In 2023, Disney’s casting of Halle Bailey, an African-American actress, as Ariel in the live-action remake of “The Little Mermaid” ignited widespread controversy. Critics questioned the choice, arguing that Ariel, a fictional character, should align with traditional European depictions. However, this perspective overlooks the rich tapestry of African mythology, where narratives of water deities and mermaid-like figures have existed long before Western interpretations.
One such deity is Mami Wata, a revered African water spirit known for her beauty and connection to the sea. Her presence in African folklore underscores the deep-rooted cultural significance of aquatic beings in African traditions. This photo blog, “My Mermaid Is Black,” delves into these ancestral stories, celebrating the profound connection between Black identity and the sea. Through imagery and narrative, we explore how mermaids, as symbols of transformation and resilience, have always been a part of Black heritage.
Start where the world looked away.
They say the sea forgets, but we know better. The water carries memory—and it’s heavy with Black names. Names swallowed, but never silenced.
Hundreds were cast overboard.
Stolen from the land and discarded into the ocean during the Middle Passage. Not just lost—but multiplied beneath the waves. A people pushed into legend.
So what color did you expect?
What else would mermaids be? The sea is a burial ground for our ancestors. A womb of transformation. If anyone rose from those depths—it would be us.
They didn’t drown. They adapted.
The spirits in the deep caught them. Salt and sorrow became skin and scale. They weren’t erased—they evolved. They built kingdoms below the surface.
Our mermaids were never imaginary.
They existed in whispers, in rhythm, in folktales passed in hush tones. We didn’t invent Black mermaids. We remembered them.
They say mermaids grow legs when they touch the land—not to escape the sea, but to walk among us and remember. In African lore, water spirits rise from the deep from time to time, visiting the world above to feel the sun, hear the songs, and walk beside their descendants. Then, like memory returning to the body, they slip back beneath the waves—never gone, only watching.
Now we see her clearly.
Not as a fantasy, but as fact. She rises from the current to claim what’s always been hers—a place in the story. A place in history.
She doesn’t ask to be included.
She never needed permission. Because this story started with her. She is not the remix. She is the original rhythm.
Every image is an act of truth-telling.
They tried to erase her from the tale. But she endures—in body, in memory, in every child who sees their reflection in myth.
This isn’t new. This is ancient.
Black mermaids were never a twist. They’re part of a lineage deeper than any fairytale. We’ve always belonged to the sea.
So again—what color did you expect?
We were thrown into the water. We survived. We created. We returned. My mermaid is Black because she always was. You just refused to look.
Mermaids are Black—not as a revision, but as a restoration. Born of waters that carried both pain and power, they reflect a lineage deeper than any fairytale. We are not borrowing magic—we are reclaiming memory, and in every tide, in every myth, our presence was always there, shimmering beneath the surface, waiting to be seen.
