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      Article, Feature

      Abu-Bakr S. Adamu Reflects on Making His Third Short Film “Silent Verses”

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      Friday, 15th August 2025 Making Silent Verses has been one of the most profound experiences of my career, as this is a project I have been looking forward to making for years. The project was born from passion, necessity, and curiosity. And, it’s my reflection on identity and a unique way I believe friendships are built. But beyond the screen, the project is a mirror of my growth as a storyteller and human.   Why This Film? The idea for Silent Verses emerged from personal experience, observation, and artistic inspiration. I wanted to explore a simple story of friendship, not just for audiences but for myself. Film, for me, has always been a way to process the world, to amplify silenced voices, challenge assumptions, or sit with the beauty of human nature. With this project, I sought to reimagine a familiar narrative and put a character like myself, a boy, on screen. As a storyteller, I feel a responsibility to tell stories that give the boy child space, visibility, and voice. The Process Making Silent Verses was humbling, from funding to shooting conditions, and unexpected events. The intent was to shoot for three days, but we had to cut it down to two due to budget implications. The first day of the shoot was almost tragic as one of the crew members was involved in an accident. That news broke the production team, but we had to keep pushing thanks to the emotional support of the crew members. Shooting the film reshaped my understanding of the story and myself, and I’m endlessly grateful to the cast and crew, whose talents and trust carried the vision forward.   As a team, we are simply grateful for the chance to bring this film to life. I must proudly sing the praises of Nana Aisha Salaudeen—Film Producer, Journalist, and Co-founder of Vistanium Studios, whose enormous support has been invaluable to this journey. I am also deeply thankful to every collaborator who has contributed their time, talent, and energy to making Silent Verses possible. What It Means for My Career This film marks a turning point, or rather a return to creative freedom. Shooting the film has taught me that constraints breed creativity and stories find their shape. Professionally, it has solidified my desire to keep making work that questions, entertains, and feels true to myself. Personally, it reminded me of why I fell in love with cinema and the process of turning ideas into shared emotional experiences.   To the Audience If Silent Verses resonates with viewers, I hope it’s because of its authenticity. My greatest wish is that it revives empathy and understanding between us, the same way its creation did for me.  

      Article, Review

      The Budding Dread Of Marital Inequity in Victor Daniel and Olamide’s “What’s Left of Us”

