AV Club: “Nigerian Prince” is about a fraudulent scammer, but the police is the real villain
A reiteration that the system charged with maintaining law and order is, more often than not, lawless and disorderly
In his newly published book, ‘Boldly Comes Justice: Sentient Not Silent’, author and famous neuroscientist Abhijit Naskar writes, “The problem with law enforcement is not the corruption, but an absolute denial of that corruption”. It’s a statement that is as profound as it is ordinary, because on one hand it captures one of the core ills behind bad policing, and on the other it’s an observation that doesn’t need too much insight, especially if you’ve been paying attention to the news lately.
This year, amidst a raging pandemic, several countries have become grounds for protests against terrible policing systems that enable various dimensions of abuse towards the same citizens police claim to serve and protest. From America to Nigeria to Angola to Uganda, people have come out demand for police reform, but these agitations have been treated with lip service and/or further police brutality. It’s an indicator that, not only are the police unwilling to change, they’re entirely rejecting the notion that there’s any need for change.
In Nigeria, specifically, it’s far from a secret that the police is one of the villains average Nigerians have to deal with on a daily basis. For most of the population, the mere sight of police causes shudders, because extortion has been one of the system’s main ills for decades. From soliciting bribes on the roads to demanding money before taking on any form of investigation, the corruption of the Nigerian police force is as legendary as it is ever pervasive, and it clearly frames their manner of operation as a system of patronage. As long as you pay what the police demands, you’re most likely free to go about your activities, even if they know those activities are downright illegal.
"Scamming is a game. People are fools. And anyone can fall for it."
The Nigerian Prince has arrived pic.twitter.com/G4489lXcl8
— Netflix Naija (@NetflixNaija) August 14, 2020
In the 2018 film “Nigerian Prince”, this real but troubling relationship between policing and patronage is depicted to strong results. Directed by Nigerian-American filmmaker Faraday Okoro, “Nigerian Prince” follows two main characters, Eze (Antonio Bell) and Pius (Chinaza Uche), as their unlikely paths collide but they strike up a bond based on desperation. Eze is an American teenager born to Nigerian parents, who was sent to Nigeria to live with his aunt Grace (Tina Mba) for four weeks, only to find out the actual duration is for a year and his mother has cancelled his return flight upon landing. On his path, Pius is a scammer who crafts and engages in a myriads of fraudulent schemes, but here’s the kicker: the Police not only knows what Pius does, they basically tax, enable and generally regulate his activities.
Pius and Eze are cousins, and after an unfortunate first encounter, they basically become two peas in a pod, since the latter is bent on finding his way back home and that involves getting money for a flight ticket, while the former is seeking for people to scam in order to pay off a fine imposed by a high ranking police officer. When viewers are introduced to Pius, he’s seen selling a car, which pretty much vanishes after the victim has already paid over N3million. Immediately after the crime is reported, Pius is quickly brought in for being the perpetrator, largely because the police have a history with him and his scams.
In this interface, the dynamic between Pius and the police is quickly established: not only is he visibly intimidated, he’s clearly subject to the whims of their demands. For not informing him of the scam and not paying the tax percentage attached to each scam, the DPO of the police station, ominously named Smart, fines Pius N4million, and that’s after returning the money he ripped off his unsuspecting customer.
With the fine time bound, Pius has engaged in several schemes in order to ensure he pays up on time. To do that, he cajoles his mentor Baba (Toyin Oshinaike) into a partnership, and after they run a scheme involving non-existent bags of rice, they make a relatively big play to pass off household items as expensive chemicals that can clean “black money”. Unbeknownst to them, though, their white patron is a U.S. secret agent working in tandem with Nigeria’s Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC).
Pius and Baba are arrested, but they are soon released following an order from above, much to the befuddlement of agent Bob. Apparently, DPO Smart paid off someone in the EFCC, and in order to ensure they aren’t rearrested and Smart has to pay more, they quickly destroy all evidence, which is one of the key times Eze is fully roped into Pius’ world. This captivating sequence plays into the common trope that the law is only binding to those without connections to places of power, and there’s no better ally than corrupt police to cheat a morally bankrupt law enforcement system.
Between the vividly forced “Nigerian” accent from Chinaza Uche (Pius), whose acting is great otherwise, the not-so-spectacular cinematography, and a storyline that is sometimes gets too literal—that scene where Pius breaks down “419” to Eze is quite cringe—“Nigerian Prince” has its critical bumps, but the portrayal of police in relation to crime is very remarkable. In situating them as arbiters and enablers of crime, the film uses art to represent a reality of Nigerian life that is widely known about but isn’t always shown like this on the big screen.
