September 4, 2021

by Mr. X One of the earliest teasers of the KOB sequel touts Makanaki’s return from the dead as a major high point. Upon release, the audience, I presume, with piqued interests, skipped to this episode after the long-awaited Makanaki makes his first appearance in the final beats of the preceding episode. Setting the stage for an upsurge of events, the burst of verve and pace the show desperately needs as a soothing distraction from the proverb-laden dialogue and slow-burning heat of the gubernatorial elections. 5 years after the pulsating rumors of his death, the die-hard Makanaki, played memorably by Reminisce, makes his grand comeback pining for his pound of flesh. “Call this my resurrection” mouths the aggrieved soldier, with the deceptive poise of an apex predator, as he entertains the pleas from the goons of Odogwu Malay (his sworn enemy) who were involved in his murder. Here, Makanaki uncharacteristically favors a game over a massacre. The game? ‘Spin the bottle’. Only this time, the goons, guilty of disloyalty, are fated to death regardless of the outcome. Makanaki’s return doesn’t leap off as grand enough, for a man who’s made a miraculous resurgence after supposedly getting burnt to death. However, as the episode unwraps its folds, befuddling questions, deserving of answers, start to brew. For one, what’s the motivation for that two young boys that go wandering in the thick of the night in search of a dog, and mistake gunshot sounds as invitations to witness the killing of Malay’s boys? Despite its loose-fitting addition to the episode, one of the young boys does fulfil a purpose integral to plot progression. He informs Odogwu Malay about the ghastly occurrence that saw his goons maimed to death. Via a whisper from the shriveled boy, forced out by his wailing mother, Odogwu Malay discovers the perpetrator to be Makanaki, a name that stretches his face into shock. At the campaign front, Eniola Salami experiences splinters of success. No less than she expects after winning a close-door negotiation battle with the President (a point I’ll address shortly). At a press conference, Eniola is announced as the flagbearer of the selfsame party housing the President, to the roving applauds of her supporters. Here, Eniola starts to revel in the bliss of actually winning. With the precipice of power within hairsbreadth, she can almost reach out and touch it. The last card, or the penultimate card, has been flipped. The toils, sacrifices and torments start to pay off. She desires to rule, not with the rod of the provocative and adamant negligence famous among political leaders, but with the staff of protection, care and motherhood. A virtue she strives hard to preserve regardless of her acerbic inclinations.  The prying reporter, Dapo, soon breaks the fanfare with damning questions (a poorly contrived approach by the way) directed at Eniola Salami herself. Noteworthy is, “Why do they call you the King of Boys?”, and somehow, Eniola Salami denies knowledge of the name, as expected, and breaks into humane consolations and touching anecdotes about her humble beginnings and philanthropy, sinking Dapo into the background, lost in the cheerful applauds of Eniola Salami’s avid supporters. This scene stands out as one out of many questionable instances where Eniola’s unslakable power over anything and anyone shines, save for the aggressive apparition of her younger self that haunts her thoughts now and then. While I commend showrunner Kemi Adetiba for her endeavor at delivering a project of this scale and, of course, her astounding production values, I find a bit of the grand narrative of the sequel a tad unsettling —the diminutive portrayal of the political offices and the key personnel that helm the affairs. Here, I speak of the hallowed office of the President as I promised earlier. Whether due to improper planning or incoherent research, some oversights, regardless, are rather unforgiving, especially when it concerns key details that define the Nigerian integrity and public image. Certain intricate details are better left unmentioned than misinterpreted. In this case, the inglorious representation of the President of Nigeria (played by Keppy Ekpeyong), the underwhelming depiction and the smallness of scope Kemi employs. This I first noticed in the preceding episode. My eyes bled through scenes where the office of the President of Nigeria is ill-treated as commonplace. A friend of mine believes Governor Randle possesses more charm and poise of the President than the President himself. One might argue that we never see the President outside his office or bedroom to judge, say, the strength of his security detail. The ease of access, however, in his featured scenes does so little to elevate his importance as the President. There are layers to politics, more so, Nigerian politics. How Eniola bursts through these layers, boasting a firm grip on negotiation and compromise from the dark corners of the underworld to the glorious seat of the Head of State is rather far-reaching and defeats the trueness of her external struggles. Her seeming control over everyone, including the President (who she casually regards in the press conference), fires her into realms beyond the normal. Who really is Eniola Salami? A metaphorical emblem of the unseen powers that be? Or just a returning political fugitive gifted so much power to clamp down on her enemies. Is Nigeria governed by the muscle of thuggery and not the prudence of policies nor the constitutional authority of the ruling bodies? A global spectator asks.  Whether we choose to accept it or not, films create a powerful force of perception. Nigeria pales in comparison to certain countries with sinkholes in their governance but, through film and new media, said countries manage to influence and shape the public image of their governmental politics. This practice has guided many nations of the world: in America, in the Middle East, in Asia etc.  Hence, there are existing films that spotlight the political space of countries and, if story-wise, the office of the President is even subtly hinted, it is given its due