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      By Chinedu J. Orjiudeh  Victor Daniel and Olamide Adio’s co-directed What’s Left of Us, is a thought-provoking short film that explores the fractures of marital trust, gender roles, and female autonomy in contemporary Nigeria. Written by Victor Daniel, created by Anita Eboigbe, and produced by Blessing Uzzi, the film aligns with the evolving narratives of New Nollywood, where young filmmakers can tackle socio-cultural issues with unflinching realness. Moses Ipadeola’s Ekun Iyawo, Chukwu Martin’s Oga Mike, Temi-Ami Williams’ Ireti, and Dika Ofoma’s Something Sweet are some examples. These films engage sociological ideologies through critical evaluation and execution. What’s Left of Us centers on Mariam (Tolu Asanu) and Aliyu (Caleb Richards), a couple trapped in a cycle of resentment and miscommunication. Mariam, exhausted by motherhood and her husband’s neglect, seeks agency over her body and future, while Aliyu clings to patriarchal expectations without agency, demanding more children without addressing Mariam’s emotional or physical labor. The film’s strength lies in its portrayal of Mariam’s quiet rebellion, her confrontation with economic dependency, and her ultimate assertion of self-worth. Aliyu, however, remains an underdeveloped antagonist and a symbol of toxic masculinity rather than a fully realized character. His motivations (beyond entitlement) are unclear, and his affair with Fatima (a younger reflection of Mariam) feels more like a plot device than a meaningful exploration of his dissatisfaction. In this way, the film chooses to create a one-dimensional character obsessed with his authority, with no insight into his role in the marriage’s collapse.   The opening scene, which establishes the couple’s internal conflict, sets up the main characters efficiently. The juxtaposition of Mariam’s domestic struggles with Aliyu’s infidelity underscores the imbalance in their relationship. And the casting of Fatima (Joy Sunday) as a younger, carefree version of Mariam suggests Aliyu’s desire to recapture a past dynamic, but this symbolism isn’t fully explored. Fatima’s character is underutilized; her resistance to unprotected sex could have a sharp contrast with Mariam’s past compliance, adding layers to Aliyu’s character. In this case, the film opts to show that Aliyu has been worth Mariam’s loyalty and devotion until he takes his privileges for granted and struggles to reclaim his authority. The counseling scene with the Mallam reinforces these traditional gender roles, framing Aliyu’s rigidity as a product of societal constructs rather than an autonomous entity. Aliyu’s lack of depth weakens the film’s potential for a balanced discourse to impact the male population as well. The film doesn’t engage with this conditioning construct beyond surface-level critique. The climactic argument is powerful, but leans into didacticism, reducing the conflict to a two-fold  “men vs. women” debate rather than a nuanced marital breakdown. Mariam’s perspective is clear and precise, while Aliyu’s remains a regurgitation of his stale traditional beliefs. What’s Left of Us’s use of silence speaks volumes about repressed emotions. From hence, every move is heightened, every word is critical, the direction peaks, and the audience hangs on to the suspense until the last moment when Mariam decides to step outside Aliyu’s influence. The final scene implies Mariam’s empowerment, Aliyu remains unnuanced with no reassessment of his previously held beliefs, a stale nature in the wake of his wife’s progressive decisions. The film boldly addresses contraceptives, infidelity, and economic independence —taboo topics in conservative discourses. Mariam’s journey from submission to self-determination is compelling and relatable, especially for Nigerian women navigating the heat of societal expectations. It doesn’t fail to expose a profound realization in the travails of marital expectations. However, questions like – why does he want more children from one woman? How have societal pressures influenced him against his will? Why does he expect his wife to entertain Fatima without recourse? – could have been treated beyond traditional explanations. What’s Left of Us succeeds as an insightful conversation starter on marital inequity and female autonomy, but falls short of exploring the complexities of both partners. It excels powerfully in portraying Mariam’s awakening but reduces Aliyu to a caricature of patriarchy, settling for an unarguably concrete idea that ‘The Woman is not a servant’. A bold and necessary addition to “New Nollywood’s feminist wave”. 

