By Oumou Diakité
Fati will soon be thirty, and she’s already spent half her life bleaching her skin. When we made this observation together, she lowered her head. She fidgeted with her fingers, shifted her right leg, which was bouncing on the legs of her chair, and finally said, “Yes, it’s been a long time.”
This interview almost didn’t happen, because the shame of telling this story, of admitting she’s still trapped, of putting words to what she’s kept silent for years — that shame clings to her skin; to her sick skin, with a certain pallor, as if after a long fever. And that fever is called: pigment bleaching.
She continued, stammering something that must have sounded like, “I never thought I’d talk about this in my life. You know, it’s something you talk about later, when you’re older and you’ve stopped. But, since you’re already here, let’s go.”
For Fati, shame isn’t just a passing discomfort. It’s structural. It accumulated slowly, layer upon layer, like the creams she applied at fourteen in the family bathroom with her mother and sisters.
It’s a kind of family ritual, a mother-daughter moment, or, sadly, a rite of passage. It’s practically a culture; Fati says it’s like brushing her teeth: “You do it every day.”
Fati has never forgotten the first time. It was a lotion she bought at the market, “to lighten your skin a little,” the vendor said, “just to give you a healthy glow.”
The results came quickly. Too quickly. Her skin was paler, certainly, but also thinner, more sensitive, more irritated, more uneven, more vulnerable. And that strange joy, mixed with guilt, that overwhelmed her when people told her she looked prettier that way.
That’s where the awkwardness begins. When social approval becomes synonymous with self-effacement. When she came to understand that, to be loved, she first had to disappear a little.
The Skin Lightening Business
Long before Fati opened her first jar of skin-lightening cream, other women, in other eras, had already begun this silent battle against their own melanin. Today, moreover, the skin-bleaching industry is estimated at $11 billion a year worldwide.
In Congo, they call it « makeup »; in Senegal, « xessal »; in Cameroon, « skin bleaching »; in Niger, « dorot »; in Mali, « tcha-tcho »; In Gabon, it’s called « ambi, » in Togo, « akonti. »
Different terms for the same quest: lighter skin, seen as a key to conventional beauty, social success, and even protection against discrimination.
The methods were often rudimentary, but no less dangerous. Fati even told us about “kitchen mixes” that her mother added to lotions bought at the market in an attempt to achieve the lightest possible skin at all costs.
Indeed, there are areas of the body that don’t bleach easily — especially the elbows, knees, neck, and hands.
So, there was nothing more reckless than adding dish soap, toothpaste, hair relaxers, washing soda, cement, or battery acid. Fati clarifies that her mother didn’t mix all these products together, but she knows it was done.
“Mom had a preference for hair relaxers.” And then, logically, it removes your natural texture to give you smooth, white hair, so naturally, it also dissolves some of your skin color.
“Dissolve?” I repeated. “Not really dissolve… But it does remove your dark color, you know.” And then we fell silent.
Bleaching is not without consequences. Side effects range from skin irritation to more serious complications, such as nephrotic syndrome, exogenous ochronosis, skin cancer, and other severe dermatological conditions.
Despite these risks, voluntary skin bleaching has become deeply rooted in African societies and affects between 25% and 67% of African women, regardless of their socioeconomic or educational level.
“You can’t say that bleaching is just for the poor. When I was a teenager, all the girls did it.” Even those who had their homes in La Gombe in Kinshasa (Democratic Republic of Congo). It’s a fantasy. It’s not just poor Black women who want to be lighter-skinned.
Trendy Treatments
I visited a skin-beauty clinic and then some stores selling African products, more colloquially known as “exotic” products.
Kristina Dupont, owner of Studio K on Saint-Denis Street, welcomed me into her office. Dressed in a white coat and with a big smile, I asked her about the inner workings of these famous skin-lightening salons.
And right away, it’s safe to say that this conversation was very reassuring. In fact Kristina knew how to use the right language for this important topic.
