Djamila Wambui

Walking down the street in Amsterdam, I often think about how far I've come from where my life started. My parents fled with me and my two siblings from a refugee camp in Kenya when I was just a baby, escaping to the Netherlands. Growing up in Rotterdam, I never thought I’d end up modeling in one of the world's most international cities, but here I am.

It all started when I was 14, approached on the street by someone who told me I had the potential to make money as a model. I didn’t take it seriously at first. But my friend pushed me to give it a try. She said it was an opportunity to see the world. What she didn’t mention was that I’d also see the world’s ugliest sides.

Being a black model at the time wasn’t easy. I was considered "special," but not in a flattering way. There was a constant undercurrent of racism in the industry. White designers looked at me like I was some rare, foreign thing. Bookings were sporadic at best, and when they did happen, it felt like I was being used to fill a diversity quota.

Things have changed, or at least they seem to have. Suddenly, black models are in demand. Now, companies scramble to put a black face in their campaigns to show how “woke” and “inclusive” they are. It’s like a game of optics—how diverse can you appear without actually being diverse? I’ve been making more money than ever, and while I’m glad society is shifting, it leaves a bitter taste. They see us now, but not as people—as symbols of progress and modernity.

At 28, I’ve learned to navigate this. I’ve learned to see through the façade. But deep down, I dream of a day when none of this will matter, when I’ll just be a model—period. No racial politics, no social media statements about inclusivity—just work based on talent. I know it’s probably naive, but I still hope.