It’s not that Nollywood hasn’t always depicted the lawlessness of policing in Nigeria—there are scores of films with the trademark scene where the police tortures an arrested suspect to cajole confessions—but there’s a tact in “Nigerian Prince” that we don’t always see. Part of that might be the fear of backlash from the authorities. Earlier this year, the Jade Osiberu-produced “Sugar Rush” was temporarily banned from cinema screens nationwide by the National Film and Video Censors Board, and even though the board claimed that it was a case of expired exhibition permits, there were speculations that the ban stemmed from the film’s less-than-ideal representation of the EFCC.
In “Nigerian Prince”, the police just doesn’t tax and protect Pius’ criminal activities, they also serve as accomplices, as in the final scam where they help rip off another unsuspecting victim. It’s the sort of depiction that can get a Nigeria-based storyteller and production company into hot water. “Nigerian Prince” was commissioned as part of the inaugural ‘AT&T Presents: Untold Stories’, an initiative between the Tribeca Film Institute and AT&T, and it saw theatrical release in the U.S. after debuting at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2018. With these circumstances, it’s easy to see why Faraday Okoro was more fearless in showing the Nigerian police, and law enforcement generally, in its widely known corrupt light.
One of the reasons I loved "The Nigerian Prince" movie on Netflix despite the cringe accent is how it exposed the rot in the Nigerian Police and the begi begi at the Airports
— Princewill Chuka | Facebook Ads for E-commerce (@PrincewiIIChuka) October 29, 2020
Stretching even beyond their corrupt practices, Okoro incorporates the force’s penchant for brutality and casual murder, showing the prevalence and interdependence between abuse of power and financial gain, a devastating mix that fuels the country’s utterly bad policing system. Alongside other themes like betrayal and being uprooted, “Nigerian Prince” is about fraud, but it doesn’t take much to realise that the police is the main villain.
Don’t get me wrong, fraud deserves to be condemned and Pius is also a villain, but there are moments you catch yourself rooting for Pius, due to how much brutality the police metes out. I don’t think they’ve caught wind of it, but if they have, there’s no doubt that the Nigerian police will condemn their representation in “Nigerian Prince”, deeming it as bad PR when average Nigerians know that they’ve been one of the prominent villains of Nigerian reality.
There’s a popular belief that the Nigerian police know who the actual criminals are, but they’re reluctant to arrest them since these criminals always “settle” them. “Nigerian Prince” reinforces that notion, showing that the police is only friends with those who line their pocket, a relationship that can best be described as “scratch my back and I scratch yours, if not I will stab you in the back”. It’s a reiteration that the people who make up the system charged with maintaining law and order are, more often than not, lawless and disorderly themselves.
[“Nigerian Prince” is currently streaming on Netflix]
Featured Image Credits: YouTube
Dennis is a staff writer at the NATIVE. Let me know your favourite the Cavemen songs @dennisadepeter
ICYMI: WHY ‘OLOTURE’ IS MORE THAN A STORY, IT’S REAL LIFE
‘Dark October’ & Nollywood’s Struggle with Copyright Infringement
Who gets to tell our
The advent of global movie streaming services has resulted in a major boom for the Nigerian film industry. These platforms—Netflix, Showmax, Amazon Prime, and more—have contributed to presenting Nigerian films and their stars (behind the scenes or in front of the camera) to worldwide audiences, as well as revealing cultural and societal idiosyncrasies. While good abounds in the current situation, only a few Nigerian productions have managed to entertain viewers and critics alike, and side-step the notion that Nigerian filmmakers are yet to master pairing a great story with a great production value.
In a recent interview, Nigerian critic Alithnayn Abdulkareem shares “…Nollywood is not at the stage where the films being produced have the range to feature in or compete in global conversations about the quality, purpose and vision of film. In business terms, perhaps, but no way in terms of plot, dialogue or the aforementioned production values.” In most cases, the Nigerian films that delve into more complex subject matters fail to make a splash on the home front, and are shoved to the background in favour of glossy big-budget blockbusters.
For the longest period, piracy and copyright infringement were two issues that have handicapped the Nigerian film industry; while cinema and film streaming platforms have helped curb the cancerous growth of piracy, the latter is still a problem that continually rears its ugly head. The latest case is the Linda Ikeji-executive-produced Netflix-housed film ‘Dark October.’ Released on the streaming platform over the past week, the Toka McBaror-directed film is centred on the tragic death of four University of Port Harcourt (UNIPORT) students who were wrongly accused of theft and lynched in the Aluu community of Rivers State in October 2012.
