Nigerian filmmaker Samuel Martins’ recent viral confession revealed portion of the ugly underbelly of Nollywood. Our investigation into the financial realities of the creative industries exposes a troubling pattern of delayed or non-existent compensation affecting professionals across disciplines.
When filmmaker Samuel Martins posted his candid video online last month, he didn’t expect to become the voice for a generation of exploited creative professionals. Sitting alone in his car before his camera and visibly frustrated, Martins articulated what many in creative fields experience but rarely discuss publicly.
“Nobody prepared me, nobody told me how frustrating it was going to be,” Martins said, describing the financial strain of investing his own money into projects with uncertain returns. “You have to wait for one year, two years to get a return. Sometimes you don’t even get a return, all you get is the credit.”
His comparison to more traditional businesses was particularly striking: “If I were to be selling clothes or shoes or perfume, I put in money, buy merchandise and I get paid in two weeks… but that’s not the same as a creator.”
This investigation, based on in-depth interviews with ten professionals across various creative disciplines, examines the pervasive expectation that creative workers should prioritize exposure and portfolio-building over financial compensation. Their testimonies reveal consistent patterns of unpaid work, deferred payment, and the psychological toll of pursuing passion in industries structured to extract value while minimizing remuneration.
Across film, music, writing, visual arts, and design, our sources described strikingly similar experiences despite their different fields thereby raising questions about whether the creative economy’s current model is sustainable for the very people who fuel it.
Finding Balance in Nigeria’s Creative Economy
When asked whether Nigeria’s creative space places too much emphasis on financial success, industry professionals offered perspectives as diverse as their artistic backgrounds, which reveals a complex ecosystem where art and commerce exist in constant tension.
“I don’t think they place enough emphasis on financial success, no,” says Ifedoyin ‘Fe Doyin’ Igbasan, whose writing credits include the AMVCA-nominated “Italo” and the current season of “Man Pikin.” Her concise assessment hints at a disconnection between creative output and financial sustainability that many creators experience.
This sentiment finds a surprising echo in filmmaker Korede Azeez’s perspective. As the director of Prime Video’s “With Difficulty Comes Ease,” Azeez challenges the premise of the question itself: “I actually feel like maybe we are not even putting enough emphasis on financial success.”
She points to the industry’s complex structure, noting that “there are many different niches: commercial filmmakers and filmmakers who are more about the art.” For Azeez, the balance varies widely across different sectors, creating a “mixed bag” where some prioritize commercial interests over artistic quality, while others struggle with the opposite problem.
The historical context matters too, she suggests: “Creative endeavors sort of have this history of not putting enough emphasis on [financial success].”
For Uduak Obong Patrick, director of “Force Empire” and “The Masked King,” the creative industries are fundamentally businesses like any other. “Unlike every and any other business, financial success is paramount,” he explains. “It’s important that when you are in a business, you are making profits.”
Patrick identifies the real issue not as excessive focus on finances, but as creatives failing to fully understand the business aspects of their work: “So it seems as though we now focus on that business over anything else. But it doesn’t mean that we’re placing too much emphasis on it.”
Hope Osatare Matthew, a screenwriter who jas worked kn Project like the African Magic’s “Refugee” frames the financial question as “more of a value chain thing” rather than an emphasis problem. “You need money to make films and after you’ve made the film, you need the audience to trust you … you need to make enough money so that you can make your next film if you’re going to make a living from filmmaking.”
Matthew points to a deeper structural issue: a lack of “financial stakeholders who can persevere with the unpredictable nature of Nigeria’s creative business landscape.” In her view, the industry needs investors “who are not just there to make money as soon as possible but… willing to stick through these very harsh financial situations.”
Not all perspectives align with this pragmatic view of creativity as business. Sherif Olorunrinu Adekunle of Konirewa Studios Ltd, who produced “Dear Applicant,” “Akiti,” “Hey Stranger,” and “The Bride Price,” sees a troubling imbalance in the industry’s priorities. “Yes, it does,” he responds firmly when asked about excessive emphasis on financial success.