by Osamudiamen Joseph At 35 minutes, the third episode, An Old Enemy, is the shortest in the series. And this is where the pacing issues in The Return of the King become evident. Scenes overstay their welcome, lingering like unwanted guests at a dinner party. Different plot threads scattered throughout the runtime fail to coalesce into a cohesive story. There is a lot of telling and not enough showing, and even then, the telling is either vague or uninteresting. In the 2018 movie, even though many things were happening all over the place, the audience was able to stay grounded in the narrative because of the eponymous protagonist; because of how the writing, directing and performance worked together to construct a complex, compelling character. Eniola was the audience’s surrogate as the movie travelled through the mean streets of Lagos and the seedy underbelly of Nigerian politics. They sympathized with her despite all the bad things she had done, because they were aware of her motivations and could relate to her struggles. They saw the injustice in a woman being tagged overambitious, ungrateful and discontented for daring to have the same aspirations as her male counterparts. The audience wasn’t told who Eniola was, they were shown; with every challenge she faced and every conflict that was brought her way, a portrait was embedded in their minds of just who this King of Boys was. However, in this sequel, there isn’t enough of that. Which isn’t to say that crime dramas always have to be intense character studies complete with flashbacks and gratuitous shots of the protagonist gazing into a mirror whilst losing (or reaffirming) their grip on reality. But character should, to a large extent, shape plot and vice versa. Inception (2010) is a high-concept sci-fi thriller but at the center of its wildly beating heart is Cobb encumbered with his guilt and his one desire: to go home and be a father to his children. Simulated dreamscapes where time screeches to a halt and cities that fold in on themselves are wonderful to behold but without a compelling character to lead us through the world, these elements amount to little more than empty noise. The synopsis of An Old Enemy is as follows: Dapo Banjo receives a package and a call from his anonymous source. He has a hard time believing the information but he prints it anyway. A meeting between Alhaja Eniola Salami and Reverend Ifeanyi further explores the idea that Eniola is still grieving and self-flagellating, emotionally this time. Like she says to the Reverend with tears in her eyes, “I don’t think I have ever felt peace in my life, not even in my sleep…I am tired of everything.” She wants to be a better person but her enemies won’t allow that. The 6-minute scene hits a brick wall when the Reverend tells Eniola that although the peace that God gives is “free,” he also recognizes those who “support the work” which is corrupt preacher-speak for “if you grease these palms with the right amount of cash, I’ll get about interceding on your behalf to God posthaste.” At this revelation, Eniola face falls and you honestly feel sorry for her. All this woman wants is to rest and find peace but just like in the first movie, a greedy man is standing between her and her goal. Sola Sobowale’s acting prowess really shows in this scene. As it’s not the kind of scene that requires her signature over-the-top acting, she has to rein it in and sell the audience on the reality of a woman at her wits end, one who wears a mask in public while turbulent waters roar beneath the surface. There’s a lot of social commentary here as well, with Reverend Ifeanyi standing as a representative of greedy religious leaders who are mirror images of the same politicians they are supposed to be polar opposites of. However, there is a sword of Damocles dangling over this scene. Something doesn’t feel quite right. After watching it a second time, it becomes clear as day: why is Eniola here, now, asking for remission of sins? Is she tired and ashamed of the life she used to lead as the head of the crime syndicate not only in Lagos state but across the nation? Is she truly sorry for all the lives she ended and all the corruption she engaged in? If yes, then why did she, mere minutes after landing on Nigerian soil, announce her intention to run for governor? She hadn’t even seen where her children were buried yet. She hadn’t seen Ade Tiger or Odogwu who she made king in her stead. One interesting thing about that scene is that before she made the announcement, her campaign manager, Mr. Fashina, tried to stop her. This means that was not the original plan. Surely such an announcement could have waited till the next day. For some reason though, known only to Eniola, it didn’t. Every scene that follows is colored by that announcement, including the one where she is at the cemetery weeping for her children. If she truly regrets her past actions which led to their demise, why did she immediately plunge herself back into that world the moment she returned? It was shown in the first movie that the world of politics and the world of crime are one and the same. Aare Akinwande might as well be seating with them at the table and Makanaki could very well be senator. While in the first movie, all her wants and desires were clear, in this sequel Eniola’s motivation is all over the place. In the previous episode, against Ade Tiger persuasions, she refuses to call Odogwu Malay, to organize the table. Even in this episode, her campaign hits a brick wall and it is not until Mr. Fashina informs her at length that they cannot continue in their current state and expect to win, that she decides to meet with the president