Growing up in the heart of Western Nigeria, Sade* never asked to stand out, but from the moment she stepped into the world, her skin told a story different from everyone else’s.
Born with albinism, her earliest memories are laced with whispers, long stares, and the subtle yet sharp sting of being treated like an outsider. From classrooms where teachers mistook her vision struggles for laziness, to streets where strangers projected myths and mockery onto her pale skin, Sade’s life has been a lesson in grace, resilience, and the pursuit of self-worth.
In this interview with JD, she talks about growing up in Ibadan, dealing with bullies, love and rejection, how sunlight sometimes hurts more than people think, and what it truly means to love herself in a world that doesn’t always see her clearly.
Her name is Sade. And this is her story.
Growing up with albinism in Nigeria, must have come with its fair share of challenges. Can you take me back to what it was like as a child?
Honestly, childhood was sweet and tough at the same time. Sweet, because I had loving parents who didn’t make me feel like I was any different. But once I stepped outside the gate, it was a different story. People used to call me afin (a Yoruba word for people with albinism), oyinbo pepper, all those names. Some would even touch my skin and rub it, as if it would peel or something. I didn’t understand it then, but it made me start hiding myself.
Did that affect how you saw yourself?
A lot. I spent years trying to shrink myself. I didn’t like taking pictures, and I didn’t like standing in front of the class. I used to beg my teachers not to call me out to read. I just didn’t want the attention. I mean, it was already hard seeing the board because of my eyes and then to add all the staring and whispering? It was a lot.
How did school play out for you generally?
Hmm. Let me just say, school was where I learned how to hide pain. I remember in secondary school, there was this guy who called me “white rat” for months. I reported him once, but it only made things worse. So I stopped talking. I became quiet. If not for literature and art, I don’t think I would have found a voice at all. That was my escape.
What about friendships? Were you able to form close bonds?
Not easily. People always assumed I was proud. I guess because I didn’t talk much. But I was just trying to protect myself. The ones who stayed, though, the few people who actually took time to know me, they became my safe space. It took me years, but now I have a small circle that truly gets me. And that’s enough.
Let’s talk about beauty. Growing up in a culture where light skin is often fetishized but albinism is mocked. How did you navigate that?
That contradiction messed with my head for a long time. Like, they’d say “yellow girls are fine,” but not this kind of yellow. Some men would approach me out of curiosity, like I was some exotic object. Others would boldly say, “I can’t date an albino, but you’re cool sha.” What does that even mean?
There was a time I used to wish I could just tan overnight or melt into the background. But therapy and intentional self-love changed that. I still have days when I feel off, but I no longer hate my reflection.
You mentioned therapy. What pushed you toward that path?
University. That’s when things came to a head. I fell into depression in 300 level. Too many bottled emotions. I got tired of smiling through it. One day, I just broke down in class. My coursemate helped me get help through the school clinic. From there, I started seeing a therapist. It was hard opening up at first, but it saved me. And now I advocate for it in my little way, especially for people who look like me.
ICYMI: “My Son Has No Use For a Sickler”; The Harrowing Experience of a Sickle Cell Warrior in Nigeria
Dating and relationships. How has your experience been so far?
(Laughs) Oh, where do I start? I’ve dated twice. The first one was sweet but filled with a lot of explaining. He meant well, but he always tried to “protect” me, which felt like pity. The second guy, he was great; but his mum didn’t approve. She literally said, “Do you want albinism in your bloodline?” That shook me. After that, I stopped forcing things.
Now I focus on finding someone who sees me and not my skin. Someone who knows I’m not fragile or cursed. Just human.
Do you think there’s still a lot of ignorance about albinism in our society?
Absolutely. People still think we don’t die. That we bring luck. Or that we’re weak and always sick. It’s wild. Some believe we don’t see in sunlight, forgetting we actually need to be more careful because of our skin and eyes. I’ve had people ask if I can give birth to “normal children.” The ignorance is so loud, it’s painful.
What do you wish people understood better?
That albinism is just a genetic condition. That we’re not “half-caste,” not abnormal, not fragile. That we feel love, pain, shame, joy, just like everyone else. And that what we need most is not pity, but acceptance and equal opportunity.
What are your dreams now?
I want to write children’s books featuring kids with albinism as heroes. I want them to see themselves as bold and bright. I also hope to start a small community group in Ibadan for young people with albinism to share experiences and encourage one another. Sometimes, just knowing you’re not alone can change everything.
What would you say to your younger self?
I’d hold her hand and say, “You are not a mistake. You’re different, yes, but different is not wrong. Shine anyway.”
To read more stories from our Wheels and Wings category, click here and subscribe here also to our newsletter to receive more goodies.
*Pseudonym