“I guess because it’s show-biz …. Basically you’ve got to flaunt it even if you don’t have it. Fake it till you make it,” he explains. While acknowledging the business aspects, Adekunle worries about the consequences: “I understand that it’s a business and you want to be successful at it, but then not at the detriment of quality. We churn out mediocre content every week all in the name of financial success.”
This concern about quality erosion finds its strongest expression in the perspective of Dele Doherty, director of Prime Video’s “Landline” and “They Won’t Talk About It.” Concurring with Adekunle, “Yes, I strongly believe so,” he states unequivocally, “as financial success is the main driving force in the Nigerian creative space.”
Doherty reveals how deeply this orientation is embedded in industry education: “In my first class in a three-month certificate course at Royal Art Academy, we were told that the purpose of making films is to make money. So, if we are being taught this in an introductory class to filmmaking, at the grassroots level, it’s clear that this is the mindset that permeates the entire creative space.”
Yet he also sees signs of change, noting that “there are emerging filmmakers, as well as veterans, who prioritize storytelling and cultural representation, even if it means making less money.” For Doherty, “The industry is definitely evolving, and a balance between financial success and true storytelling is not far-fetched. We need balance.”
Elimihe Osezuah, director of “Unforgivable,” offers perhaps the most sobering assessment of the industry’s financial dynamics. In a Facebook post he referenced during our interview, Osezuah describes a “society which has lost its humanity and has sold out to thievery and opportunism,” where both producers and creative workers engage in exploitative practices.
“The few honest and quality-focused ones suffer,” he laments, describing how well-intentioned producers who treat workers fairly often face sabotage from those who “take full advantage and want to sabotage them believing they have much money.”
The result, in Osezuah’s view, is “the reign of the mean and the unconcerned” and “a poor Nollywood in terms of quality outputs and good treatments to the cast and the crew.”
Among all these perspectives, Taiwo Egunjobi, director of “A Green Fever” and “The Fire and the Moth,” stands out for his focus on artistic integrity. “I think I’ve been privileged to never have to… lose my soul in that sense,” he reflects. “I’ve either self-funded my projects or worked with studios that wanted to respect my vision and respect the heart of my work.”
For Egunjobi, the apparent conflict between artistic and commercial success is a false dichotomy. “Making highly artistic films doesn’t mean you can’t make it commercial,” he insists, citing international directors who successfully bridge this gap: “Tarantino, Scorsese, Spielberg all came up doing things like this.”
His aspiration resonates with many creatives navigating this balance: “You look at Ryan Coogler in America, and Coogler is finding that balance between doing something as exciting and as well, you know, accessible to the audience. That’s where I want to be at.”
Yet even this artistically-oriented filmmaker acknowledges financial realities: “I’m also not pretentious enough to say it doesn’t matter if a film doesn’t make money. A film, in many cases, needs to make money. In many cases, not all cases.”
In these varied perspectives from Nigeria’s creative professionals, a complex picture emerges – not of a simple tension between art and commerce, but of an ecosystem struggling to develop sustainable models that honor both creative integrity and financial viability. The question isn’t simply whether the industry focuses too much on money, but rather how it can evolve structures that allow authentic creative expression to thrive economically.
When Passion Trumps Paychecks
The tension between creative fulfillment and financial stability isn’t just theoretical for Nigeria’s filmmakers and writers. It’s a lived reality that forces difficult choices. When asked whether they’ve ever chosen passion or impact over a bigger paycheck, creatives’ responses reveal the complex personal calculations that define creative careers.
“I always chose passion,” states Sonia John plainly. As the director of “A Night At The Basseys” and the AFRIFF-selected “Purgatory,” her succinct answer suggests an unwavering prioritization of creative vision over financial gain.
This stands in stark contrast to Azeez’s equally direct but opposite response: “No, there’s never been such a time.” Her straightforward denial challenges the romantic notion that creative work should require financial sacrifice—a perspective in an industry that often normalizes underpayment in exchange for artistic fulfillment.