At Studio K, they avoid the term “bleaching” and prefer terms like “lightening,” “skin evening,” or “pigmentation correction.” The vocabulary is polished, reflecting the ideal skin tone of an ever-growing clientele.
Demand isn’t waning — it’s increasing. Every year, she says, appointments multiply, driven by a female clientele, averaging 25 to 35 years old, from diverse backgrounds: Black, North African, Asian, and Middle Eastern women. Sometimes even white women.
So, this phenomenon, far from being marginal, has become widespread.
However, the underlying motivations remain unclear. Kristina doesn’t inquire about them. She focuses on the technical, dermatological, and sometimes aesthetic aspects. “The reasons behind these women’s desires remain confidential; we don’t ask them questions.”
A professional stance, but one that also reveals an avoidance — perhaps necessary — of the symbolic and political dimensions of the act.
What we understand between the lines is that social media has largely contributed to normalizing this practice. A fair, even complexion, without blemishes or variations, has become a pervasive ideal, fueled by retouched images, smoothing filters, and influencers who have become purveyors of skin-lightening cosmetics.
Skin lightening is no longer perceived as a shameful concealment, but as an additional step in a “beauty journey.” Thus, what some experienced yesterday as a form of self-erasure is today a skincare ritual, on par with exfoliation or hair removal. Exfoliation is a skincare treatment that removes the layers of the epidermis to improve skin quality (reducing blemishes, for example). Hair removal only concerns body hair.
The clinic offers laser treatment specifically designed for dark skin. Traditional techniques, long unsuitable for dark skin, caused pain. Here, the promise is a painless, gradual, and supervised treatment.
The message is reassuring: “No danger,” they assert, provided you are supervised by professionals. Side effects exist, but are presented as manageable.
However, limits are clearly defined. “You can’t change your skin color,” insists Ms. Dupont. Skin lightening must remain measured, justified, and reversible. When she senses that a request is becoming excessive, unrealistic, or motivated by self-rejection, she says no.
This is a way of maintaining an ethical stance in an era where the temptation of radical transformation is ever-present.
The message is clear: they don’t sell whiteness, they sell an “improved” version of yourself. But this “improvement” still often relies on a hierarchy of skin tones. Lightness remains an implicit benchmark. It’s no longer absolute “white” that fascinates, but accessible, manageable, and socially valued « lightness. » A reinvented, more fluid, but still just as prescriptive standard.
Self-Service Lightness
After leaving the sterile calm of Studio K, I enter a completely different place. And among the wigs, okra powders, soumbala, shea butters, and incense, skin-lightening creams also hold pride of place. Sometimes prominently displayed behind a cash register or in the store aisles, and sometimes tucked away more discreetly on a side shelf.
In both stores, I see a range of familiar products: BelDam, with two lines lined up. The classic one. And the famous blue bottle: the lightening line.
The salespeople aren’t very talkative. To my questions about the difference between the two products or about their ingredients, the answers are brief. Polite, but not very engaged. The skin-lightening cream sells, yes. Less than the regular version, but almost as much.
“It depends on the person,” one of them tells me, without looking up from his phone. Another adds: “Some just want to remove the spots. Others want to be lighter. It’s different for everyone.”
Nothing here resembles the precautions Kristina Dupont mentioned. No reassuring words, no warnings. But they’re just salespeople, I suppose. So there you have it, it was just another shelf among many. An offer placed there, like any other cream. The product is detached from any context. It’s sold without a story. Without any questions.
And yet, there’s a world of difference between these bottles — between a prescribed, regulated, discussed treatment, and this everyday, fluid, silent business. Here, skin lightening is neither a debate nor a taboo: it’s a consumer product, and I can see they’re surprised by my questions.
This contrast between the clinical atmosphere of the beauty salon and the commercial logic of these neighborhood shops reveals one essential thing: the whitening process.
It’s not a single gesture, but a spectrum that lies somewhere between dermatological care and a Saturday routine. It affects bodies, imaginations, and habits. It evokes a norm that dare not speak its name and that can be bought in a bottle.