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‘Dark October’ aims for a realistic and jolting portrayal of the death and events surrounding the death of those four students—Ugonna Obuzor, Lloyd Toku, Tekena Elkanah and Chiadika Biringa. In 2012, when clips of the lynching surfaced on the internet and went viral, the unfortunate incident shook the country as calls were made to ensure stringent measures for jungle justice. An anti-lynching bill was proposed but that hasn’t seen the light of day. Five years after the incident, a trial was held in Rivers State and three persons were sentenced to death for the murder of the four undergraduate students.
Days before ‘Dark October’s’ February 3 premiere on Netflix, the families of the four UNIPORT students, through a statement from the Integrity Friends for Truth and Peace Initiative (TIFPI), demanded the suspension of the film, citing that they were not contacted for the project. “The production of the advertised movie has deeply reactivated the trauma and psychological pain that these families have been irrecoverably battling with for the past ten years, and this is unfair,” the statement read. “It is on record that Linda Ikeji has never reached out to the affected families since 2012 and this raises questions on her motivation.”
The families also threatened legal action against Linda Ikeji and her partners, which in this case are Netflix and the film’s distributor FilmOne Productions. In an interview with BBC Pidgin, Linda Ikeji stated that her decision to make the film came from a good place, which is to honour the memories of the Aluu Four victims and cast light on the evils of jungle justice. While those are noble intentions, they do not reduce the severity of her and her crew’s actions. ‘Dark October’, which should have been a saving grace of some sort, also doesn’t match Ikeji’s upright aspirations.
‘Dark October’ might be the latest case of copyright-associated problems but it’s not the first, high-profile case of this nature. In 2020, shortly after the release of the Kenneth Gyang-directed Òlòtūré on Netflix, Nigerian journalist Tobore Ovuorie called out EbonyLife Films owner Moe Abudu and the film’s crew for failure to sufficiently credit her as the primary source for Òlòtūré. In 2014, ZAM Chronicle and Premium Times published Ovuorie’s undercover report of sex trafficking in Nigeria. “[Òlòtūré] does not closely resemble my work,” Ovuorie said. “It is a copy and paste of my work. [Òlòtūré] is my life story.”
Although the film’s crew admits that Òlòtūré was inspired by Ovuorie’s report, Mo Abudu refuted Ovorie’s claims, stating she had acknowledged Ovuorie’s journalistic achievements, granted her a private screening of the movie, given her a special mention and offered 5% of the profits of the film’s cinema run to Tobore’s NGO. She further stated that her company had obtained the rights to Ovuorie’s story through Premium Times, her employer at the time.
Mo Abudu responds to Tobore Ovuorie’s allegations against EbonyLife on Oloture in new video. pic.twitter.com/KBuko0tj2c
— Ibrahim Salawu (@UnilagOlodo) January 12, 2021
Ovuorie responded to Abudu’s remarks, saying that she had, through her lawyers, informed Abudu that the investigation for her piece had started before her employment with Premium Times. “[Òlòtūré] is an ADAPTATION of my work and life-story. I experienced the investigation, the process, and the risks, upon which the movie is based,” she wrote. “I also single-handedly authored the publication the movie relied on. The publication of my experience is what gave birth to [Òlòtūré].” Ovuorie also demanded compensation of $5,000,000.00 for copyright infringement.
According to the Nigerian Copyright Act LFN 2004, the author of a work owns the copyright; however, Section 10 (3) of the Act stipulates that “where a literary, artistic or musical work is made by the author in the course of his employment by the proprietor of a newspaper, magazine or similar periodical under a contract of service or apprenticeship…the said proprietor shall, in the absence of any agreement to the contrary, be the first owner of copyright in the work in so far as the copyright relates to the publication of the work in any newspaper, magazine or similar periodical.” This section shows that while Ovuorie is the author of the work and has exclusive rights, Premium Times also has copyright claims as the publisher. Legally, Mo Abudu was right to say she got consent from Premium Times but it still doesn’t erase Ovuorie’s demands that she be identified as the sole owner of the story because, without her work, there wouldn’t have been any reason for Abudu to approach Premium Times in the first place.
The issue of copyright infringement isn’t only a problem in film; it’s also prevalent in the music industry, with the most recent cases being Carter Efe vs. Berri Tiga and SGaWD vs. Dvpper Music. In the situation of Linda Ikeji and ‘Dark October,’ it seems to be a moral issue rather than a legal one. Globally, there is no requirement for a filmmaker to seek consent before making a film about a person– whether living or dead. The only exception to the rule, though, is if a person has copyrighted their name, image and likeness—thereby making it a standout brand. That is not the case with the Aluu Four victims, meaning that anyone can make a film about them.
