Long before the white man arrived with his mirror and his gospel of inferiority, African women were already beautiful. Their skin glowed under the sun’s own spotlight; their hair spoke stories of identity, culture, and lineage; their bodies moved with the rhythm of their ancestors.
Beauty was not a commodity; it was a language. Then came the coloniser, armed with mirrors and prejudice, whispering that blackness was wrong, and suddenly the African woman was incomplete.