The Nigerian movie industry, Nollywood, has always been more than just a film sector. It’s a cultural phenomenon, a force of identity, and a furnace that has cooked up some of Africa’s most iconic cinematic moments. Since its embryonic days in traveling theater, Nollywood has carried the burden and pride of storytelling excellence on its back cementing its legacy with cultural ingenuity, performance brilliance, and raw authenticity.
From the spiritual and philosophical explorations in The Palm-Wine Drinkard, Oba Kò Só, and Yoruba Ronu, to the historical and cultural depth of Kurunmi, The Gods Are Not to Blame, and Ogbori Elemosho, the early dramatists like Hubert Ogunde, Kola Ogunmola, Moses Olaiya, Duro Ladipo, and Adeyemi Afolayan (Ade Love) set a fire in the soul of Nigerian storytelling. They didn’t just perform they immortalized tradition, archived cultural realities, and shaped identity through their craft.
When VHS cassettes took over the streets in the late ’80s through the early 2000s, it wasn’t just a format shift it was a revolution. It was war, and Nigerian filmmakers took up arms. Tunde Kelani’s Mainframe, Wale Adenuga Productions, Tade Ogidan, Amaka Igwe, and Kenneth Nnebue’s NEK Video Links became soldiers on the frontline. With masterpieces like Living in Bondage (1992), Rattlesnake, Saworoide, Owo Blow, and Diamond Ring, they told stories that weren’t only culturally rooted but audacious in morality, substance, and technicality even with minimal resources. The intent was clear: educate, entertain, and elevate. The movies felt like literature profound, layered, and philosophical.
But then… the dark days came.
From the early 2000s through the 2010s, everything changed. Marginalization of smaller tribal movie industries aside, the real villain was money or the lack of it. Filmmakers, starved of funding and support, gave in. They traded gold for cheap laughs. They sold storytelling on the altar of shallow, half-baked comedy skits disguised as cinema. It began with Aki na Ukwa (2002) a film that, while iconic in its own right, cracked open the dam of chaos. What followed was a flood of utter nonsense: 2 Rats, Tom & Jerry, School Dropouts, Aki & Pawpaw in London, Mr. Ibu, Jenifa, Osofia in London, Baba Suwe in London, Jelili, Muniru ati Ambali endless knockoffs with zero intellectual merit.
These weren’t films. They were rushed chaos. Often with no scripts, no plots, no art direction just overused catchphrases, loud performances, and ridiculous stereotypes. But they sold. Not to enrich the actors or creators but to feed the monstrous Idumota and Alaba cartel and the bottomless stomach of piracy. The actors got crumbs and clout. The industry bled.
But a quiet rebellion was brewing.
Towards the end of the 2000s, a few visionaries dared to rebel against the system. Cinema began whispering its name. And Kunle Afolayan roared into that void with Irapada (2006), then The Figurine (2009) a film so intentionally crafted it felt like it didn’t come from the same Nollywood. It was clean. It was layered. It was purposeful. And it was a warning shot: the gods were returning.
The early 2010s tested those waters. Films like Anchor Baby and Tango with Me (2010) showed that Nigerian cinema could breathe in global air. But it wasn’t until 30 Days in Atlanta (2014) that the industry broke the box office ceiling. Commercial success finally matched local ambition. Then came The Wedding Party a cultural carnival produced by Mo Abudu which became the face of new Nollywood glitz.
These movies brought glossy visuals and stronger direction, but their scripting? Still weak. They were just upgraded versions of the same old empty comedies now repackaged as “dramedies.” Directors saw the formula: throw in a bunch of Instagram sensations, some designer bags, forced accents, a few drone shots, and boom another ₦100 million in the bank.
Nollywood became a circus of luxury and mediocrity. From 2014 to 2018, the quality of storytelling was buried beneath vanity and virality.
But Kunle Afolayan wasn’t done. October 1 (2014) happened and it wasn’t just a movie. It was a masterclass. A cultural manifesto. A cinematic slap that reminded us of what Nollywood could be. And the world noticed. Netflix noticed. In 2015, they acquired October 1, making it the first Nollywood title on the platform. This wasn’t a win it was a crack in the global ceiling.
Then, in 2018, Netflix entered Nigeria officially. Their conquest of Africa brought them to the heart of Nollywood. The gate was flung wide open with Genevieve Nnaji’s Lionheart, the first Nigerian Netflix Original. It was elegant, thoughtful, symbolic a signal that things could change.
And for a moment, they did.
Netflix signed several directors to create Original content. This came with what Nollywood had lacked for decades: funding and freedom. No more hustling for cheap investors or dumbing down scripts to appeal to Idumota marketers. Now, they could dream.
Directors didn’t waste time. Kunle Afolayan gave us Citation and later Anikulapo, Mo Abudu presented Òlòtūré, Hamisha Daryani Ahuja released Namaste Wahala, and Kemi Adetiba dropped King of Boys Part 2. These weren’t just movies they were experiments, creative risks, cultural excavations. They dared to tell stories differently. They embraced language, rooted narratives in heritage, and unshackled their imaginations.
Lionheart celebrated Igbo industriousness. Anikulapo revived the mythical spine of Yoruba folklore. Films like Jagun Jagun, House of Gaa, and King of Thieves joined the renaissance. The production quality skyrocketed. Directors were paid. Actors were liberated. The culture felt seen.
But then just when we thought we’d arrived Netflix decided to pack up and leave.
In late 2024, news broke that the platform was pulling out of Nigeria. Why? The partnership wasn’t profitable. It didn’t deliver the commercial returns they had hoped for. And frankly they were right. Netflix is not a charity organization. It’s a business. If the math doesn’t math, the plug will be pulled.
The reasons were layered. Like many international companies that try to “crack” Nigeria, Netflix was sold on the illusion of our 200 million+ population. They bought the dream that we were a goldmine of digital subscribers. What they weren’t told is that our purchasing power is pitiful. Social media might make us look like a booming middle class, but we’re broke. Most Nigerians would rather download a pirated version from Telegram than pay ₦3,000 monthly for a streaming service. Beyond economic poverty, there’s mental poverty. The sense of entitlement to free content is cultural.
Another factor? Nollywood didn’t “go global” the way Netflix hoped. The storytelling was rich, but foreign audiences didn’t catch on. That’s not the fault of the directors. These are the same creators who finally had the money and liberty to create films that matter. Films like Namaste Wahala were bold collaborations with Bollywood. For once, we weren’t just churning out content we were building art.
Nollywood finally had room to breathe, to take risks, to raise the bar. And in that moment, even if the world didn’t see us, we saw ourselves.
The truth is, Nollywood has done its part. We’ve proven that we can tell stories with soul, with blood, with grit, and with an unapologetic cultural spine. We’ve built films that deserve to be studied, archived, and revered. So maybe it’s time to flip the question: it’s not about whether we’re ready for the world it’s whether the world is ready for us.
Is the world truly willing to look beyond its colonial gaze and see us as equals creators of cinema, not subjects of pity? Can they handle our truths told in our voices unwashed, unfiltered, uncolonized?
Because until the global gatekeepers are ready to embrace African stories without demanding we dilute them for white comfort, this “collaboration” will always be a one-sided performance.
We are not begging to be seen. We are here loud, proud, and relentless. Nollywood doesn’t need validation. Nollywood demands respect. Nollywood will not be gentrified like Afrobeats whitewashed, sugarcoated, and ripped from its soul. It will not be stripped of its cultural muscle to fit into Western frames.
We do not ask for the spotlight.
We are the fire itself.
Let the world adjust its lens.
Written by: Kehinde Adesokan.