While the beauty industry touts its strides in inclusivity, the reality for many Kenyan women with ‘chocolate’ or ‘ebony’ skin tones remains starkly different. For a long time, the market has been skewed towards ‘light-skinned’ beauty, leaving a vast spectrum of our diverse complexions from the rich (kahawia) to the deep (mweusi) underserved.
This isn’t mere inconvenience; it’s a systemic issue rooted in historical biases, where beauty standards have long been Eurocentric.
The frustration doesn’t stop at the limited range of ‘foundation.’ Confusing shade numbering and naming systems plague the industry, transforming foundation selection into a bewildering guessing game.
This ambiguity leads to endless trial and error, a costly and time-consuming process.
Imagine trying to find ‘makeup’ that matches your skin when the shades have names like ‘sand’ or ‘ivory’; things that don’t exist in our Kenyan landscape.
Moreover, the “pink tax” disproportionately affects women of colour, with darker foundation shades often being priced at a premium. Research indicates that price disparities based on race persist even within the same product lines, revealing a deeper economic inequality.
Keep Reading
- How to handle parenting in a changing world
- Parenting tips as a single father
- Dangers of having a favourite child
- Don't let confusing parenting advice scare you
I’ve navigated countless makeup counters, searching for a foundation that truly matches my skin. Like many, I’ve found stores lacking in darker shade options, forcing a constant brand-hopping quest. In my pursuit, I spoke with several women, their experiences echoing my own.
Victory Raija, a fashion designer, abandoned foundation altogether, relying on a trusted chestnut brown lipstick.
“I gave up the search a long time ago, I only use lipstick now. Anything else, and I look like a clown,” she explained, highlighting the struggle to find complementary nude shades for ombré trends.
This sentiment is echoed by journalist Salome Kimani, who cited misleading advice and irritating, low-quality foundations as reasons for abandoning makeup.
Nadia, a lawyer, also expressed frustration, stating, “If I can’t find a lipstick that complements my skin, why should I even bother with foundation?”
These experiences reveal a persistent societal preference for lighter skin, a bias that permeates the beauty industry. Skin-lightening products are often cheaper and more readily available, while darker shades are marginalised.
Lavenda Akumu, a medical doctor and gospel musician, abandoned foundation, advocating for natural beauty on social media.
“We are all fearfully and wonderfully made by God,” she affirmed, a sentiment that speaks to the deeper issue of self-acceptance. Nutritionist Sheila Atieno described the “hell” of finding suitable shades, particularly with affordable powders, and the struggle to find popular shades.
The search for the perfect makeup palette has become a recurring nightmare, a cycle of disappointment. The few suitable products are often unaffordable, and the experience of leaving stores empty-handed is all too common.
During my countless makeup runs through Nairobi’s bustling beauty stalls and upscale boutiques, I’ve been struck by how market forces seem to overshadow our very sense of African identity.
The casual remarks of sales assistants echoed a disheartening trend, revealing the insidious nature of colourism.
One, in a popular downtown cosmetic shop, a seller shrugged, “The lighter shades move faster, my boss doesn’t like products lingering on the shelves. It’s about turnover, you know?”
Another, in a smaller shop in River Road, added, “Dark-skinned women spend hours trying every product, can’t decide. Light-skinned women? They know exactly what they want. It’s easier for me. I’m not a beautician, I just sell these products to pay my rent, to send money home.”
These exchanges show the reality of supply and demand, where the bottom line dictated product availability, not the diverse needs of Kenyan women.
Venturing deeper into the labyrinthine back alleys and bustling market corners of River Road, the beauty narrative took on a disturbing edge.
Here, aggressive vendors, predominantly women with semi-bronzed complexions that hinted at a knowing acceptance of the risks, hawked skin-lightening products, colloquially known as “mafuta” their voices hoarse from relentless calls to passersby.
“I am tired of feeling like being dark-skinned is a crime,” Jackline Atieno lamented, her frustration palpable.
“This is my usual route to work, and I have to endure the ‘madam mafuta’ calls every single day.”
Her words echoed the daily harassment faced by many women simply navigating the city. The constant barrage of sales pitches for skin-lightening products transformed a simple commute into a daily ordeal, a jarring intrusion on the daily rhythm of life.
Emily, a wig vendor nearby, added her perspective, highlighting the ethical dilemma at play. “While I call on clients to get the best wigs,” she said, gesturing towards the array of synthetic hair shimmering in the sunlight, “these other women, competing with us on the street, are busy selling poison. It’s unbelievable how many women are willing to change their skin colour with products they know nothing about.”
Her statement underscores the desperation driving the trade, where the pursuit of perceived beauty overshadowed concerns for health and safety.
The juxtaposition of wig sales, a symbol of outward adornment, with the sale of potentially harmful skin-lightening products painted a complex picture of the pressures and choices facing Kenyan women.
One “mafuta” vendor, her eyes flickering with a mix of defiance and resignation, explained, “I can only sell what people want, no matter the shade. I bring a few units of dark skin beauty products, but they don’t sell fast. I have to keep up with trends, and right now, skin-lightening products are our best sellers. What choice do I have? I have children to feed, rent to pay.”
Here, in these less-than-glamorous settings, the narrative of beauty was stripped bare, revealing the raw economic forces and ingrained societal biases that continued to shape the choices of Kenyan women.
The irony is stark: despite a significant dark-skinned population, light-skinned products dominate the market. This reflects a historical legacy of colourism, a form of prejudice that favours lighter skin tones, rooted in colonialism and perpetuated by media and advertising.
However, there are signs of change. The beauty industry is gradually responding, with brands expanding shade ranges and using technology to improve shade matching. Social media plays a vital role, with influencers promoting products for darker skin. These efforts are pressuring brands to become more inclusive.
While challenges remain, there is hope. As brands broaden their offerings, simplify shade labelling, and embrace diversity in advertising, the beauty world can become more welcoming. It’s crucial to sustain this momentum, ensuring no woman compromises her self-expression.
To further this change, consumers can advocate for inclusive practices by supporting brands that prioritise diversity, demanding transparency in pricing, and engaging in conversations that challenge industry norms.
The future of beauty must be one where every shade is celebrated and every woman feels empowered.
