Sizing Up Africa’s Film Market: What It Means for Nollywood’s Future

When people speak of Nollywood today, they wonder at its size and energy because Nigeria’s film industry produces hundreds of movies annually, spilling into cinemas, streaming, and YouTube. It’s among the world’s largest film industries, a cultural force, an undeniable fact. However, behind all the excitement is a tightrope question: is the African Film market large enough to accommodate Nollywood’s ambitions, or are we watching a dream extend beyond the reach of the earth it touches?

The high-level image looks promising. Nigerian films top the domestic box office, regularly outdrawing Hollywood on debut weekends. Funke Akindele’s A Tribe Called Judah became the first Nollywood film to hit the billion-naira mark in late 2023, proof that the Nigerian people, if offered the right story and promotion, would show up in massive numbers.

The film, which was screened in other countries on the continent, proves that Nollywood’s cultural reach is both domestic and regional. The thirst is palpable. Everyone wants to see themselves reflected on screen. Across the continent, people are hungry for culturally authentic tales told in their own accents, with their own humor, and with issues that sit in their reality. Afrobeats already taught us that authenticity can be universal. But Nollywood’s ability to translate that hunger into a sustainable market is in doubt.

Infrastructure is one reason why. Nigeria, with over 200 million individuals, has fewer than 100 cinemas. In the northern states of Kaduna and Kano, each state has only one cinema to serve millions of citizens. That deficiency is not by choice. Cinema culture requires electricity, security, disposable income, and urban planning, all lacking in Nigeria in the past.

To open a cinema outside of Lagos or Abuja is to struggle with subpar infrastructure and invisible returns. So, when box office returns in Lagos malls make headlines, they are just a small proportion of what a nationwide film economy would be since most Nigerians are still reliant on pirated DVDs, illicit screenings, or now budget online uploads. Cinema is still a luxury affair.

Streaming once promised to fill this gap. When Netflix entered Nigeria aggressively around 2020, picking up films like Lionheart and making originals, it was as if a new dawn had broken. Amazon Prime Video soon caught up with slates of Nigerian movies and buy deals with manufacturers. Nollywood films were subsequently distributed globally on the same platforms as Hollywood blockbusters.

There was a period when the world was believed to have finally reached the industry’s doorstep. But, in the past two years, reality has brought that optimism in check. Reports show that Netflix has begun cutting back on its Nollywood spending, directing more of its African investment towards South Africa, where infrastructure and viewing data appear more manageable.

Once optimistic about Nigeria, Amazon Prime has also pulled back its activity and reduced purchases. For Nigerian film-makers, that shift is a lesson. Streamers came, partied to the vibe, but found the economics less secure than they wanted. The international distribution dream is shakier than it appeared.

This shakiness has driven many directors back to YouTube, where some channels gain millions of views, and ad revenue provides a paltry cushion. But YouTube has no reliable sustenance. Advertising ebbs and flows, piracy exists within the same environment, and the cache of YouTube releases cannot compare with festival premières or theatrical box office hits. It is a survival tactic, not an expansion strategy.

If Nollywood relies too heavily upon YouTube, it will find itself levelling into quick, cheap entertainment rather than creating the kind of industry that can match the quantity of Bollywood or the durability of South African cinema.

Even in Africa itself, Nollywood expansion is being questioned. In 2022, Netflix’s highly hyped Elesin Oba: The King’s Horseman (which went by ELJ) could not succeed with audiences outside of Nigeria. Citing Wole Soyinka’s winning play, the film also received favorable critique but did not crossover to a broad popular audience. Some read it as proof that Africans are not united in taste.

A Nigerian story is not automatically compelling to a Kenyan, a Senegalese, or a South African audience member, context matters. Language, humor, and cultural codes vary. ELJ’s inability to glide smoothly across Africa was more a critique of Nollywood’s willingness to head anywhere than a condemnation of Nollywood itself. It was a reminder, too, that the continent is still far from being one single market.

It reminded me of another lesson: Nollywood has sometimes confused weakening with universality. To be universal is not to discard one’s origins to make oneself happier elsewhere. Afrobeats flourished not because it tampered with its rhythms to appease Western tastes but because it doubled down on its authenticity until the world had no choice but to do the same.

Nollywood can be pushed to learn the same lesson more seriously. Universality and authenticity are not two distinct concepts. But authenticity does call for a deeper understanding of what African audiences actually want.

This raises a harder question: do we know what African viewers want from film? In Nigeria, box office hits such as Battle on Buka Street or The Wedding Party reflect a taste for comedy, spectacle, and family drama: movies that amuse and offer cultural familiarity.

Taste runs to light romantic fare in Ghana, while South Africa has been prosperous with thrillers and high-gloss dramas. Francophone Africa also has cinema traditions, shaped by state support and festival culture. Therefore, to believe that there is one way of Nollywood storytelling which can traverse the whole continent is wrong. Yet Nollywood has never invested money in research to learn about these sensibilities.

Most of the film industry is driven by instinct and passion rather than data and planning. Putting an African-wide market together without research becomes a slogan rather than a strategy.

Meanwhile, production costs in Nigeria continue to rise. Inflation, unstable exchange rates, and the cost of electricity have pushed filmmaking to a record high. Generators guzzle fuel on location, transport delays eat into budgets, and post-production is costly. The economics of large-scale filmmaking are rapidly becoming unsustainable without the support of foreign investment or blockbuster hits.

But blockbuster hits like Funke Akindele’s billion-naira movie remain scarce. For each big hit, dozens of films make barely enough to stay afloat. And while Nollywood is rightly praised for its courage. However, courage cannot replace structure indefinitely.

Piracy is another sore point. Hundreds of pirated copies circulate days, sometimes hours, after opening day, for every Nollywood film in the cinema. It’s tempting to refuse to call piracy theft, but it also indicates demand. People want the movies but can’t afford access, legally. Each pirated copy is both a loss and a message: the demand exists, but the channels don’t. Piracy will be hot on its heels until Nollywood gets its act together on distribution.

So what does it all say about Nollywood?

For one, it is unstoppable in its cultural drive. The stories resonate, the stars shine, and the audience is hungry. For another, the industry appears to operate primarily on grit more than infrastructure. Cinemas are not in abundance. Streamers lose interest. Growth in the regions has been patchy. Piracy draws out profit. And production costs threaten to engulf the return.

The fate of Nollywood may rest on two points: building stronger local foundations and addressing the question of local diversity more seriously. Expanding cinema complexes to the rest of the nation would make the box office more representative of Nigeria’s audience. Investing in co-productions and distribution loops in West, East, and Southern Africa would diversify away from voluble foreign streamers. Nollywood can be confident that being inherently authentic does not equate to being modest. Indeed, it is possibly the only means of expansion.

The Nollywood narrative has ever been one of audacity. From VHS cassettes in Alaba market to billion-naira blockbuster box office cinema, the enterprise has thrived by never holding out for perfect weather. But as the delusion of global dominance grows louder, the question is whether the African market is being underrated or ignored.

If Nollywood’s dreams are to rise on solid ground, they need not only to perform for foreign awards but also to strengthen the ground upon which its aspirations can withstand the test of time. For now, every premiere, every festival submission, and every streamer pickup carries the same lingering question: Is the African film market large enough to accommodate Nollywood’s aspirations, or are those aspirations still running faster than the frail reality upon which they stand?