Lights, Camera, Disparity

From Left to Right: Beverly Naya, Lupita Nyong'o, Taraji P. Henson, and Mo'Nique.
Image Credit: Daily Post Nigeria, Essence, US Weekly, and BellaNaija

Black Women, the Film Industry, and the Art of Being Overlooked

By Atinuke Adeosun

Let us be real: everyone loves a good underdog story. But Hollywood? Hollywood practically built its brand on it. That whole “started from the bottom, now we are here” vibe is the industry’s favorite genre. Struggle, rise, triumph, and repeat.

But when that underdog is a Black woman? Suddenly, the system forgets how to root for her.

They want the story, not the storyteller. The performance, not the person. The power, but not the politics.

Lupita Nyong'o: They Take the Talent and Leave the Melanin

As a kid growing up in Northern Nigeria, I was glued to the Disney Channel, dreaming, like many of us did, of becoming one of those child stars. But even then, I knew there was a ceiling. Girls like me, with names the world could not pronounce, did not make it to Hollywood. Not really.

And then came Lupita Nyong’o.

I first saw her on Shuga, a Kenyan show I probably had no business watching at my age, but she was magnetic. It was clear even then: this woman had it. So when she graced the screen in 12 Years a Slave, playing Patsey, the heartbreakingly abused yet resilient enslaved woman, I was floored. The performance was so potent, so emotionally packed, that it earned her the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress after just 22 minutes and 30 seconds of screen time.

Let that sink in. Less than half an hour on screen, and she bested acting titans like Julia Roberts, Sally Hawkins, and Jennifer Lawrence. That is not just talent, it is transcendence. By all industry logic, this should have been the beginning of Lupita’s domination. The girl had arrived.

But what did Hollywood give her?

Not the front-facing, glamorous prestige gigs that tend to follow Oscar glory. Instead, Lupita was handed masked, CGI-heavy, or horror-centric roles—Star Wars, Black Panther, Us, Little Monsters. Brilliant films, sure. But with half the promo, half the pay, and none of the starring-manufacturer energy of her white counterparts.

Now, let us talk about Margot Robbie.

Undeniably talented, endlessly charming, and gorgeous. The Wolf of Wall Street launched her into the stratosphere, and she never looked back. Roles are written for her. She produces her own projects. She is the moment, I mean, she is BARBIE for heaven’s sake!

So what gives?

Lupita has the same range. The same discipline. The same on-screen magic. She is stunning, stylish, and multilingual. And yet, the same doors do not swing open as fast or at all.

Because when you are Black in Hollywood, especially a dark-skinned Black woman, the rules shift. You have to prove yourself again and again. And even when you win, the game resets.

It is the quiet, systemic favoritism that tells you who is meant to be a muse and who is meant to stay in the margins. It feels like Hollywood keeps handing out trophies to Black women just to turn around and tell them to “stay humble” while their white peers cash checks and collect greenlights.

Lupita’s quiet sidelining after a historic win is not just a glitch in the system; it is the system. And it is a pattern that repeats, especially when Black women dare to ask for more than just applause. 

Enter Mo’Nique. 

Mo'Nique: Hush Up and Be Grateful!

When we talk about range, I mean real range. 

Mo'Nique has it in spades. Many of us first met her in the loud, hilarious corridors of Black sitcoms and stand-up shows. Then came Precious, and everything changed. Mo’Nique did not just act in that film; she erupted on screen as Mary Lee Johnston, the terrifying, abusive mother from hell. Her performance was raw, haunting, and unforgettable. And the world took notice: she swept awards season, winning the Oscar, Golden Globe, BAFTA, and more.

By all logic and Hollywood logic especially, this should have ushered in her renaissance. You know the drill: award season darling becomes prestige film magnet. Big roles, fat checks, magazine covers, fragrance deals, the works. But instead of ascending into the stratosphere like a Charlize Theron or Reese Witherspoon, Mo’Nique got… silence.

Why? Because she broke the cardinal rule: she spoke up. Specifically, she dared to challenge the industry’s exploitative promo culture and called out how she was being underpaid and undervalued compared to her white peers.

Let us zoom in. After filming wrapped for Precious, produced by Hollywood power titans Oprah Winfrey and Tyler Perry, Mo’Nique was asked to promote the film at Cannes. But here is the twist: the trip was not part of her contract, and she would not be paid. Mo’Nique, juggling a talk show, a comedy tour, and her family, declined. She had done her job. And let us be honest, asking a newly Oscar-winning actress to work for free (and shaming her when she says no) is a bold move for an industry that claims to value talent.

Mo'Nique stood her ground, famously saying:

“I have a husband and I have babies. I have a little bit of downtime, and I am going to take advantage of it. I have done my part.”