For others, the question prompts reflection on the industry’s structural realities. “Nollywood isn’t exactly the place where producers grapple with ideological details,” Matthew explains. “Most of the stories we’re telling are pretty traditional. Our audience is pretty based.” Her observation suggests that the dichotomy between passion projects and commercial work may be less pronounced in a market where audience preferences remain relatively conservative.
Matthew also offers a pointed critique of seemingly progressive content in the industry: “Although some filmmakers try to incorporate progressive themes like LGBTQ and over-the-top female-centric ideas into their stories, most of them tend to do it for shock value and to gain ‘oyibo validation’; not really because they care about homophobia or women’s rights. The paucity of nuanced details in their work says it all.”
Patrick’s response reveals the multifaceted nature of creative decision-making. “I’m choosing passion over impact. For me, impact and messages is more important,” he explains, seemingly conflating passion with impact. But he then adds an important qualification: “But if we turn the question around and say, ‘Will I do a project because of the paycheck?’ Then, yes. I’ve done a few of those where I’m not totally sold on the story, but I did it for the money.”
This pragmatic approach – balancing passion projects with commercial work – represents perhaps the most common resolution to the art-commerce dilemma. Yet not everyone has found such balance possible or desirable.
For Adekunle, who has a doctorate degree in Economics, choosing artistic integrity over financial reward isn’t occasional because it’s standard practice. “That’s what I literally do every time. Maybe that’s why I’m still a broke producer,” he admits with painful honesty. “I have produced over 10 short films, a big churn of that was collaboration. I never got paid. The remaining were personal projects. I’m all about great, quality content and collaboration, support.”
His comment reveals the financial consequences of prioritizing artistic vision in an industry where quality doesn’t always translate to compensation. It’s a sentiment echoed in Cephas John’s darkly humorous response: “Well, I was a digital marketer before going to film school which took a toll on business. And I like money. Today I’m a filmmaker. Filmmaking is synonymous with suffering. There’s my answer.”
Doherty approaches the question from a place of passion-driven purpose: “Yes, definitely. I love film and storytelling so much that I put my all into every stage of filmmaking, whether as a writer, director, or in the camera or post department.” For him, the creative process itself holds inherent value beyond financial metrics: “It’s about story, passion, and impact first. I’ve worked on several projects that resonated with me over financial reward.”
Osezuah’s response introduces another dimension to the passion-versus-paycheck question, and it borders on the ethical considerations that influence project selection. “I never really accept jobs for the pay,” he states firmly. “I’ve walked away from productions, turned down productions before they even rolled, because I saw that the drivers (producers) were questionable.”
He recounts a particularly difficult period: “There was a time I’d not worked for years, being home and broke for four years and at the end of Covid-propelled-sit-at-home, I was offered job by this meandering she-producer after I helped her to rework her script into a cinema standard piece. Now I was to direct, but seeing who she was, I refused.”
This willingness to forgo not just better opportunities but any opportunities at all reflects a principled stance that few creators can afford, literally. “My case was not about turning down jobs for leaner pay,” Osezuah explains; “it was turning down promising jobs for NOTHING.”
For ‘Fe Doyin’, the relationship between passion and compensation presents itself differently. “I’ve never had a case of ‘either or’,” she explains, “but I have had cases where the pay was quite insulting and I started the job without my heart in it, only to find that I had created a masterpiece at the end. Passion just takes over. Every time.”
Her experience suggests that creative engagement can transcend initial financial disappointment: that the work itself can redeem inadequate compensation through the fulfillment it provides. Yet this perspective also risks reinforcing an industry model that undervalues creative labor by framing passion as its own reward.
Egunjobi, who previously emphasized artistic integrity, frames his experience in terms of privilege: “I think I’ve been privileged to never have to … lose my soul in that sense.” His comment acknowledges that the ability to prioritize vision over money represents a position not everyone enjoys: “I’ve either self-funded my projects or worked with studios that wanted to respect my vision and respect the heart of my work.”
Even when financial compromise seemed necessary, unexpected success followed his commitment to artistic vision: “Making my first film, I knew “All My Vibes” could never have gone to a Nigerian theatre…. But, somehow, it got to Netflix, you know, on its own merit.”