      Article

      Nobody Owes You Reverence: On Nollywood Critics and the Myth of Importance

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      by Odolaye Aremu It is a strange thing to witness: Nigerian film critics surprised, even offended, when filmmakers or their fans reject or attack their reviews, often with poor grammar and poorer manners. The expectation seems to be that the critic, by virtue of their labour, is entitled to reverence. That filmmakers ought to listen. That the audience ought to be enlightened. That the critic’s words should land with authority, not bounce off indifference or hostility. But why? Why would anyone who has somehow managed to raise money in this economic hellscape, gather a cast and crew, and complete a feature film, however poor it may now be, turn to a journalist with no institutional backing, no wide audience, and no cultural heft for guidance? Should they? Probably. But the truth is, nothing in the structure of Nigerian film suggests that listening to critics leads to success. That’s a cold thing to say, but it’s true. Criticism has grand value. However, in Nollywood today, it has no immediacy. And in a survival economy, only the immediate matters. If you have not won the right to speak on behalf of the audience, not just to them, then you do not yet matter to the filmmaker. That is not cynicism. That is reality. In functioning societies, critics help shape taste and hold power because they are plugged into a cultural matrix. Nollywood is not wired to the cultural press because the press itself is barely assembled, barely trusted, and barely read. You are not Cahiers du Cinéma. You are not Sight and Sound. You are not even Variety. Most of you are lone operators, publishing to 200 readers on a good day, caught in Twitter spaces and “fake elitism.” You’ve created no awards. You’ve created no credible guild. You don’t influence audience behaviour. You don’t shape taste. But you want respect? Respect is a currency. You earn it. Yes, your labour has cultural importance. I won’t argue that. Even the bad reviews, the ones based on incomplete screenings, the lazy takes, the over-intellectualized claptrap; they matter in the larger arc. However, being relevant in the long term is not the same as being relevant now. So stop crying about being unloved. You are doing work that is thankless. That is what makes it noble. Or are you here for applause? If you cannot take rude words from the crowd, then maybe this is not your vocation. This is a place of rough speech and rougher survival. You give a sharp critique? Expect a sharp rebuke. That’s the game. Give and take. The critic who cannot take verbal heat in an environment like this is simply not built for the work. Violence should never be condoned, but insults? They’re part of the terrain. You want influence? Build institutions. Build verticals. Build media companies that dominate the conversation. Create publications that filmmakers fear or respect. Create awards people want to win. Create a canon. Right now, there is no canon, no hierarchy, no enduring editorial authority. So the filmmaker sees you as another hustler. And they are right. You cannot critique a disorganised industry from a disorganised press. The only person who’s having fun in this entire mess is the audience, mad people. Everyone else, the serious filmmaker, the thoughtful critic, the journeyman director, the ambitious journalist, is fighting an existential war. You think it’s only filmmakers that are broke, untrained, and unsupported? There are just as few proper critics as there are proper directors. Most are winging it. The only difference is that one side still gets to raise funds, and the other gets retweets. That’s it. So to the journalist: hurry up and finish your current cycle of dooming everything about Nollywood. You’re not the first generation of disillusioned critics, and you won’t be the last. The films aren’t generally interested in being serious cultural objects. The audience isn’t trained to demand more. The market does not reward quality. Why are you still shocked? Face your work. Do it well. Make mistakes. Learn. But don’t expect a thank-you card from an industry that hasn’t even found itself. This is Nigeria. Nobody cares. And that’s the only thing everybody understands. A great critic in Nollywood is a miracle. A great filmmaker is another. But stop crying. You chose this work. Do it.

