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

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

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IN DIALOGUE WITH ADESUWA OMONZOKPIA

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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BABATUNDE LAWAL’S DEBUT FEATURE TO PREMIERE AT 2025 TORONTO INTERNATIONAL NOLLYWOOD FILM FESTIVAL

Rising Nigerian director Babatunde Lawal has earned a major international spotlight as his debut feature film, Hidden Hand With A Last Card, is officially selected to premiere at the 2025 Toronto International Nollywood Film Festival (TINFF). The film is a raw and intimate portrait of loyalty, sacrifice and survival, the film will be showcased as part of the festival’s celebration of African and diaspora cinema. Produced by Meroestream (Ticket to Life, Honeycomb, Double Whammy), a fast-growing production company dedicated to elevating African stories and nurturing young storytellers, the film marks a significant creative milestone. For Lawal — known for his work in theatre and short-form film Honeycomb — this feature debut is both personal and political, reflecting the tensions of friendship and choice in a time of economic pressure. “This is great news,” said Lawal. “To see the film not just completed, but also recognised on a global stage like TINFF, is incredibly humbling. Hidden Hand With A Last Card is a reflection of our everyday negotiations between love and fear, trust and survival. I’m honoured that this story gets to travel.” At the heart of the production is Meroestream’s ongoing mission: to create space for emerging African voices and to champion narratives that speak with truth, complexity, and cultural depth. “This selection by TINFF is more than a recognition of one film — it’s a moment for the entire team and our belief in the power of authentic African storytelling,” said producer Korede Olayinka. “We’re proud of what this film represents and excited for the world to see it.” TINFF, an acclaimed platform that amplifies African and Black diasporic cinema, continues to spotlight the next generation of boundary-pushing filmmakers. Hidden Hand With A Last Card will screen as part of its 2025 programme, joining a line-up of films that reimagine the present and future of African cinema. Hidden Hand With A Last Card wrapped filming in August 2024 and features actors like Akin Lewis, Damilola Oni, Desmond Jegede, Mofehintola Jebutu, Chabod Oyejide, Ifeoluwa Ogunade, Godspower Nwogwugwu and Dami Deremi

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TAFM 2025 Returns with “Reclaiming Self” — A Bold Celebration of Film, Identity, and Creative Healing.

The Annual Film Mischief (TAFM), Africa’s groundbreaking festival for bold and emerging voices, returns in 2025 with a powerful new theme: “Reclaiming Self”.  This year’s edition expands beyond the screen to explore identity, wellness, and the transformative power of creativity.  Since its inception in 2022, TAFM has championed daring, diverse storytelling and carved out a unique space for underrepresented filmmakers across Africa.  The 2025 edition of TAFM deepens its commitment to bold, intentional storytelling with an immersive, cross-disciplinary experience. This year’s festival will weave together intimate film screenings, wellness activities, fitness sessions, art showcases, and live performances, creating a vibrant space where mind, body, and spirit are celebrated fully. We invite filmmakers to submit works that explore themes of personal identity, cultural and societal resilience, and introspective journeys of healing, self-discovery, and authenticity. We are especially drawn to films that challenge the political, social, and creative boxes often imposed on African creators. “Reclaiming Self runs deeper than just storytelling. It is an invitation to return to our core as creatives; to celebrate the beauty in our healing, our sensitivities, our calling. It’s about finding ourselves, our spark, and our place within a creative community that welcomes us as we are; magical, beautiful, real,” said Precious Iroagalachi, Festival Director. TAFM 2025 is set to be held in October between the 9th – 30th across four African cities: Lagos, Abuja, Accra, and Dar es Salaam, with each location led by a dedicated regional manager. The festival will feature film screenings, workshops, wellness sessions, and networking events, offering emerging African creatives and audiences an inclusive, empowering experience. With its focus on mentorship, industry access, and cultural exchange, TAFM continues to drive Africa’s creative economy and foster community-driven film culture. Call for film submission & full program details to be announced soon.  Follow @filmratsng to stay updated.  About TAFM The Annual Film Mischief is an initiative of The Film Rats Club, created to celebrate bold African storytelling, support emerging filmmakers, and promote an inclusive, grassroots film culture. Since 2022, TAFM has become one of Africa’s most accessible and essential film festivals for indie filmmakers. For partnership, sponsorship opportunities, media inquiries, and interviews, please contact: filmratsng@gmail.com 