In these varied responses, we see the full spectrum of how Nigerian creatives navigate the difficult terrain between artistic fulfillment and financial survival. From those who refuse to compromise regardless of consequences to those who balance commercial work with passion projects, from those who’ve found ways to achieve both simultaneously to those who’ve resigned themselves to “suffering” as the price of creative work—each represents a different response to an industry that often pits artistic integrity against financial stability.
What Really Rewards Nigeria’s Filmmakers
If financial gain isn’t reliable in Nigeria’s creative industries, what keeps filmmakers and writers pushing forward? Is it audience engagement, recognition, or financial gain?
For Azeez, the answer is unequivocal: “Definitely the audience. There’s nothing like seeing the people that you made the film for really appreciate it, and your film even reaching audiences that you didn’t think it would reach.” She draws a clear distinction between creative work and other professional paths: “It’s definitely the impact, because you can make money from doing so many other things.”
Patrick echoes this audience-first perspective: “What makes me satisfied with my work is when the audience see that work and understands what it is. When the impact of that work is felt across audience demographic, that is satisfying.” For him, financial success becomes secondary: “If I make some financial gain from it, it’s a cherry on the cake.”
He elaborates on what constitutes true creative success: “Even if some don’t fully understand it, the critics recognize where my head was, they see the vision. Fellow filmmakers begin to reference it, to study it, and it becomes a work that leaves a legacy. That, to me, is deeply satisfying.”
Adekunle seeks “a balance of the three” but prioritizes them in the order they were presented: “audience engagement, recognition and then financial gain. Just as you’ve written it,” he notes with a laugh. His reasoning centers on communicative intent: “I’m always saying something with my projects and if the audience can’t engage with it, then I have failed as a filmmaker.”
For Doherty, the reward hierarchy begins with self-satisfaction: “First, it’s me. I am my first audience. I make films that I want to see, films that inspire me to create more and do better.” This internal standard provides his “first form of satisfaction” before external validation: “Then, the audience’s reaction and recognition can follow.”
He acknowledges financial considerations primarily as a means to creative continuity: “I do look forward to financial gain because if your film makes money, you’re more likely to get funding for your next project. I want to keep making films until I’m 90!” Yet his ultimate measure remains impact: “Knowing that my work has made an impact emotionally, intellectually, or socially, is the real reward.”
Sonia John, director of “A Night At The Basseys” and the AFRIFF-selected “Purgatory,” offers the most concisely balanced response: “All three!” Her two-word answer suggests that audience engagement, recognition, and financial gain are all essential components of a rewarding creative career, with none inherently privileged above the others.
This integrated view finds a more elaborate expression in ‘Fe Doyin’s’ response: “I think they all go hand in hand. Of course, I want to be recognized just as much as I strive for impact, but I sure as hell want to make money, too.” She emphasizes the professional nature of her creative work: “This isn’t a hobby, it’s my career. It’s how I fend for my family.”
Cephas John, a screenwriter, focuses on legacy and status: “Making something timeless with my name on it. Everybody sees the genius underneath my physique.” His response suggests that recognition functions as both personal validation and professional currency: “People pay a premium to have access to my work ethic and art.”
Matthew offers perhaps the most philosophical perspective, suggesting that the question itself misses what truly sustains creative work: “Audience engagement is good, recognition is great and so is financial gain but these three things… they can be bought. You can buy recognition. You can buy financial again. And, of course, you can buy audience engagement. Are you kidding me? It’s 2025!”
For her, the authentic reward transcends these externalities: “The thing that you cannot buy really is love for the job.” This internal passion becomes the ultimate sustainability metric: “If you love what you do, once you stop loving it, it doesn’t matter the amount of money you are given.”
She’s careful to note that passion doesn’t guarantee quality: “That doesn’t mean passionate filmmakers don’t make bad films. Oh yes, they can, and they do. Passion doesn’t imply automatic immunity from bad filmmaking.” Yet for Matthew, personally, this love remains decisive: “It doesn’t matter the amount of money I’m given, the moment my heart leaves the job, I follow it.”