For a story as deeply troubling with heavy themes as ‘Dark October,’ Linda Ikeji could have done the just and moral thing and engaged the families of the victims by trying to seeking out their consent and support. While that won’t mean total agreement from the families, it would be courteous and have better portrayed her intentions to show respect for the memories of those students whose lives were cut short by senseless rage. Towards the end of the film, ‘Dark October’ makes a mess of paying its respects to the Aluu Four—played by newcomers Chuks Joseph, Okpara Munachi, Kem-Ajieh Ikechukwu and Kelechukwu Oriaku—when a character in the film (who was close to the four main characters) directly addresses the audience about their death. It might have been a tearjerker move but instead, it served very little to honour to lives of the departed boys.
Films about real-life occurrences are nothing new. All around the world, filmmakers and directors are borrowing inspiration from the world around us and retooling this as digestible content for global audiences. This won’t particularly be the first time that Netflix co-signs a real-life story without first seeking the permission of the affected victims or family. Last year, the streaming giant came under fire for the release of Ryan Murphy-directed ‘Dahmer – Monster: The Jeffery Dahmer Story’ which failed to seek the permission of the families affected by Dahmer’s heinous crimes. One of the victim’s mothers Shirley Hughes told the Guardian: “I don’t see how they can do that. I don’t see how they can use our names and put stuff out like that out there.”
As Nollywood continues to expand its scope in terms of storytelling and production values, its key players must strive to ensure that they cover all bases, whether it be legal or moral obligations. Nigerian film producer Charles Okpaleke’s Play Network Studios have announced plans for upcoming films based on the 1803 Igbo landing and the 1993 Nigerian Airways hijack; it is hoped that Okpaleke (and his team) as well as any other Nigerian filmmaker interested in retelling true-life situations make the right choices and avoid the reoccurrence of the issues similar to Òlòtūré and Dark October. While it is great that the Nigerian film industry has positioned itself for a global audience, it is important to ensure that there are no skewed stories on offer.
Featured image credits/NATIVE
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Netflix & Inkblot Productions Announce New Coming-Of-Age Series, ‘Far From Home’
Mark your calendars: December
Netflix, the renowned streaming entertainment service, has announced the launch date of its first Nigerian Young Adult show ‘Far From Home.’ Produced in partnership with the renowned Inkblot Productions, the five-part series, which concluded principal photography earlier this year, is set for a global premiere exclusively on Netflix on December 16, 2022.
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Far From Home follows the story of Ishaya (Mike Afolarin), a charismatic teenager and talented artist from a poor family whose dreams suddenly appear within reach when a prestigious scholarship to the most exclusive school in the country catapults him into the affluent world of Nigeria’s elite. All the while, a huge secret threatens Ishaya’s newfound status and, ultimately, his family’s safety. The trio of Catherine Stewart, Kayode Kasum and Kenneth Gyang directed the series.
Far From Home features up-and-coming talents such as Mike Afolarin, Elma Mbadiwe, Genoveva Umeh, Gbubemi Ejeye, Olumide Oworu and Natse Jemide. It also has the presence of well-known talents the likes of Funke Akindele, Richard Mofe-Damijo, Adesua Etomi-Wellington, Bolanle Ninalowo, Bucci Franklin, Bimbo Akintola, Linda Ejiofor, Chioma Akpotha, Femi Branch, Carol King and Ufuoma Mcdermott.
Inkblot Productions is behind several Nollywood flicks such as The Wedding Party (1 & 2), The Set Up (1 & 2), Up North, Quam’s Money and The Perfect Arrangement. “We’re excited to be partnering with Netflix to create this special show on a global scale for and about young Nigerians,” co-creator of Far From Home and founder of Inkblot Productions Chinaza Onuzo says. “Working with such an amazing cast and crew to tell this unique story about making your way in the world and chasing your dreams no matter your status in life is such a privilege and honour.”
The acclaimed Nigerian scriptwriter Dami Elebe (The Men’s Club, Skinny Girl In Transit, & Rumour Has It) served as the series head writer, with Chinaza Onuzo, Erika Klopper, Zulumoke Oyibo and Damola Ademola as executive producers.
Watch the announcement video for ‘Far From Home’ and get an exclusive first look at the cast below.
