blame. And we all have work to do.