Osezuah’s response reframes the question entirely, articulating a vision that encompasses personal, professional, and structural considerations: “My pull, or drive is neither money, nor my name being out there; my pull is an all-round success from a picture (mine and others’) which establishes a generous paying, and professionalism rewarding and instigating industry environment.”
His answer points beyond individual creative satisfaction to systemic change – creating an industry “where myopic and shameless demigods have no access to people’s souls for abuse.” This response suggests that the greatest creative reward might be transforming the industry itself into a more ethical, sustainable ecosystem.
These varied perspectives suggest that Nigeria’s filmmakers and writers are motivated by complex combinations of internal passion, communicative impact, peer recognition, legacy-building, professional sustainability, and even systemic change. While financial considerations remain important – particularly as a means to creative continuity – few identify money as their primary reward.
Instead, they describe a creative economy fueled largely by non-monetary motivations: the joy of self-expression, the satisfaction of audience connection, the validation of recognition, and the hope of creating lasting cultural impact. These intrinsic rewards help explain why talented professionals continue creating despite financial uncertainty; though, as ‘Fe Doyin’ importantly reminds us, passion alone doesn’t pay the bills.
Navigating Creative Courage in a Commercial Landscape
In a media landscape increasingly focused on metrics, virality, and commercial success, Nigerian creators face a challenging question: Does the industry truly support artistic risk-taking, or does it primarily reward those pursuing quick success?
For many professionals, the answer reveals troubling patterns about how creative courage is valued – or devalued – in Nigeria’s entertainment economy.
“I don’t think we have that kind of space,” says Korede Azeez, director of “With Difficulty Comes Ease,” when asked if the industry supports risk-takers. She envisions what a supportive environment might look like – “maybe an environment with government grants or diverse sources of funding for different kinds of filmmakers” – before acknowledging the reality falls short.
“In a way, the current ecosystem sort of supports those who ‘want to blow’ because if you look at what’s happening with YouTube or other areas of the industry, it’s about who is doing the numbers,” she explains. “We’re really glamorizing the numbers – ticket sales, cinema revenue, how much money they made. Those are things we’re emphasizing more than anything.”
This analysis resonates with Cephas John, who is blunt in his assessment: “The industry supports creatives who want to blow. Because those who are the creatives who do shit the industry is convinced the audience wants to see. Skit making actors, for instance; half-baked romance screenwriters.”
John contextualizes this commercial focus within Nigeria’s economic realities: “The industry worships money. And this is why creatives spread thin. Actors dance to promote their films, dawg. It’s a different climate here, so I can’t blame them. We are a poor country. Attention is social currency. And lines are blurred.”
For Taiwo Egunjobi, director of “A Green Fever” and “The Fire and the Moth,” the industry’s fixation on overnight success reflects broader cultural patterns: “I think it’s more of a cultural thing beyond the film industry. I think Nigeria is a very young country in the sense of its people currently. And there’s a lot of economic angst and pain. And a lot of that has evolved into different things. You know, there’s a lot of get-rich-syndrome that seems pervasive today.”
This mentality, according to Egunjobi, creates unrealistic expectations among emerging filmmakers: “I’ve met several young filmmakers and, when I asked them, ‘Why haven’t you made your first film yet?’ I get responses like ‘I’m trying to raise 50 million to make it.’ And I’m like, ‘Why are you wasting time when you can be making low budget films for next to nothing?'”
He sees many waiting for financial windfalls rather than building craft: “The young filmmaker waiting to raise 50 million is saying that because he feels if he does that one, you know, he’s going to get a deal and maybe make 17 films for Netflix. There’s a lot of dreaming. And that’s great for dreaming, but a lot of it is based on false premises and false idols that have been worshipped.”
The reality, Egunjobi suggests, is that “very, very few people will get those opportunities. Most, everybody else will need to walk through patiently, gradually walking their way through the system, learning it, working at their budget levels that they can afford and then getting up there.”
