I was twelve when I first realized my skin was a problem. It wasn’t in Nigeria, where everyone looked like me. It was when my family moved to Europe.

At first, I didn’t notice. But then came the stares—the long, uneasy glances on the bus, the tight clutching of purses when I walked past, the hesitant smiles that never reached the eyes. I told myself it was nothing.

Until it wasn’t.

In school, I raised my hand to answer a question. The teacher barely looked at me. When Daniel, a blond-haired boy, said the same thing, she nodded approvingly. I learned to keep my hand down.

During lunch, the whispers started. "Do you wash your hair?" "Why is your skin so dark?" "You must be really good at running." I laughed, pretending it didn’t sting.

The real blow came when I walked into a store. I was browsing when a security guard followed me. Not subtly—openly. When I reached for my wallet, his hand went to his radio. I left without buying anything.

Then there were the job interviews.

"Great resume," they’d say, smiling politely. "We’ll be in touch."

They never were.

One day, a man on the train looked at me and muttered, "Go back to your country."

I almost laughed. My country? The one I barely remembered? The one I left to chase dreams in a world that saw my skin before my worth?

Discrimination isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s in the way doors stay closed, the way people look through you, the way you’re always an outsider no matter how hard you try.

But I’ve learned something. My skin is not a burden. It carries history, resilience, and strength. And no matter how many times they try to erase me, I will take up space.

Because I belong.