Why Black Empowerment Should Never Ride the Wave of White Guilt
From Ami Colé to the Art World: What We Gain and Lose When We're Defined by Trends, Not Truth
I’ve been a die-hard fan of Ami Colé—not just because I know Diarrha, the founder and CEO. Not because we have friends in common. But because she was living the dream: a young Black woman turning years of hard work into a legacy, shaping beauty for women who’d long been overlooked.
My friend Soraya lives between Paris and New York, and every time she touches down in NYC, she knows her first stop: Sephora, to grab Ami Colé’s lip oil and skin tint. It became a ritual. Ami Colé was—and still is—a defining beauty brand for rich melanin skin. The impact Ami Colé has had on Black and Brown ( not exclusively) women’s lives is truly immeasurable. For four years, its presence in our digital lives wasn’t just about products—it was about representation, care, elegance, and affirmation. It was a Senegalese-American success story. The daughter of a Harlem hairdresser creating something not just for us—but with us, in mind.
So when Ami Colé announced its closure in July, it hit hard. And not just because it was unexpected—but because it revealed something many of us already suspected: how fragile Black success can be when it’s propped up by trends, guilt, and performative allyship.
In her interview with The Cut, Diarrha explained that the closure wasn’t due to a lack of customers. It was a lack of investors. And though we’re sad, many of us aren't surprised. After George Floyd’s murder, investors came back to her like dogs chasing a bone—suddenly full of interest, suddenly “inspired” by her vision. But white guilt doesn’t build generational wealth. It doesn’t build supply chains. It doesn’t build legacy.
White guilt doesn’t equal growth. It centers whiteness, It creates temporary support, not lasting structure.
In a capitalist society, it puts Black founders in a passive position. It invites surface-level solidarity, not deep-rooted partnership. It adjusts the optics, but not the power. Ami Colé didn’t fail. The system failed her. The dignity with which Diarrha shared the truth—openly explaining what was happening behind closed doors—only deepened my respect for her.
The brand was born in the “reckoning” of 2020, when corporations raced to diversify their shelves, fund Black creators, and post black squares on Instagram. But four years later, the slogans have faded. The shelf space is shrinking. The money has dried up. And the wave of white guilt that boosted so many—has quietly receded specially with America new leader.
That’s the danger: when Black dreams are built on borrowed emotion, they collapse when the spotlight shifts.