Director Dele Doherty of “Landline” and “They Won’t Talk About It” describes his own experience navigating this tension: “The Nigerian film industry tends to prioritize projects that have mainstream appeal, often favoring those that promise commercial success. Creative risks are still not fully supported, especially by traditional studios and production houses.”
His latest film he suggests emerged against industry odds: “I tell people that my film ‘Landline’ is a miracle. If I had taken my script to one of the big houses here, they would either have thrown me out the window or made so many changes that I wouldn’t recognize my own voice in the story.”
Yet Doherty also sees positive signs: “There’s an emerging space for independent filmmakers who take creative risks, and platforms like streaming services are starting to give more room for unconventional narratives. It’s a slow but positive change.”
This sentiment is echoed by Sonia John, who notes more succinctly: “I think there’s people and structures that now support both kind of filmmakers.”
Elimihe Osezuah, director of “Unforgivable,” questions how much the industry genuinely values innovation: “This industry hasn’t proven to me that they value innovation, because they have so far tended to shut out new entrants and shun new approaches.”
His advice to emerging creators reveals the delicate balance required: “Anyone who approaches the creative endeavor with intent to blow would surely be blown away by the impersonal spirit of the craft. One needs to approach this field with humility and guarded enthusiasm.” For Osezuah, artistic success requires a spiritual humility: “You must be humble and pray at the altar of Life that your humble craft be accepted as a live offering to society.”
Despite the challenges, Sherif Olorunrinu Adekunle of Konirewa Studios Ltd sees evidence that creative risk can eventually yield rewards: “We’ve had films that have dared to be unique and different, and they’ve been quite successful. In fact, most of the time, they bring about major shift in the industry. For instance, “Figurine,” “King of Boys,” and “King of Thieves.” We’ve also seen films like “Mami Wata” screening at the Sundance in 2024.”
His conclusion captures the paradox at the heart of creative risk: “It’s blood, sweat and tears but, eventually, that risk always pays off.”
For Ifedoyin ‘Fe Doyin’ Igbasan, navigating this landscape requires finding the right audience for experimental work: “I think there are specific niches for creative risks. An artist who truly wants to express while damning the consequence, must find these niches.” Her counsel to fellow creators is protective: “Do not give your pearls to swine – my tribe. Don’t do it.”
Uduak Obong Patrick sees the question as more nuanced than a simple binary: “While there are many platforms that are beginning to support artists who want to explore creative expression, there’s still the business side of it. The industry is growing and expanding; it’s a work in progress.”
His practical advice to young filmmakers acknowledges both artistic integrity and financial realities: “Always remember this – you have to take care of yourself in the end. Yes, make art for art’s sake, express yourself fully, but understand this, too: there’s an audience for every art form and expression. The real question is: will that audience pay for your expression?”
For screenwriter Hope Osatare Matthew, the issue is less about individual choices and more about industry economics: “I don’t think anybody’s telling anybody what to do in Nollywood because Nollywood, as it is right now, is an industry in its teething stages. So everybody’s experimenting with some form of what has been successful.”
She frames the repetitive content as a rational business response to uncertainty: “At the core of business, films have to make money so that we can make another film, right? So if we’re going to make a film today and make another one tomorrow and guarantee that we can make another one the day after, we need to be sure that there’s money to keep the production side of things running.”
This creates a pattern of imitation, Matthew explains: “A company like FilmOne might go like, ‘oh okay Jennifer’s type of street/razz character type films have been successful’ and before you know it, every production house makes their type of it. It’s not because people are trying to blow or because they cannot tell other stories. It’s because it’s a risky business in itself.”
Matthew points to how quickly industry players pivot toward proven distribution channels: “For example, now that YouTube has proven herself as a viable place for filmmakers, you can see how many filmmakers are running there.”
Though she acknowledges that “a lot of people are producing the same type of junk again and again,” she notes that “the numbers don’t lie. It’s obvious that audiences don’t mind more of the same.”
Rather than seeing this as a conspiracy against creative risk-taking, Matthew views it as an evolutionary stage: “So it’s not like there are strategic gatekeepers standing at the gates of Nollywood and saying, ‘oh you, you want to blow, we support you, and you, you don’t want to blow? we don’t support you.’ All thanks to YouTube for destroying the wings of gatekeepers.”