And while we discuss it in this magazine, at conferences, in films like Ms. Sow’s, and in specialized salons, others continue to lighten their skin in the silence of the aisles, sheltered from questions, far from judgment, even without considering the risks this treatment may entail.
Timpi Tampa
We had the opportunity to view the film Timpi Tampa (2024); a feature film by Adama Bineta Sow, produced by Oumar Sall, which won several awards at the 41st Vues d’Afrique International Film Festival.
In an office at Vues d’Afrique, for one hour and twenty-three minutes, we follow Khalilou’s epic journey as she tries to save her mother from skin cancer, a consequence, among other things, of the skin-lightening treatments she had been undergoing for years.
Unlike Fati, who started at a young age, Khalilou’s mother began bleaching her skin when her husband took a second wife. A second wife who was much lighter-skinned and, in Khalilou’s mind, much more beautiful.
This film highlights the social pressures and beauty standards imposed on Black women, often influenced by ideals that value light skin. Indeed, at the heart of the story is the “Miss High School” pageant, whose winners are always the lightest-skinned girls.
Throughout the film, we hear comments such as, “You look like you’ve gotten darker,” and “Your complexion isn’t as radiant as it used to be.” “We are the Miss Moonlighters, we are the most beautiful.” Or those large billboards promoting skin-lightening creams labeled “100% natural” or other slogans, like “Whiten your skin in 3 weeks, it’s possible!”
Colorism is a form of discrimination based on skin tone. It is deeply rooted in colonial and slave-owning history.
Colorism therefore favors individuals with lighter skin, as they are associated with attributes such as beauty, gentleness, and social success, to the detriment of those with darker skin, who are often victims of negative stereotypes.
In the film, darker-skinned Black women are perceived as less “classy,” less “desirable.”
Studies have also shown that lighter-skinned Black women often enjoy social and professional advantages compared to their darker-skinned counterparts.
They are perceived as more attractive, which can influence their opportunities in various areas, including romantic relationships. This reminds me, in particular, of that restaurant scene where Khalilou’s friends, the main character, think the table across from them, with all the light-skinned girls, is the most beautiful table.
And this preference for light skin is internalized within Black communities themselves; often unconsciously. This perpetuates the cycle of colorism.
The film Timpi Tampa suggests that skin lightening is seen as a way to regain attention or affection in a context where light skin is valued.
This behavior reflects a reality where some Black women may feel the need to alter their appearance to meet societal expectations or the preferences expressed by Black men, who, unknowingly, are influenced by colonial aesthetic standards that favor women with lighter skin.
By addressing these issues, Timpi Tampa offers a poignant reflection on the consequences of colorism and how it affects the interpersonal relationships and self-esteem of Black women.
The film underscores the importance of deconstructing these beauty standards inherited from colonialism to foster self-acceptance and the appreciation of skin diversity within Black communities.
My Conclusion
This article does not point the finger at anyone, nor does it seek to rehabilitate any guilty figures. Black women cannot, on their own, bear the burden of an aesthetic standard that precedes them, permeates them, and often constrains them.
It would be dishonest to ignore that white bodies themselves are not spared from these imposed roles: artificial tans, heavily pigmented makeup, the use of contouring, or practices sometimes bordering on blackfishing (the practice of deliberately appropriating the physical or cultural traits of Black people for personal gain, without experiencing the associated discrimination) — all these are mimetic strategies where melanin becomes an object of desire, sometimes to the point of caricature.
In truth, whether it’s a matter of lightening or darkening, these actions stem from the same imagination, a global economy of appearance structured by ethno-racial, gendered, and social hierarchies.
Beauty, within this system, rarely presents itself as a space of pure freedom. It is codified, situated, and molded by cultural industries, colonial memories, and the invisible injunctions of the dominant gaze.
So, perhaps the real question isn’t who wants to change their skin, or how, but for whom. And at what price?
As long as skin is not simply inhabited, but always to be corrected, modulated, and rewritten, it will remain the stage for an unequal struggle for recognition.
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