It was a boundary—clear, professional, reasonable. But Hollywood read it as rebellion. She was labeled “difficult.” Producers whispered. Phones stopped ringing. Projects evaporated. Even Lee Daniels admitted she had been blackballed. Just like that, a Black woman setting limits was seen as a threat.

Now, let us be honest: Mo’Nique has not always been easy to champion. She is brash, unfiltered, and has sometimes aired personal grievances in public, including calling out Oprah Winfrey and Tyler Perry in ways that made some cringe. Two things can be true at once: she may have been controversial, but that does not justify how the industry punished her.

And here is where the double standard becomes glaring.

White actresses have also been labeled “problematic”, and their careers flourished regardless. Rebel Wilson falsely claimed to be the first plus-size woman to lead a romcom, erasing women like Queen Latifah and Mo’Nique herself. Joan Rivers built a career off biting, sometimes cruel jokes, including one where she suggested Palestinians deserved death. 

Melissa McCarthy broke out as a comic actress and later earned an Oscar nod for Can You Ever Forgive Me?. She even turned down a role in the raunchy Happytime Murders when she felt the script disrespected women. Rather than being punished, she was applauded, her career thrived, and she co-founded her own production company. As Mo’Nique herself pointed out, if she were white, her story would be “Melissa McCarthy” – underscoring how different the rewards can be

Mo’Nique stood her ground—and the industry shut the door. McCarthy stood her ground—and Hollywood handed her a key.

That is not about talent. It is about power. It is about race. And it is about how quickly Black women are deemed expendable the moment they stop being agreeable.

But this is not about dragging white actresses or excusing all of Mo’Nique’s choices. It is about naming the system that selectively punishes one group while protecting another.

And yes—Oprah and Tyler Perry’s silence in the wake of the controversy was especially painful. Not because they owed her fealty, but because, as Black people with power, we carry a greater responsibility. We must be careful not to uphold the very systems that undervalue and overwork us. 

Instead, we must ask harder questions: Why are Black women expected to perform gratitude for scraps? Why are their boundaries read as arrogance, while others’ are seen as empowerment?

Mo’Nique’s refusal to play the "grateful Black woman" narrative cost her a decade of work. McCarthy’s refusal to accept subpar content boosted her reputation. That is the formula: speak up while white, you are empowered. Speak up while Black, you are exiled.

So here’s to Mo’Nique: a woman who did not just change lanes but built a whole new freeway. One Hollywood still pretends doesn't exist.

And to quote one of my all-time favorite Mo’Nique memes, the one that lives rent-free in my head:

“Since you got your degree and know every f*ing thing…”

A timeless gem for anyone who has ever had to school an entire industry on how to treat you with basic respect.

Mo’Nique’s blacklisting was a cautionary tale: speak up, and you are shut out. But what happens when you play the game, show up, excel, and still get overlooked? Taraji P. Henson shows us.

Taraji P. Henson: An Icon Ignored

Do you remember Acrimony? —Yes, that movie. The one that turned group chats into courtroom debates. You could not go a day without someone shouting, “Team Melinda or Team Robert?” like it was an international referendum.

Me? I was firmly on Team Melinda. That woman gave, gave, and gave only to be repaid with betrayal and broken promises. But here is the kicker: it was not just Melinda getting done dirty. It is almost like Taraji P. Henson is typecast to play women who are undervalued because that is exactly how Hollywood’s treated her, too.

This woman is talent personified. From Yvette in Baby Boy to the chaotic brilliance of Cookie Lyon in Empire, she has worn every mask, walked in every heel, and delivered every line with the kind of grit and grace you cannot teach. Nothing shows this more than her performance in Hidden Figures.

Taraji slipped into the role of Katherine Johnson, the brilliant Black mathematician whose calculations literally launched John Glenn into orbit. Yes, you heard right: she helped America win the Space Race, armed with nothing but a chalkboard, genius, and grit. One standout moment? That monologue, oh, you know the one, where her character unleashes years of pent-up frustration, explaining how she had to trek across campus in heels, rain or shine, just to use a “colored” bathroom. Taraji delivered it with trembling resolve, simmering rage, and soul-deep vulnerability. It was not just a scene. It was history, resurrected. Cinematic gold, wrapped in truth.

And yet? Hollywood gave her silver... maybe bronze.

Where was the tidal wave of prestige roles after that? The juicy scripts? The blank-check deals? The media saturation? Because when Amy Adams did Arrival and American Hustle, she was booked and busy, getting critical acclaim and paychecks with zeros on zeros. Meanwhile, Taraji was still fighting tooth and nail for equitable pay even after helping carry multiple box office hits.

