I started bleaching at 16. A boy in secondary school told me I would be prettier if I were lighter. I bought my first tube of Movate from a kiosk in Onitsha market. By 19, I was mixing three different creams with steroid tubes. By 25, I was "yellow bone" — the complexion Nigerian music videos worshipped. Men complimented me. Women asked for my "secret." I felt beautiful for the first time. I am 30 now. My skin is paper-thin. I have stretch marks that look like tribal scars. My knuckles are five shades darker than my palms — the classic "bleaching mask." I have a permanent rash on my neck. Last month, a dermatologist told me I have early signs of skin cancer and kidney damage from mercury absorption. Ten years of self-h@te, bottled and applied daily. The irony? I now find dark skin the most beautiful thing on earth. I look at women with rich, melanin-drenched complexions and I feel envy. I destroyed my natural glory chasing a standard that was never meant for me. The same society that called me "dark and ugly" now says I "look sick." You cannot win. Colorism in Nigeria is a mental illness we refuse to diagnose. From birth, girls are told light is lovely and dark is dirty. Our aunties recommend "toning" at puberty. Our billboards feature mixed-race models. Our musicians praise "yellow." We are actively breeding a generation of damaged skin and damaged psyches. I am healing now. I have stopped all products. I wear hats in the sun. I am relearning to love the skin I tried to erase. But the damage is done. Ladies, have you ever felt pressured to lighten your skin? And men, do you realize your "preferences" are programming women's self-destruction? Let's be vulnerable.
