Fetishization of Suffering in Nollywood

From melodramatic accounts of Living in Bondage (1992) to the gritty realism of Dry (2014), tragedy appears not merely as a theme but as a mode of transaction within the industry. This makes one wonder why Nollywood so often resorts to accounts of suffering, how this guides audience expectations, and if it has the unfortunate effect of closing down possibilities for more innovative and diverse modes of storytelling. To understand this trend, we need to turn to its roots.

The roots of Nollywood, in its origins as grassroots, straight-to-video productions, were more rooted in ethical instruction than pure artistry. Early films, such as Nneka the Pretty Serpent (1994), tended to organize suffering as punishment from God for moral offences, essentially imparting a “crime-and-punishment” ethos into the industry’s fabric. This convention, one could argue, persists even in contemporary films like Chief Daddy (2018), where greed and adultery are likely to be rewarded with some form of karmic retribution. The Christian morality roots of the industry, at times evident in omnipresent catchphrases like “To God be the Glory!”, at times, allow for reducing suffering into a simplistic binary of sin and redemption. Economic compulsions also intervene.

With films historically produced on very low budgets, sometimes a mere $100,000, directors will inevitably gravitate towards high-drama, low-budget narratives. Poverty, betrayal, and violence are all easy to dramatize with minimal sets and special effects and are cost-effective. As one of the directors noted, the incentive to create quantity rather than quality is strong: “We shoot three films in 10 days because the algorithm rewards quantity.” Such a production culture can feed a pattern of trauma plot after trauma plot, where expediency takes precedence over subtlety. Indeed, audience demand cannot be overlooked.

Nigerian viewers, frequently struggling with everyday survival, might find confirmation of their sufferings in fiction. Films like MTV Shuga Naija (2018), which addresses suffering in the form of sexual abuse and destitution, thrive precisely because they depict real life. But this clamor has a negative side: the negative aspect of reducing the varied texture of Nigerian life into one monolithic narrative of suffering, erasing descriptions of happiness, strength, or other sides of human existence. This attraction to suffering is expressed in some popular tropes.

Such a trope is women’s martyrdom. The female characters are subjected to uneven agony. It could be the homewrecker, like Tanwa Savage (2021), the martyr wife, like Mr. and Mrs. (2012), or any other variation. Women stereotypically come across as villains, martyrs, or both, while their agony is nothing but just narrative devices.

Even feminist films, such as Citation (2020), occasionally center on women’s trauma; in that case, sexual harassment, as a quasi-obligatory stepping stone to women’s empowerment.

Yet another trope is one of what has been described as poverty porn and exoticized desperation. Although much-acclaimed films like Lionheart (2018) and Half of a Yellow Sun (2013) communicate necessary narratives, there is a risk their prominence in export-standard films can inadvertently reinforce simplistic Africa-as-continent-of-endless-crisis stereotypes.

Besides, some Nollywood films employ supernatural suffering. Films like Karishika (1996) and Nneka the Pretty Serpent (2020) employ trauma and supernaturalism, where agony is presented as an inevitable fate ordained by ancestral wrath or God’s wrath. Such can lead to narrative fatalism that ignores challenges to structural injustices, instead attributing agony to mystical powers.

Such preoccupation with distress has broad implications. It could lead to viewers’ desensitization and reversals. Over the years, the audience may even begin to see “realistic” storytelling equated with unremitting unhappiness, with this, in turn, placing pressure on moviemakers to conform to expectations.

It also creates a genre of monoculture. The dominance of suffering-focused dramas can displace more experimental genres. While there are comedies like A Naija Christmas (2021) and fantasy films like Mami Wata (2023), they are relatively rare exceptions. In some arguments, Nollywood’s reluctance to engage with complex political histories – like the Biafran War – instead, focusing on personal tragedies, ends up narrowing the industry’s narrative ambition.

Finally, there is the issue of global misrepresentation. Nollywood’s fixation on trauma risks reducing Nigeria’s international reputation to what Chimamanda Adichie vividly called a “single story” of pain. Although some films, like October 1 (2014) and 4th Republic (2019), address systemic issues, they are dwarfed by more sensational fare.

But it must be said that others are trying to break this circle and create a more nuanced kind of narrative. Some filmmakers, for example, are reclaiming trauma in feminist terms. Dry (2014) and Wives on Strike (2016) redefine torment as a prod to collective politics. By being interested in vesicovaginal fistula survivors’ and women’s work strikes’ lives, these narratives politicize agony, rather than merely spectacle.

There are also other directors working on political and historical themes. Directors like Kunle Afolayan in October 1 and Ishaya Bako in the 4th Republic  use historical trauma as a springboard to interrogate modern-day corruption and leadership. They exemplify that suffering, when correctly interpreted, can engender critical discourse rather than despair.

And increasingly, there is a trend towards genre innovation. The popularity of Afrofuturism in movies like “Mami Wata” (2023) and the creation of genres like the legal drama Castle & Castle (2020) show that Nollywood can become more diverse. These stories often have more emphasis on imagination and institutional critique than narrowly on personal suffering.

Overall, then, the appeal of suffering on the part of Nollywood is not exploitative in itself – it stems from real adversity and consumer need – but excessive reliance upon trauma risks both artistic stagnation and perpetuation of harmful stereotypes.

The marketplace must, therefore, balance holding up society as its mirror while serving as a window onto Nigeria’s dense tapestry of identity. For Nollywood to thrive, it must embrace the full weight of its social and historical complexities. As director CJ Obasi has noted, “Our writing still has a long way to go. We’re still depending on clichés, stereotypes and formulas that do not reflect who we are.” This is the path to a more equitable film ecosystem: one built frame by frame on truth, variety, and cultural depth.