She was not just portraying history; she was making it. But still, she got treated like the help. And here is where we acknowledge what everyone’s whispering but nobody wants to say out loud:

If Taraji were white, she would have been hailed with the same reverence as Meryl Streep. Every award show would be a coronation. Every role, a masterclass. Point blank. Periodt.

But instead, Hollywood treats her wins like anomalies, like they are surprised every time she turns in an iconic performance. She is paid less, praised less, and pushed less. It is the kind of slow, grinding erasure that makes you wonder what more she has to do.

She has already proven herself. Repeatedly. But sometimes being excellent while being Black means having to prove it again... and again... and again.

And honestly?

“I gotta put me first, Lucious.”

Yeah, Taraji. We feel that one deep.

Taraji’s experience proves that even brilliance is not always enough to break through bias. And as we shift our gaze to Nollywood, the same story plays out just in a different accent and skin tone spectrum.

Colorism in Nollywood: The Camera Still Prefers Light

“If you are white, you are alright. If you are brown, stick around. But if you are Black, get back.”

These are not just bitter words; they are lines from an old American playground rhyme. But they weren’t recited in fun. On the hit series Black-ish, Ruby Johnson (played with spicy brilliance by Jenifer Lewis) tells her grandkids this was the soundtrack of her childhood.

As a darker-skinned girl born into a Creole family where light skin was the unofficial currency, Ruby grew up knowing that even within Blackness, there is a color caste system.

In Nollywood, the largest film industry on the continent, colorism often decides who gets to be the love interest, the lead, or the face on the poster. Actresses like Beverly Naya have spoken openly about how darker-skinned women are often typecast into suffering roles or excluded altogether, while their lighter-skinned peers snag the glamorous, romantic, or high-status characters.

British-Nigerian actress Diana Yekini remembers a moment in 2017 when a lighting technician on a Nigerian set told her boldly, shamelessly that if she did not bleach her skin, she had to stop getting roles. And sadly, that was not an outlier. Mercy Johnson, one of the most bankable stars in Nollywood, has also admitted she was denied roles because of her skin tone. Similarly, Keira Hewatch has spoken about losing out on gigs due to her dark complexion.

The problem? Nollywood often casts beauty in proximity to whiteness. Think of how actresses like Ini Dima-Okojie, Sharon Ooja, and Adesua Etomi-Wellington are consistently selected for desirable, aspirational roles. Meanwhile, incredibly skilled, darker-skinned actresses like Tina Mba, Uzoamaka Aniunoh, Bisola Aiyeola, or Chioma Akpotha are typically reserved for the gritty, tragic, or comic-relief characters.

It is not that lighter-skinned actresses lack talent; it is that darker-skinned actresses have to work twice as hard just to be seen as worthy of central, beautiful, or aspirational roles. In both Hollywood and Nollywood, the camera might love melanin, but casting directors still often do not.

This is not just anecdotal; it is systemic. In her documentary Skin, Beverly Naya dives headfirst into the trauma of colorism, revealing how deeply the desire for lighter skin is rooted in post-colonial identity crises, media portrayals, and beauty standards imported from a time when the paler you were, the closer you sat to power.

We act like we have decolonized our stories, but we still cast beauty in proximity to whiteness. It is not just who gets the role, but who gets dignity on screen.

This is not just a Western problem. When beauty and talent are measured against colonial mirrors, even our local industries become gatekeepers of global bias. That is where Shades of Us comes in, to crack those mirrors wide open.

Our Narrative, Through Our Lens

For Us, this conversation is about calling out the entertainment industry and reclaiming our power.

We want every African descendant from the lightest caramel to the deepest ebony to be seen, celebrated, and paid what they are worth. For too long, global entertainment has treated Black creativity like a buffet: take the rhythm, take the slang, take the style, but leave the people in the blues. We are the blueprint, and yet we are too often sidelined when it is time to give out flowers.

But here is the thing: we are not waiting around anymore.

Through our Mobile Cinema Project, we are screening stories that center African women in their full humanity. Not just as victims, but as visionaries. Not just surviving, but thriving.

We believe storytelling is a tool of liberation. So when a dark-skinned girl sees herself as the lead, the healer, the boss, or the genius, something shifts in her and her world.

Our films explore the issues mainstream platforms avoid: gender-based violence, period poverty, and maternal health. And we do not sanitize the truth for the comfort of funders or the global gaze.

We tell it like it is, because change starts with honesty.

This is Not the End—It is the Plot Twist

Until the world treats Lupita like the star she is, gives Mo’Nique her flowers (and her coin), and pays Taraji what she is worth, we are not impressed. Because these women are nothing short of icons.

We are done with symbolism. We want substance. To every Black girl watching from the sidelines, wondering if she is enough to light up the screen: You are.

And the world needs your story told with your voice, in your skin, in all its shades of power. The credits might be rolling, but this is not the end.

It is the plot twist.