A few days ago, someone described a video they had seen, and it got me thinking. Actually, it did more than that… something in my chest tightened.
In the clip, a young black boy is shown two dolls.
One white. One black.
He’s asked, “Which one is ugly?”
He points to the black doll.
“Which one is beautiful?”
He points to the white one.
And finally, “Which one looks like you?”
He pauses, glances down for a second… and slowly points to the black one again.
That said so much without saying much. And sadly, it’s not new. It made me wonder: Who taught us to hate ourselves? To hate how we look, how we talk, how we dress?
Experiments like this go back to the 1940s, but they still happen today, and the results haven’t really changed much.
If you’ve ever spent time in West Africa, especially in Nigeria, you’ve probably heard the word oyibo (pronounced oh-yee-boh). It’s used to describe white people or anything seen as foreign or Western. But it’s not always just a neutral word. Over time, it became a kind of compliment. A status symbol. Something to aspire to.
If someone had lighter skin, people would say, “You look like oyibo.”
Hair long and straight? “Like oyibo.”
A foreign accent? “Ah, that oyibo accent!”
When I was younger, I lived in a small community where, whenever a white person visited, it caused a small scene. People would come out just to catch a glimpse. They’d smile, try to talk to them… and it wasn’t just about being curious. It felt like reverence.
Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing bad about admiring other people or their culture. That’s natural. But it becomes something else when admiration turns into comparison. When you start to think or feel that you’re not as good, not as worthy.
And the worst part is, it comes through the small, repeated messages… over and over.
The skin-lightening creams displayed openly in stores.
The way foreign accents get praised.
The quiet idea that the closer you are to whiteness, the better.
That quiet message sinks in, and little by little, people start to believe it.
And the thing is, it doesn’t usually come in obvious ways. No one stands up and says, “Hey, by the way, you’re not good enough.”
At least, not usually.
Then again, some people say things that are just outright offensive.
I mean, if a whole vice president of a major country can casually refer to another nation’s people as “peasants”… yeah, that actually happened, then really, what’s left that people won’t say out loud these days?
Wild.
Anyway, back to the point.
The real harm comes from the small, everyday things that don’t seem like a big deal at first, but they pile up.
Like the skin-lightening creams lined up on store shelves.
The way people compliment and smile when someone speaks with a foreign accent but laugh when it’s a local one.
Or how natural hair is barely talked about except when it’s being straightened or “fixed.”
All of it sends a message. And after a while, you start to believe it.
I once had a conversation with an old friend who had moved to the U.S. She said it took her years to even realize how much of that had shaped her. How it affected the way she dressed, how she smiled, how she spoke, without even knowing she had internalized it all.
And yes, in recent years, some things have started to shift… thank goodness.
More people are embracing their 4C hair, rocking their afros, and showing off their natural beauty with pride. ‘Chocolate’ and ‘caramel’ skin are being celebrated more openly.
But that doesn’t mean the old messages are gone. They’re still there.
A while back, a little girl told her mom she didn’t want to be black. She wanted “the silky kind of hair,” like the girls in the cartoons. She was barely seven, and it shook her mother.
They sat down and had a talk. The mother realized how early it all starts.
It’s not just about hair or skin. It’s about what those things have been made to mean.
It’s about value. About worth.
It’s about growing up in a world that teaches too many people to shrink themselves… to speak differently, to dress a certain way, to hide parts of who they are just to feel seen.
So when I think about that little boy with the two dolls, I don’t judge him. I see him. I see the girl who gets teased for being too dark. The student who softens their accent to sound “better.” The woman who only feels beautiful in a wig that mimics someone else’s hair. Yes, I see myself. It’s sad but true.
The shame didn’t start with us, but we don’t have to carry it anymore. We can stop it here. We get to unlearn it. We get to speak differently to the next generation. We get to remind them and ourselves that our beauty, our culture, and our roots have always been more than enough.
