My name is Chukwudi Eze, but most people call me Mr. Chuks. I was born and raised in a small town near Nsukka, the third of five children and the only one who came out with albinism.
From the moment I arrived this world, I was different. Not just in appearance, but in how people look at me… or chose not to.
Some called me “oyibo pepper,” others “spirit,” and a few just stared like I was something strange. Even my own extended family didn’t always know how to handle me. But nothing prepared me for how this skin of mine, this very visible difference, would affect the one thing I’ve always longed for: love.
I was about thirteen the first time I fell in love. Her name was Ifunanya. She had these eyes that sparkled when she laughed, not the fake type of laugh, but the kind that could melt your whole day.
One day in school, I helped her pick up her books after a group of boys knocked them over. She smiled at me, and my chest tightened. I thought maybe, just maybe, this was something.
So I wrote her a letter. Simple. Honest. “I like you. You’re special to me.” She didn’t reply. Instead, a few boys in our class read the letter out loud at break time. They laughed so hard, it felt like they were tearing something inside me apart.
“Albino dey toast fine girl!” one shouted. “She be spirit lover now?” another joked. Ifunanya never looked at me the same again. That day, I promised myself, no more letters. No more crushing. But I broke that promise years later.
I’m 32 now. I run a small electrical repair shop in Awka. People respect me. I pay my bills. I’ve helped some of my younger cousins through school. My customers even bring me food sometimes.
On the surface, I have everything together. But behind that quiet shop and forced smile, I carry an ache that rarely leaves me, the ache of not being chosen.
I’ve been to countless weddings, cousins, friends, church members. I always smile and take photos with the couple, but each time I go home feeling like a guest in a life I’m supposed to be living too.
I tried Facebook dating once. I met a woman from Aba. Her name was Nkechi. We talked every day. She said she liked my vibe, that I was “a real man” and “so caring.” I got excited. We planned to meet, but she said her mother was sick and needed money. I sent ₦50,000 without thinking twice.
The next day, I video-called her. She answered. Her face changed the moment she saw me clearly. I could tell she hadn’t realized I was albino from my profile photo. She didn’t say a word. The next morning, I was blocked.
There was another lady at church. Her name was Chiamaka. She was on the ushering team. I admired her commitment and her calm spirit. We talked after service one Sunday, and things felt warm. I asked if we could get to know each other better. She said she’d pray about it.
A week later, a mutual friend pulled me aside and told me the truth. “She say you’re a good man, Chuks… but her family won’t accept someone like you. She said they’d be too embarrassed.” I nodded. Said “it’s okay.” Smiled like it didn’t matter. But that night, I wept into my pillow like a child.
In Igbo culture, marriage is bigger than two people. It’s about family, pride, legacy. I’ve heard mothers whisper, “Albinism? What if the children carry it too?” or “I can’t carry albino inlaw go village o.”
Sometimes it’s not even what people say, it’s the silence. The hesitation. The way a girl’s eyes shift when I talk about marriage. Or how the relationship slowly becomes “just friendship.” One woman once told me, right to my face, “Chuks, you’re every woman’s dream… except the skin part. Society no go let me breathe.” What do you say to that?
During the day, I distract myself, customers, repairs, bills. But when night comes, when I lie on my small bed staring at the ceiling fan, the silence becomes loud. I imagine what it would be like to have someone next to me. To talk about my day. To hold hands. To be asked, “How was work today, my love?” But it’s always just me. Alone with my thoughts. Still, I pray. Every night. Not just for a wife, but for the kind of world where someone like me can be seen before being judged.
I’ve not given up. I mentor two boys with albinism now. They’re younger, 14 and 17. I teach them how to protect their skin, how to stand up for themselves, and most importantly, how to love who they are, even when the world tells them they’re not enough. I tell them, “Your skin is not a mistake. You are not a second-class human being.” I remind myself of that too, even on days I don’t feel it.
I know my story isn’t unique. There are many men and women like me, with visible differences, who just want to be loved without conditions. I don’t want pity. I don’t want someone to marry me out of sympathy. I just want to be chosen, fully, proudly, and in the open. Until then, I’ll keep living. I’ll keep loving myself. And maybe one day, someone will see past the shade of my skin and into the size of my heart.
Because love doesn’t have a color. It never did.
My name is Mr. Chuks. And this is my truth.
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