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Ami Colé and the Aftermath of 2020’s Performative Wins

A commentary examining representation, equity, and structural support in beauty and media industries following 2020’s racial reckoning. 

Much of my communications philosophy centers on perspective, representation, and the narratives institutions choose to invest in. This piece reflects my interest in how storytelling, media ecosystems, and organizational decisions shape public understanding and lived outcomes. 

A gut-wrenching announcement, Ami Colé our beloved beauty brand built for melanin-rich skin, will shutter operations in September (Virgos, we may never recover.) On the surface, this seems like the quiet end of a startup cycle. But for women of color, beneath it lies a louder, more troubling truth; Ami Colé’s closure is not just a business decision, it’s a postscript to the empty promises of 2020’s racial reckoning.

Founded by Diarrha N’Diaye-Mbaye, Ami Colé launched in 2021 as a love letter to Black women, grounded in clean beauty and cultural authenticity. Named after her Senegalese mother, a Harlem-based salon owner, the brand quickly gained traction for its no-fuss, skin-first products like the Skin-Enhancing Tint and Lip Treatment Oil (Bliss & Excellence girlies, step forward). Ami Colé was celebrated by Allure, featured by Oprah, and stocked in over 600 Sephora locations, an impossible dream for many Black beauty founders.

But this success was born of a particular moment; the year brands scrambled to show they were “listening.” Corporate statements bloomed overnight. Monotonous black squares flooded feeds. Fists of change icons and bloated, nonsensical hashtags about "solidarity" cluttered timelines. An upside? Black founders saw an influx of VC money. Black and POC influencers were suddenly visible. And yet, as quickly as it came, the tide receded.

Today, in 2025, the influencer pay gap persists. According to The Guardian, “The Darker You Are, the Less You’re Worth,” with many Black creators receiving up to 35% less than their white counterparts and even fewer opportunities. On the business side, even with over $3 million raised, Ami Colé could not meet the hyper-growth expectations of venture capital. As Diarrha wrote in The Cut, “The years have been soul-stretching... I’m so proud of what we built.”

Many of the popular 2020–2021 Black and POC influencers, some might say ( It me, I say) naively clinged to the upscaled promises of brands swearing commitment to inclusion. They have now, almost 5 years later, been honest about how those opportunities are all but gone. And while founding a brand and being an influencer at its genesis are two different beasts, the outcomes intersect. Founder, influencer, content creator, being Black immediately places you at the end of the race with a two-ton ball chained to your ankle. And the only way to win, a radical moment where public shame forces brands to acknowledge their erasure? That was 2020. But that moment has passed.

The sad truth is representation and legacy aren’t just created by the founder or influencer. Social media, beauty brands, and venture capitalists, especially those whose teams lack diversity in decision-making positions, are often incapable of truly investing in us. I’ve already seen white creators and well-known CEOs holding space for themselves and their hurt over Ami Colé’s closing. Like… be so for real.

In honesty, Ami Colé’s end is more than bittersweet. It’s a reminder that representation without structural support is a hollow win. A brand can be launched, hyped, and placed on shelves, but if the backing isn't sustained, if the inclusion is only momentary, then it’s not equity. It's optics. For Black beauty founders and creatives, the fight continues. Because real investment, the kind that endures beyond the hashtag, is still the exception, not the rule.

Diarrha Ndiaye we’re all still rooting for you in whatever comes next.