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WHY NOLLYWOOD CRITICISM IS FAILING AND MAY CONTINUE TO FAIL

by Odolaye Aremu Nollywood criticism is not failing because it is mostly wrong; it is failing because it insists on applying the tools and expectations of a functioning society to a cultural landscape that is anything but. It critiques as if it were engaging with an evolving ecosystem, when in truth, it is addressing a glitch, a simulacrum of an industry operating without roots, institutions, or memory. Nollywood was born not of cultural continuity but of fracture and absence, and to miss this is to doom criticism to irrelevance and exhaustion. Mainstream Nollywood criticism assumes it is operating in a normal country with functioning cultural institutions, meritocratic pipelines, or historical continuity. It assumes Nigeria is merely behind, not culturally hollow. This assumption is a category error. There is no “normal” to return to or dig into. Nollywood exists in a post-cultural, post-intellectual vacuum that characterizes the third world. Because this understanding is not acquired, there has been a continuous cycle of burnt-out, depressed, and disgruntled critics. The first proof of this disconnect is that critics often bemoan the lack of “evolution”, “growth,” or “industry maturation” in Nollywood, which is correct in some ways. But where is the soil for this growth? They imagine their criticism has created a continuum of education that filmmakers subscribe to? That somehow years of criticism should have produced maturation? Nollywood doesn’t read criticism nor consider it a valuable tool, because it understands that the audience also doesn’t require it. This is sad, but this is true. Remember that Nollywood itself did not arise from a tradition of elite patronage or artistic inquiry. It rose from distributive chaos, necessity, and bootlegging. It is, in essence, a pretend cinema without logic or form, because such logic requires deep institutions, which Nigeria lacks. What you see is what you get.  Nollywood is a market, not an industry; the critic doesn’t exist between the buyer and the seller as it traditionally should. Here, the critic stands beside the filmmaker, trying to sell a product just as the filmmaker is. The Nigerian society hasn’t requested nor required criticism to contextualize what Nollywood is for them. Hollywood arrived at this point; we haven’t. There’s no real demand for analytical recommendations. For the film sponsor, it has to be clear that making intelligent, thoughtful films in a nation that doesn’t generally produce thoughtful people is a business risk.  This risk is exacerbated by the lack of education and the inexperience that comes with any bootstrapped guerrilla venture. Our universities are degree farms, not citadels of thought, an indication of the broader intellectual rot that has besieged the education sector. Still, no film schools of substance exist. No journals of cinematic theory flourish. No private contexts where ideas gestate over decades. In any healthy cultural economy, high-IQ patrons support thoughtful, serious work. In Nigeria, the capital class that funds film has its taste shaped by Nigerian corruption, social media bunkum, and by Nollywood itself. They misinterpret what cinema is, they misinterpret what a story should be, but have the wherewithal to execute products and sometimes herd them to financial success. There’s zero interest in reflection or criticism. Critics do not always applaud the product, especially when their own frameworks finally catch up to the fraudulence of a film. They often do call it out. The more astute ones, schooled perhaps in better cinema, turn up their noses in disdain. They pen sharp, cutting critiques. They position themselves above the din, speaking from an imagined place of enlightenment. But they do so in isolation and distance, no audience listens, no producer cares, and no funding is reallocated. Their words disappear into the noise. Their honesty evolves into resentment. What began as care for the product transforms into a weary loathing of everything: the bad films, the crowd that praises them, the discourse, even the very idea of the industry. They become distant, cynical, not because they are wrong, but because they expected something that was never promised. They forget: this is not a cinema of thought. This is a cinema of livelihood, a subsistence economy for thousands. People are not here to make “art”. They are here to survive, and in that, Nollywood has succeeded more than any other African industry. This is where many critics go astray. Their anger is misplaced. There is nothing to sneer at. The real tragedy is not that bad films are made, but that those who attempt rigor are crushed by an ecosystem built for volume, not vision. If someone has declared the intention to make work that endures, to take cinema seriously as a form, sure they are fair game for critique. But your scorn should be selective, not habitual. You are not above the fray. You are of this place. Your education, your taste, your despair, they were all shaped by the same frictions and failures that shaped the people you critique.  Criticism is not about venting distaste or judgment. It is about interpreting the moment and charting alternate paths. It is a form of midwifery, not execution. Even in bad films, there are threads to pull, ideas to examine, and symptoms to decode. What do these failures reveal? What aesthetic language is forming despite the artist’s ignorance? Where is the subtext, even if accidental? A good critic makes maps out of ruins. This is your task: not to sneer, but to sift. Not to raise yourself above, but to dig underneath. Your labour is not a gift to the industry. It is a commitment to the possibility of future coherence; the idea that somewhere down the line, someone might read your work and choose the harder path, knowing now that someone before them did not fold.  Until then, good Nigerian films will be rare, scattered, and produced under psychological and economic duress. They will not come from systems. They will come from freaks of will. If you value thoughtful, independent film writing and want to see more of it, consider supporting our work. Your

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