Growing up, albinism was never really something I thought about. My childhood was a happy blur of playing outside, laughing with friends, and dreaming about the future—just like any other kid. My family made sure I felt included and loved, and I never felt like I was different from anyone else. ‘Albino’ was just a word, something I knew about but didn’t pay much attention to. I was just me, living my life.
But life has a way of peeling back the layers of our carefully crafted worlds. It wasn’t until secondary school that I began to realise my reflection in the mirror wasn’t what everyone else saw. The stares became more pronounced, the questions more direct. “Why is your skin so light?” “Are you really Nigerian?” These were things I hadn’t really thought about before. But now, they were impossible to ignore.
My first sunburn happened when I was five years old. I barely remember it, just flashes of a day spent on the beach with my family. The warmth of the sand, the sound of the waves, and everyone smiling—it was just another day in the sun. The sunburn was a minor inconvenience, something my parents took care of without much fuss. I didn’t understand then that my skin was more sensitive than most. It was just another day in the sun.
But then came my second sunburn, the one that really counted. It happened in secondary school, and this time, I remember every painful detail. We had been outside for some event, and I hadn’t thought much about it. By the end of the day, my skin was on fire. It wasn’t just the physical pain that stuck with me—it was the realisation that I was different in a way that mattered. That sunburn marked a turning point. It wasn’t just my skin that was burning; it was the first time I truly felt the weight of my albinism.
Read – My Fractured Identity – A Creative Non-Fiction by Angel J Okonkwo – Nigeria
In a society where community and belonging are deeply tied to cultural and physical identity, I started to notice the subtle ways in which I was set apart. My pale skin, light hair, and sensitive eyes became markers others used to define me. It was as if I suddenly became aware of an invisible barrier, one that I hadn’t felt before but now couldn’t ignore.
University brought even more clarity—or maybe it was confusion. I was stepping into a world that wanted to categorise me, to put me into a box marked “different.” People would comment on my appearance, some with curiosity, others with an edge of pity or discomfort. I began to un-derstand that my albinism wasn’t just a detail; it was something that others saw as defining. But here’s the twist: by that point, I had already defined myself in a completely different way.
When I went to university in Ghana, the stares became more pronounced. People would look at me unashamedly, sometimes with confusion. Yet, it didn’t bother me. I had learned to block out the stares, the whispers, and even the catcalls. By then, I had tuned them out so completely that I barely noticed them anymore. It was like background noise, something I’d trained myself not to hear.
As I grew older, I began to understand the implications of being a person with albinism. There were expectations—both from others and from within—that I should somehow connect more deeply with this aspect of myself. In adulthood, I even tried to build a community for people with albinism. It seemed like the right thing to do, a way to contribute. But as time went on, I started to question whether I really cared enough. The truth is, nobody seemed particularly interested, and I wasn’t sure I was either. It felt like I was trying to fit into a role that wasn’t really mine. I was aware of my condition, but I didn’t feel connected to it in the way that others might expect. I often forget the International Day of Albinism, which might seem odd, but it just doesn’t resonate.
One thing I still struggle with is deciding whether or not to tick the “disability” box on forms. I mean, do I count as disabled? Technically, yes. But I don’t feel disabled. It’s always this little internal debate—tick or not to tick? Sometimes, I just wish there was a “kind of” option!
People often call me “brave” or “confident” because of how I live. They say it’s because they don’t expect someone with albinism to live so boldly, to draw attention to themselves. But to me, it’s just living. I’ve always been this way—unapologetically myself, not because of or despite my albinism, but because that’s just who I am. I find it strange that people think it’s something special, but I suppose it’s all about perspective. To them, I’m defying expectations. To me, I’m just being me.
I’ve realised that storytelling isn’t just about the narratives we craft for others—it’s also about the stories we tell ourselves. My journey has been one of self-definition, of choosing to see the world through my own eyes, even when others want to hand me a different lens.
In my work, I help others craft their narratives to find the voice that feels true to them. Because I know what it’s like to feel the pressure of outside expectations, and I also know the power of embracing your own story. It’s not always easy and doesn’t always fit into neat categories, but it’s yours. And there’s nothing more powerful than that.
My albinism, once something I rarely thought about, has become a part of my story—but it’s not the whole story. I’ve learned to take pride in who I am, not just as a person with albinism but as someone who has chosen to live authentically. Each challenge I’ve faced has taught me to navigate the world with resilience and to see my pale skin not as a barrier but as a unique perspective that enriches my view of the world.
Read – A Fleeting Moment – A Creative Non-Fiction by Ayogu Chidimma – Nigeria
Today, the sun’s light is still bright, but instead of hiding from it, I confidently step into it, know-ing that my identity is not just skin-deep but rooted in resilience and self-love. My journey with albinism has taught me that identity barriers are not meant to be feared or avoided—they are meant to be confronted and overcome. Through pale eyes, I have learned to see the beauty in diversity, embrace the complexities of identity, and live with a spirit unbound by the limitations that others might try to place on me.
In sharing my story, I hope to inspire others who face their own identity struggles. I want them to know that they are not alone, that their struggles are valid, and that their uniqueness is their strength. My journey may not fit the typical narrative, but that’s precisely why it’s important. It’s a reminder that there’s no one way to live with albinism—or any other identity. We each carve out our paths, shaped by our experiences, our choices, and the stories we choose to tell.
And that, to me, is the essence of true storytelling.