Featured image credits/Netflix
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AV Club: Kayode Kasum’s ‘Soólè’ Employs Exaggerated Comedy To Make Poignant Social Commentary
featuring your favourite Nollywood
In the later parts of 2021, Nigerian movie and music video director, Kayode Kasum, released ‘Soólè’, a poignant social commentary which adds to the slew of productions under his belt such as ‘Quam’s Money’ and ‘Fate of Alakada.’ The title, which loosely translates to “cheap bus” or “cheap ride,” is a popular means of transportation in Nigeria used to commute long journeys by road. Only a week after its release on October 14, 2022, the movie shot up to claim the number one spot on Netflix Naija.
Kasum gathered a star studded cast including Sola Sobowale, Lateef Adedimeji, Adedunni Ade, Femi Jacobs and a plethora of other notable names, as they embarked on a rollercoaster road trip to Enugu, a state in the Eastern part of Nigeria. Through the course of the film, we are introduced to a diverse group of characters with stark dissimilar backgrounds and morals, all which come to a head in the film’s climax.
As they journey to their final stop, the inevitable clashes between these characters creates several bumps in the road, necessitating several stops and the discovery that some passengers had an agenda beyond reaching their final destination. Amid the fast-paced plot and elaborate character portrayals, ‘Soólè’ combines relevant social commentary about the state of the country, and its regressing inter-state travel networks.
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Audiences are first introduced to a reverend sister, Veronica, who boards a bus to Enugu to source funds for an orphanage. Unlike most religious leaders in Nigeria, Veronica is a lot less judgemental and hypocritical. She engages a fellow passenger and seat partner, Justina, in conversations on modesty expressing her thoughts on the virtue being overrated. She starkly contrasts another religious character, Pastor Oko who upon boarding the bus, forces a praise and worship session on all the passengers. This was followed up by an encouragement for them to offer their money to God through him–a familiar tactic for fraudulent men of the cloth. Unsurprisingly, the majority of passengers obliged, which speaks directly to the blind religious followership Nigerians often have to anyone who holds a Bible and speaks with supposed authority.
We gain more perspective into Pastor Oko’s character, as he refuses to donate to Justina who had lost five hundred thousand Naira worth of goods after a raid. While other sympathetic passengers offered up money according to their capabilities, he declined to donate to her cause, claiming that he must know the content of the stolen property first. Here, Kasum adeptly sheds light on blind religious followership among Nigerians as well as the sheer hypocrisy and judgemental attitude some religious leaders have on their followers.
The most engaging aspect of the plot in ‘Soòlè’ is the way in which Kasum allows viewers to see themselves or someone they know in the characters who board the bus. For instance, other than the religious fanatics, Kasum also incorporates poignant commentary about respectability politics which play out in everyday interactions between the old and the young. Here, John, played by Lateef Adedimeji, attempting to alight the bus against the wishes of the other passengers. While conversing with the driver the other passengers began questioning his motives and that spurred a negative reaction from him. Ifebuchi, one of the older passengers proceeded to insult him, referring to him as a “Bastard African” with no respect for his elders. To this, he responded “What respect are you looking for? Your respect was lost years ago”
‘Soólè’ also touched on the theme of insecurity, one which couldn’t be more relevant in these times, with the ever-increasing rate of robberies and kidnappings on major road networks in Nigeria. In the film, all passengers are enroute a journey to Enugu and while they make their way in the bus, they encounter many horrors that have been experienced by Nigerians living in the country. While most Igbo families dwelling in Lagos and other parts are notorious for going back home towards the end of the year, the reality remains that the security conditions rid passengers of a hitch-free journey.
It was hard to miss the general tone of desperation, masking as perseverance in the face of danger, which shone through the film and all its main characters. Through all the dangerous obstacles, all characters relentlessly worked to have their money intact in order to leave the bus unscathed in the end. Money becomes a currency through which the passengers alight the bus bargain for their freedom, and get themselves out of tight situations. For instance, in a dire attempt to survive in the tumultuous country that is Nigeria, a man left his pregnant wife stranded so as to get his share of the money. In addition, some captives expressed their desire to stay in the baby factory if it meant them getting their money.
Overall, ‘Soólè’ acts as a satirical comedy, holding up a mirror not just the current issues plaguing our society and country today, but also some flawed yet normalised behavioural traits that are continuously perpetuated by many Nigerians.
Watch ‘Soólè’ on Netflix Naija.
ICYMI: NIGERIA WILL HOST THE OFFICIAL ‘BLACK PANTHER 2:WAKANDA FOREVER’ AFRICAN PREMIERE
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