On the last day of April 2026, actress and filmmaker Bimbo Ademoye found herself in the middle of something that has become far too common in Lagos. She was on an outdoor film set when three to five men approached her crew, demanding money before shooting could continue. Locals call them agberos, area boys, street thugs. The script is always the same: pay up or pack up.
A video of the confrontation spread quickly online. In the clip, Ademoye stands her ground, refusing to be intimidated. Speaking in English, Yoruba, and Pidgin, she tells the men she has no problem settling people who help around her set, but she will not be forced to pay a fixed amount. “I am a street girl, let me tell you,” she says. “Ask around, when it comes to matters of the street, I like settling boys. But you don’t come to me and tell me to give you a certain amount.” One of the men threatens to turn off her camera. She fires back, “Camera that nobody in your generation has.”
The video is watched by thousands. Many praise her courage, but beneath the applause is a shared frustration. Her ordeal is not an isolated incident. It is only the latest chapter in a long, exhausting pattern that Nollywood has been dealing with for years.
What Is Agberoism?
There is a word for what has been happening, even if it is not formally recognized yet: agberoism.
Agberos began as unofficial transport enforcers, young men who collect money from commercial bus drivers at bus stops. Over time, their reach has expanded. They now demand payments from almost anyone conducting business in public spaces. Motorists, traders, and pedestrians all pay. Film crews have become frequent targets.
When a Nollywood production tries to shoot on a real Lagos street, agberos appear. They do not ask. They demand. The amounts range from 50,000 to 200,000 naira per encounter, sometimes more. One filmmaker told a documentary crew, “They are not approaching you in a negotiating way. It is a solid order, a strong statement saying pay us.”
The Cost of Doing Business
For many producers, extortion has become a line item in the budget. Some openly admit they now factor “area boys levy” into financial planning. But the cost goes beyond money.
Biodun Stephen, a filmmaker whose works include Picture Perfect and Breaded Life, has lost count of her encounters with agberos. In one incident in October 2022, a group broke the side mirrors of her location bus and removed its wiper. Her team was not even filming at that spot. The touts recognized the bus and held onto it, demanding payment. They asked for 20,000 naira. She negotiated down to 3,000.
But the extortion did not stop there. Later that same day, Vehicle Inspection Officers stopped the bus and insisted that since the mirrors were missing, the vehicle had to be impounded. They demanded 25,000 naira. The bus carried film equipment. She had no choice but to pay.
Stephen also noted that agberos operate in batches. Pay one group, and another shows up. “When one is shooting scenes at any place, money for area boys must be kept aside,” she said. “They also come in batches. When you settle one set, another set will come.”
Toyin Abraham has also faced similar situations. In 2021, she was filming Ige when a group of street urchins interrupted her shoot. One of them rejected the 10,000 naira she offered and demanded a higher sum. More recently, in 2024, she was captured on video confronting area boys who stormed her set, questioning why she was not permitted to film in Lagos.
Filmmaker Mary Uche Okoli described the trend as one of her greatest cultural shocks in the industry. She said producers are often forced to pay hundreds of thousands or even millions of naira to groups of men simply to film on public streets that are not owned by anyone.
The Shift Away from the Streets
The result is predictable: Nollywood is quietly moving away from the streets.
Directors and producers are choosing to film indoors or inside gated estates. It is safer and more predictable, and it reduces surprise visits from agberos demanding money. However, it also changes the visual language of Nollywood.
One social media user captured this frustration after Ademoye’s video went viral. He argued that persistent street harassment is partly why many Nigerian productions have become repetitive, overly indoor, or confined to sanitized upscale environments.
Another user put it more bluntly: “Can’t shoot films, can’t shoot music videos, can’t do news interviews, can’t do vox pops, because they’ve turned ‘settle us’ into a culture.”
This is not a small problem. It is an industry condition with aesthetic consequences.
The Rise of the Film Village
There has been a parallel development. Film villages are growing across Lagos. Bolanle Austen-Peters launched the BAP Film Village in Epe, a 10,000-acre facility with traditional Yoruba architecture, large courtyards, and open landscapes. It is where she shot House of Ga’a, her Netflix project.
These spaces offer filmmakers control they cannot get on public streets. But they are also closed environments. They do not fully capture the chaos, texture, and street life that define Lagos.
When a film is shot entirely inside a gated estate or studio village, something is lost. The city becomes a backdrop rather than a living presence. The unpredictability that gives Nollywood its raw energy is reduced before the camera even rolls.
The Government Response
The Lagos State Government has periodically cracked down on agbero activity. In mid-2025, the state House of Assembly called on security agencies to address rising extortion of motorists, urging stronger intelligence gathering and decisive action. However, the problem persists. Film crews, motorists, traders, and residents still encounter harassment across the city.
A Punch editorial in May 2026 urged Governor Babajide Sanwo-Olu to take stronger action. The editorial noted that while periodic crackdowns have been acknowledged, the issue continues across Lagos. Industry voices amplified similar concerns after Ademoye’s viral incident.
Some have proposed structured solutions. One social media user called for a formal system similar to those used in Atlanta, Toronto, and Cape Town. “There should be a formal system, something like a Filming Pass or Production Permit that every producer obtains before principal photography begins,” he wrote. “That pass would capture approved locations, shooting dates, and crew details. If hoodlums try to disrupt the shoot, the production manager can present the permit as proof of legal clearance.”
He added, “We need a unified national film permit tied to the Nigeria Police Force Film Unit. QR-coded, verifiable, possibly with a 24/7 hotline. This is a global standard. Nigeria can do the same.”
A Deeper Irony
There is a painful irony in all of this. Lagos is the heart of Nollywood. It is where the industry was born and continues to grow. The city’s energy, streets, markets, bridges, and chaos are what make Nigerian films feel alive. Yet the same streets that give Nollywood its identity are becoming too expensive, too risky, and too unpredictable to use.
Agberoism is not just an inconvenience. It is gradually altering the visual identity of Nollywood. The texture that made the industry distinctive, the feeling that Lagos is always present in the frame, is being priced out.
When productions move indoors to avoid confrontation, the stories shift. They become more controlled and less spontaneous. The Lagos on screen is no longer always the Lagos outside. It becomes a safer version, a filtered version, one that fits what can be managed rather than what is real.
The Way Forward
Some filmmakers have stopped resisting. They include settlement costs in budgets and continue working. Others, like Bimbo Ademoye, still push back. But individual resistance is not enough. The issue is structural.
The Lagos State Government must decide how it wants Nollywood to function as a cultural and economic sector. If filming on public streets becomes too difficult, productions will continue to move indoors or relocate. That would affect not just filmmakers, but the city’s cultural visibility.
For now, Lagos streets remain dominated by agbero activity. Until something changes, Nollywood will keep paying the price, not only in money, but in the gradual loss of the environments that once defined its stories.
