The white patch appeared on March 22, 2024. I wasn’t thinking about my skin that day. I could barely swallow, talk, or eat because of a severe sore throat. I reached for the usual medication and hoped it would pass.
Days later, the sore throat pain eased, but my skin kept changing. On the third day, I spotted small white patches on my left arm. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It didn’t seem serious.
Then weeks passed, and the patches spread to my second arm. That’s when the worry set in. I started seeking medical attention, trying to figure out what kind of disease I was dealing with.
A doctor said it was vitiligo. When he explained it fully – that there was no guaranteed cure – disappointment hit me hard. I felt despair and began to reject myself.
Facing it came with unexpected challenges. My self-esteem dropped fast. I started turning down outings, limiting where I went and who I saw. Some days it felt like social segregation.
The first thing I changed was my habits. Lagos heat didn’t matter anymore — long sleeves and trousers became my uniform, even in March. I’d check my sleeves before leaving the house, tug them down if they rode up. I told myself it was for sun protection. The truth was I didn’t want people to see, and I couldn’t risk the sun either.
The sun became another challenge I had to face. I learned quickly that exposing myself to it made me weak and drained for hours afterwards. What used to be a quick walk or waiting outside now feels hectic. I started planning my day around shade and saying no to anything that meant being out too long under the sun.
Outings got smaller. I started saying no to events I used to love, like weddings and quick meetups after work. It wasn’t that I couldn’t go. It was that I didn’t know how to explain. “What happened to your arm?” is a question that sounds small until you’ve answered it 20 times in a week.
I started saying no to events I used to love, like weddings and quick meetups after work.
When I’m on a path and someone notices my skin, I see it immediately. The surprise in their eyes, the way some turn to the other side like I might be contagious. It stings every time.
But not everyone reacts that way. Some people try to soften it with kind words: “Sorry, but you have beautiful skin. I wish I were like you.” “Don’t think about it, you’ll heal.” And the older people I meet often pull me aside with advice: herbs, oils, local treatments they swear worked for someone they know. I know they mean well.
I can’t forget a day at the bus stop. A woman walked past, saw me, hissed, and muttered something ugly under her breath. I held it together until I got home. Then I cried.
It hasn’t been easy. There are things I still can’t bring myself to do. The hardest part wasn’t the stares or the comments. It was the way I started seeing myself. I’d catch my reflection and pause, like I was looking at someone I didn’t recognise.
My courage showed up in small choices like stepping out without pulling my sleeves down, answering “what happened?” without apologising, looking in the mirror and staying there for a few seconds longer. I’m still learning, still becoming. But I’m no longer waiting to be “fixed” before I live.
As narrated by: Rofiat Aderonke Adedokun (Ogun, Nigeria).
This snippet is published as part of the series, The Complex Reality of Vitiligo.
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