Racism is not just a historical relic or something that only happens in distant lands. It is a deeply embedded reality, alive in whispers, jokes, glances, and outright exclusion. And contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t only come from white people. As a Black African who has traveled and lived abroad, and who has grown up in a society where colorism is pervasive, I have come to realize just how hard it is to be Black in today’s world. My skin color is not just something I wear, it’s something I have had to defend, explain, and even apologize for more times than I can count.
Growing up in Kenya, I was already marked by my complexion. Among my own family members, I was often teased and referred to as “Kiptuya,” a term for someone very dark-skinned. It wasn’t meant as a compliment. In school, I was called “Blakie,” and noticed early on that lighter-skinned children were often treated more favorably; more beautiful, more desirable, more acceptable. I learned quickly that there was a hierarchy, and being darker meant being closer to the bottom of it.
This early experience prepared me (though not fully) for what I would encounter abroad. During my time in the Philippines, I was often met with stares and unwelcome attention that made me feel like a walking exhibit. On one occasion, I was invited to a young girl’s birthday party, the daughter of a British-Filipina couple. The little girl stuck close to me all day, fascinated, I thought, by my friendliness. But eventually, she looked up at me and innocently asked: “What happened to your skin? Did you get burned?” That question, so honestly posed, cut deeper than she could ever understand. The room went quiet. The parents were embarrassed, but not surprised. This kind of remark had clearly never been challenged in their world.
To make things worse, a lady at the same party later handed me a bar of skin-whitening soap. I wasn’t offended, but I was numb. Her gesture was not one of malice, but of ignorance. She believed she was doing me a favor, that I might want to improve the way I looked.
Racism, I learned, isn’t always violent or loud. Often it’s wrapped in politeness, hidden in microaggressions, or disguised as concern. Sometimes, it’s a handshake withheld, as happened during an official visit to a mayor in Southern Philippines. He seemed unable to mask his discomfort at my presence. When we were introduced, he barely looked at me and kept his attention on my white colleague. Eventually, he asked where I was from. “Kenya, Africa,” I replied. He seemed puzzled and asked, “Aren’t there any white people in Kenya?” I smiled and answered, “No, only Black people. We all look like me.” I had to make a joke out of it to avoid boiling over.
In the United States, the racism was more systematic, more subtle but equally draining. I would be complimented for speaking “good English” as if my intelligence defied expectations. “Did you study here?” they’d ask, puzzled that someone like me could be articulate. Others would slow their speech as if I were a child or lacked comprehension. It was always assumed that I needed help, not because I asked, but because I looked like I did.
What’s most painful is that this kind of bias isn’t limited to interactions with other races. Even among fellow Africans, even among Black people, the legacy of colonization and internalized racism runs deep. We have created our own damaging hierarchies. Lighter skin is still seen as more beautiful, more worthy. This, perhaps, is the most difficult part to accept. When your own people treat you as lesser because of how dark your skin is, where do you belong?
My experience has taught me that racism is not just about hate, It is about ignorance, about systems that place whiteness at the center of everything. It is about what is considered normal, desirable, intelligent, beautiful. And it is not confined to any one region or people. It exists in classrooms, boardrooms, homes, and even within us.
It’s time we speak openly about these experiences. We must challenge not only the obvious acts of racism but the silent, daily assaults that grind people down. We need to start at home, in our communities, by unlearning the idea that skin tone equates to value. Only then can we truly begin to dismantle the global color line.
Because being Black should never mean being less.
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