      Article, Theatre

      Meejay’s Come Alive Shines in Dance, Struggles with Depth

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      By Chinedu J. Orjiudeh On May 18, 2025, the Wole Soyinka Theatre brimmed with anticipation for Come Alive, a dance drama staged by the Meejay Dance Company. This marked the directorial debut of Grace Okokhune, a graduate of the University of Ibadan’s Theatre Arts department. With a stellar cast including Elijah Adebayo, Progress Adetula, Ifeoma Ezenandu, Oluwatobi Solomon Williams, Ayoola Ayomide, Mcwealth Olufemi, and others, expectations were high, as is often the case with Meejay’s productions. The play opens with Mr. P. (played by Adebayo), the head instructor at the fictional DDS Dance Academy, introducing the performance. This segues into a prologue dance led by Lara (Ezenandu), dressed in white and surrounded by dancers in black. The symbolism is striking—Lara contends with an overwhelming darkness. However, the choreography suggests resistance rather than defeat. Grace Okokhune appears briefly to welcome the audience. Then, the dance drama begins in full swing with synchronized, energetic routines that portray rebellion, passion, and the tenacity needed to pursue one’s dreams. As the performance crescendos, Lara is tossed into the air and crashes down. The lights go out. An ambulance siren wails. A gripping twist: Lara has suffered a career-threatening accident. The story resumes with Lara being wheeled in by her distraught mother, devastated by the news that Lara may never dance again. Lara’s world begins to crumble—she distances herself from friends and ends her relationship with Remmy (Williams), while refusing to accept her mother’s defeatist outlook. In a powerful moment, Lara rolls herself into a red-lit stage area, symbolizing danger and pain, and performs a sorrowful dance. As she collapses in agony, the stage is meant to go black. However, due to poorly managed renovations and inadequate curtains, the darkness isn’t complete. The audience sees Lara rise and exit, shattering the illusion and drawing audible dissatisfaction. It’s a technical misstep that momentarily pulls the audience out of the story. Yet, the narrative regains its grip. Lara, longing to dance again, observes her peers from afar. Abby (Mcwealth Olufemi), a brusque friend, urges her to audition for the academy. Her tone, however, feels more like a motivational cliché than genuine concern. While Abby’s push serves to move the plot forward, her performance lacks nuance, reducing her to a plot device rather than a fully formed character. Lara auditions despite her limp. The audience cheers—hope is rekindled. In a comic interlude at a bar, we meet Mama Beer (Grace Ovu) and a group of Remmy’s friends. There’s laughter and camaraderie, and we learn Remmy has also auditioned. Comic relief gives way to surprise when Lara and Remmy reunite at the academy. At DDS, instructors Mr. P. and Mr. Q. (Adetula) hold an orientation. Students are introduced to improvisational techniques, leading to an experimental performance by Remmy and Lara, sparking chemistry and hinting at a developing relationship. Soon, a new conflict emerges. The academy is selecting a dance captain. Lara performs beautifully—until her injured leg gives way. A rival student, Sandra (Afiolorun Toyosi), mocks her fall. Sandra’s desire to be a top performer sets up a clear antagonism. But something is amiss. The play begins to lose its emotional foundation. Lara does make the decision to audition into the dance academy, despite her limp. This excites the audience because of the potential obstacles and emotional struggle. In a beer parlor scene arranged to deliver a comic relief, we are entertained with an infectious performance from the bar attendant, Mama beer played by Grace Ovu, we discover through the sober Remmy’s interaction with his friends, Shadow (Ogunoshun Sunday Samuel), Blaze (Binuyo Olasubomi) and Bayo (Ayoola Ayomide) that he also auditioned for the same admission and is uncertain about the results. The comic relief is delivered when the troupe finds his name as the last on the list.  Lara is surprised to see him there on the resumption day; her concern is a slight hint of a brewing relationship between both characters, even though their interactions remained at loggerheads. Mr P takes the stage with his assistant, Mr Q, played by Progress Adetula. The orientation that follows establishes the academic setting, with lectures about a dance improvisation technique that sees Remy and Lara perform the experiment (yes, at this point it becomes obvious their relationship is a part of the plot), the audience’s reactions to their unrequited affection build momentum. After the commendation from the instructors, the students are informed of the next goal: the academy will test the students for the position of a captain. The best performer wins. This introduces the next milestone that Lara needs to attain.  At first, they are all to perform the audition routine together, to seal their slots in the academy. The group’s synergy is exploited at this point, drawing the audience closer to the beautiful artistry of dance choreography. Lara seems perfectly fine until the end of the dance, her limbs shift, forcing her to the floor, she picks herself up quickly, but not without the scorn from a new arch enemy, Sandra, played by Afiolorun Toyosi who mimics Lara’s fall mockingly, setting up a potential conflict between both characters. Sandra wants the other students to accept her as the best amongst them and taunts herself as one. The second act continues with a total shift into this conflict between the taunting self proclaimed best student and the talented Lara. There is barely any progression of the initial story, Lara’s leg poses no problem anymore, and the new story is all about who will take the Captain’s position as best performer amongst the students.  Where does that leave the already emotionally invested audience? We know initially that the audience is emotionally invested in the travails that Lara’s disability poses, without that disability and her struggles as the vintage plot line of the story, we are left with the crumb of a contest between two students for a position. The conflict thrives on hurtful words, taunts, and nothing else. Aside from Mr P’s concern for Lara’s previous injury, there is no more

