On the surface, TikTok offers a joyful scroll, women and men of every complexion dancing, laughing and celebrating life. But beneath this vibrant façade lies a far more troubling reality. In the comment sections, especially those featuring dark-skinned women, cruelty brews. Hidden behind anonymous usernames and emojis, users hurl insults, insisting they’d “look better with fair skin.”
Recent studies paint a troubling picture of how deeply rooted this discrimination is. A 2023 Twitter data analysis titled Framings of colourism among Kenyan Twitter users analysed 7,726 unique posts about colourism from 5,094 accounts over nine months. This study documented widespread discussions about colourism among Kenyan social media users.
This discrimination extends far beyond ordinary citizens. Celebrities, influencers and models are subject to the same prejudice. Oscar-winning actress Lupita Nyong’o has spoken out against it. South Sudanese influencer Imo Unusual, who now lives in Kenya, experiences colourism and xenophobia, the dual challenge of being a dark-skinned woman who dares to speak out.
Women are now resorting to practices reminiscent of the 2000s: bleaching their skin and flocking to Mikorogo treatments that are currently trending on social media. Self-proclaimed “TikTok Mikorogo queens” promote the idea that “black doesn’t cut it in Kenya,” perpetuating the toxic message that success comes only in lighter skin.
Academic studies have long defined colourism as a form of intra-racial discrimination, where darker-skinned individuals are judged more harshly than lighter-skinned peers. A 2017 paper, applying Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of symbolic violence, described how Kenyan society attributes positive traits to light skin while associating dark skin with negativity.
Beverly Achieng’ Okoth, a registered counselling psychologist, explains this as deep-rooted psychological conditioning: “Our minds have been conditioned to believe that being lighter equates to being loved more. Women are bleaching their skin because they want society to accept them.”
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This conditioning begins early in life. Psychologist Alinah Kiende Obado compares self-esteem to building a house: brick by brick, from infancy through childhood. “A child learns their worth when their needs are met,” she explains. “But then they meet the outside world, where comparisons begin: ‘Your sister is so pretty because she’s light-skinned.’”
The scars left by these comparisons are lasting. “In families with mixed complexions, children quickly learn which shades are preferred,” Obado adds. “Neighbours often feed the bias, praising lighter-skinned siblings over their darker counterparts.”
For emotional intelligence coach and digital creator Olave Orawo, the journey began in primary school. “Growing up, I always heard, you are so dark. Even the people I was being compared to weren’t light-skinned; they were just lighter than me.”
These constant comparisons had a profound psychological impact. “In my head, I thought I was ugly. I realised that my looks were not something I could rely on, so I invested in other things. I became talented and articulate.” She explains.
The discrimination followed her into adulthood. While working promotional gigs in university, she recalls being the only dark-skinned woman among ten. “They’d line us up and pick girls like beans. The supervisors were blunt, the client wanted light skin, a slim waist, someone who could wear a crop top.”
At 23, during a television audition, the feedback was brutally honest. “They told me I was a great presenter, but I didn’t have the look they were after. They said, ‘You’re not cut out for TV, maybe you’d do better on radio.’”
For others, the pressure to conform led to dangerous choices. Transformational coach Kush Tracey bleached her skin from 2018 to 2021. “To succeed in the industry, I thought I had to lighten my skin, like the role models I looked up to,” she admits.
The cost was steep. Tracey spent over Sh47,000 monthly on glutathione injections, plus additional expenses for accompanying lotions. A box of powder supplements costs Sh15,000 for two weeks, that’s Sh30,000 per month. Then the injections cost between Sh45,000 and Sh47,000 for a month’s supply.
But the real cost was her health. “I had green veins, white spots, stretch marks, acne and dark circles. I still deal with acne problems today, a consequence I have to live with.”
Dr Bernard Gichina, a dermatologist, explains that bleaching products work by reducing or destroying melanocytes, which are the cells that produce skin pigment. The chemicals used include mercury, hydroquinone, potent steroids and glutathione, many of which cause severe health complications.
“People come in with burns, chest infections and gastritis. We’ve even had deaths from glutathione injections in Kenya,” warns Dr Gichina. “Mercury affects higher brain functions, you lose your memory.’ Hydroquinone can cause cancer, kidney failure and liver problems. I’ve seen patients with stretch marks on their faces, excessive hair growth, hypertension and fungal infections.”
Discrimination isn’t just individual; it’s institutional. Orawo explains how, while they are often young, decision-makers in brands and media companies perpetuate older prejudices. “The people giving brand partnerships aren’t young. And even if they are young, they have absorbed the anti-dark skin culture they encountered there.”
Media portrayals don’t help. As psychologist Okoth notes, “Even in films, roles are reserved for light-skinned people. If you need someone to play a witch, get the darkest person. It’s as if the devil is black and Jesus is white.”
Even the widely celebrated notion of “tall, dark and handsome” doesn’t extend to women. “Dark-skinned men are idolised,” Orawo says. “But those same men want light-skinned partners and push women to meet these unrealistic standards.”
Some communities feel the sting more acutely. Orawo notes that Luo women often face harsher colourist jokes from their own men. “The call is coming from inside the house,” she says. “If the person who’s supposed to protect you is pulling you down, then the rest of the world can do whatever they want to you.”
Tracey’s awakening came when she considered having children. “If I marry a dark-skinned man and we have dark children, will that be enough for me? If I don’t love my own skin tone, will I be able to love my dark children?”
There is, however, a glimmer of hope. Digital spaces like TikTok, podcasting and other platforms are giving dark-skinned women visibility that traditional media denied them. “Without TikTok, someone like me would never have built up a following on social media. The digital space has given us more room to exist,” says Orawo.
However, the path forward requires conscious effort from multiple fronts. Psychologist Obado emphasises that parents must first address their own biases. “Parents need to confront and heal their own biases,” Obado says. “Affirm your children. Show them that beauty isn’t limited to complexion.”
She suggests making practical changes to the language used: “When your child wears makeup, tell them they look ‘fancy’. On normal days, tell them they look ‘beautiful’. Separate the idea of beauty from cosmetics.”
Tracey echoes this sentiment: “Parents need to affirm their children regardless of how they look. If they have dark skin, love them and tell them they’re gorgeous. Show them other dark-skinned people doing amazing things.”