Colorism and black girl self-esteem
Dad, why don’t I look like you? Retracing the start of my low self-esteem which became a magnet for the abuser.
Continuation from the previous blog
Iwas around seven when Dad got an accounting job in Nairobi and pivoted from his teaching career. We remained in Kibos for a few months as he settled in Nairobi. We later joined after Mum secured a transfer to KARI Muguga.
I loved Muguga from the first day. It was a beautiful community. We drove along a winding tarmac road lined with majestic tall trees that went on as far as the eye could see. We approached a giant gate, and the security stopped the car and did a security sweep. After a few questions were asked, the askari stepped back into his office and reappeared, nodding for the gate to be opened.
I stuck my head on the car window with wide eyes, taking in what was unfolding. Beautiful homes, manicured lawns, edged fences. I was getting giddy with excitement. There was more.
Muguga was a respected research center that received international funding. There were ODA land rovers with foreigners coming in and out. Massive paddocks were rolling with bales of dry hay. Big curved honed cattle grazing silently with an occasional moan. There were giraffes, beautiful sheep and goats. Golf club, a members club, several tennis courts, badminton courts, and football fields. Churches, hospitals, shops, and a vibrant community full of doctors, PhD scholars, middle managers, supervisors, and supporting staff. We co-existed harmoniously like one big family. I felt at home; I owe my parents gratitude for deciding to raise the family in a community that would shape my whole life.
One day, we sat outside basking in the morning sun on a Saturday. I put my arms next to my dad’s and asked him why we were not the same color. He said it was because I am a mix of mum and dad. I told him that my school desk-mate and sister Al looked more like him and were treated better.
“I want to look more like you, Dad”.
He explained that I am his daughter, which makes me just as beautiful. I was not convinced.
Colorism is not well defined in Africa. An unspoken bias permeates the homes, churches, schools, and work. Lighter-skinned black children are favored. I remember doing more chores than Al. I remember being sent to the kiosk more because men would whistle at my sister. My punishments felt more harsh, especially from my mother. Relatives would say, “ I hope she changes more into her dad when she grows up so that she can be married.” It was insidious.
While healing from the abusive marriage, I had to dive back into my childhood to uncover the source of my low self-esteem. What I have written is the tip of the iceberg on colorism. I grew into a tall, skinny chocolate girl who felt awkward due to my height. This physique did not favor me in terms of dating. See, African men prefer curvaceous, lighter-skinned women. One boyfriend I dated once ordered me two more plates at Ranalos, a famous restaurant.
“She needs fattening”.
My luck would change much later when I started going to Alliance Francaise to take French classes. I met young girls who were my height and modeling. I also started attracting rich white men who found me gorgeous. What? My height was alluring to them, my petite body was sexy for them, I preferred my hair short, and my first German boyfriend adored it. This started building my confidence. I didn’t realize then that I was outsourcing my sense of self, validation, and self-worth to a partner.
#alifeautopsyseries