      Article

      IN DIALOGUE WITH ADESUWA OMONZOKPIA

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      By Seyi Lasisi  We started the Dialogue Series with an immersive and educative session with Unique Oliver last month. For the second part of the Dialogue Series, we have Adesuwa Omonzokpia, who describes herself as a “storyteller.” Make-up, editing, writing, story editing, and post-production work are what Omonzokpia diligently does. Although she’s more known for being an editor(with Artifact, Roses & Ivy, Awori, and Anjola to her credit) and director, she seamlessly moves through these distinct filmmaking departments.  The In Dialogue is Film Rats Club’s longstanding commitment to curating meaningful conversations about Nigerian and global cinema. The In Dialogue Series within the Film Rats community aims to encourage conversations.  In this In Dialogue Series, with contributions from fellow club members, we explored the art of writing and storytelling, Omonzokpia’s observations on the industry, and her recommendations for its growth. Let’s begin the Dialogue with an “easy” question. How has the year and week been for you and what have you been working on so far? It’s been a great year so far, we thank God. Uhm so far…let’s see. Directing a couple of projects, and a bit of writing. But I’ve spent a chunk of my time doing Post-supervising. A bit personal.  How did you get into filmmaking?  I’ve always loved telling stories; over the years, I have found various forms of creative expression. I was the student that would be in drama club today, literature tomorrow, and debate club the next. During this period, I picked up writing. Writing led me to theatre arts, and then that led me to filmmaking. This is such a concise way to put it. So, why writing? When did writing happen, and what were you writing during that period? Honestly, I don’t know. I just know that it’s something that exists for me; it always has. If I could get you to listen to me long enough, I would somehow be able to convince you. And that’s what I get with writing. It was only a matter of time before I started writing creatively, so to speak…That’s basically it. And of course, there was the writing my teenage feelings phase.  Poetry! My first love. This happened during my senior secondary school period.  I had just started taking Literature…and Mr. Afanu, my teacher, was just really amazing and quite dramatic with his teaching. Oh the drama! Come to think of it, a lot of my fascination with theatre probably is because of him. He would always perform the poems for us in class. And I just fell in love with poems. The rhythm, the flow, the heart basically. How did writing for film begin?  My film career, so to speak, exists in two phases. As I mentioned earlier, I am always on the lookout for, or rather, finding ways to creatively express myself. After secondary, one of the skills I picked up, through YouTube tutorials, was Makeup. I can’t even remember how I got my first filmmaking experience. Probably the producer saw something I uploaded or something. Plus, Makeup and SFX weren’t very popular at the time. However, by chance or so, I found myself on my first film set(Dare the Orange Boy) as a Makeup & SFX artist.  It was a short film; a one-day shoot. I’d go on to do that for 2 more projects; one feature & one series before I resumed University.  That’s phase one. After I resumed school, I had to stop working. And by the time I graduated, I had somehow found my way into directing. COVID-19 happened during this time. Like others, I wasn’t able to go for NYSC. Going through YouTube, I found editing. In 2021, I shot Grapes, my first short film, and the rest, they say, is history.   I saw that you did Makeup in 2017. You also edit, write, and, as you mentioned at the start of the dialogue, post post-production work. What unifies these seemingly different roles for you? I don’t know how this happened, to be honest. I just always find myself in every department that year. I’d dance in this project, costume in the next, and act in another one. I can’t count how many times people asked me if I had time for anything else. Lol. So I’ve gba kamu (be in trouble) that I cannot stay in one place. At different stages/phases of my life, I’d probably be expressing myself differently. It’s why I like to brand myself simply as a storyteller. How do you explain these two seemingly identical words: writing and storytelling?  I’d say one’s about the craft, the other’s about connecting with people. Stories are innate to us; they’ve been how we make sense of the world long before written language. Storytelling is the soul, and writing is the vessel. You need both, but it’s the story, the heartbeat beneath the words that truly lingers. You write and direct. In your experience, how important are these two roles, and how has it eased or stressed your understanding of writing and directing, as the case may be?  Super important, actually, and this goes without saying. I just find that I’m able to kind of make much more informed decisions while filming, cause I already know what it’ll look like post-production-wise. I find that I’m subconsciously editing the film as we’re shooting. I’m able to say no to a cinematographer that I don’t need a particular shot because, as an editor, I know I won’t use it. Editing helped me make that transition from a stage director to a film director. It gives me a broader understanding of camera language and the possibilities. And I must mention that writing makes me a better Editor, I believe that’s what gives me the edge that I have in the post-production space. I never look at footage just the way it was shot. Nope.  I’m in front of my computer, cracking my knuckles, twisting my neck like let’s freaking go. It’s story time.  You’re equally a story editor. Within

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