The current landscape, in her assessment, simply reflects “an experimentation phase of an industry that’s trying to fend for itself because a lot of people who come in this industry right now are independent filmmakers… It’s not that they can’t create anything new, it’s because they want to be able to guarantee that they can have financial returns so that they can make another film or keep their businesses running.”
Redefining Success in a Fractured Creative Economy
The filmmaker’s dilemma cuts deeper than budgets and box office returns. In an industry where financial precarity is the baseline and creative control often comes at a steep cost; each artist must negotiate their own definition of success and decide what compromises they’re willing to make to achieve it.
For Korede Azeez, success lives in the quiet aftermath of a screening. “Money will finish, but the impact will remain,” she observes, describing films that embed themselves in viewers’ consciousness long after the projector stops. Sherif Adekunle measures achievement in tangible change—when a story alters perspectives or sparks action. It’s a metric that transforms filmmaking from commerce to social practice.
The writers articulate a more intimate calculus. ‘Fe Doyin’ describes the electric moment when a story lands that “‘you’re not alone’ revelation” that transcends financial returns. Hope Osatare Matthew frames success as gradual mastery: the hard-won ability to develop projects with both creative integrity and financial viability. “This could take a lifetime,” she concedes, acknowledging the marathon nature of sustainable artistry.
Uduak Obong Patrick presents a dual vision where creative fulfillment and career sustainability intersect. Audience connection matters, but equally important is breaking the cycle of endless pitching. His definition challenges the industry’s feast-or-famine economy, suggesting true success means establishing reliable pathways for continued work.
The most provocative perspectives come from those demanding systemic change. Cephas John equates success with ownership: both creative and financial. His vision rejects the industry’s extractive models in favor of true autonomy. Elimihe Osezuah counters with brutal realism, describing an establishment that punishes innovation. His metaphor of “praying at the altar of Life” captures the precariousness of artistic risk in a risk-averse system.
Dele Doherty offers perhaps the most nuanced formulation: films that combine staying power with commercial viability. Like Sonia John, he recognizes that reaching audiences matters but adds the crucial caveat that true success requires maintaining creative vision in the process.
These competing definitions reveal an industry at a crossroads. As streaming platforms globalize Nollywood and new funding models emerge, filmmakers are negotiating not just individual projects, but the very meaning of professional achievement. The tension between art and commerce persists, but increasingly, success is being redefined as the ability to navigate that tension without sacrificing one’s creative soul.
What emerges is less a unified theory of success than a series of hard-won personal philosophies—each shaped by the realities of an industry still determining what it values, and at what price.
The Money Versus the Message Dilemma
The tension between artistic integrity and financial necessity is perhaps the most universal struggle in creative industries. As these Nigerian filmmakers reveal, the choice between a paycheck and personal conviction is rarely simple and, often, reveals uncomfortable truths about how the industry operates.
Korede Azeez maintains she hasn’t faced this crossroads but not because opportunities haven’t arisen. “Maybe if you’re going to offer me like 10 million dollars – maybe I would consider it,” she admits, highlighting how every artist has their price point. Yet her stance remains firm: “If it’s not in line with my values, I just wouldn’t be interested.” For Azeez, creative work is too personally demanding to compromise.
Others acknowledge more nuanced realities. Uduak Obong Patrick describes taking projects out of necessity during lean periods, though he reframes this as choice rather than coercion. “That was a personal decision,” he emphasizes, balancing pragmatism with principle. His approach – giving every project his best regardless of budget – reflects a professional ethos that many struggling creatives adopt to maintain self-respect.
For Dele Doherty, the pressure is inescapable. “As a young creative in Nigeria, where your Plan A, B, and C are your craft, you need money,” he states bluntly. His solution? Finding ways to inject meaning into commercial work: “How best can I make this project impactful given my abilities?” This adaptive approach reveals the creative compromises many make to sustain their careers.
The most visceral response comes from Cephas John, who recounts being stiffed on payment. While he claims never to have “sold his soul,” his anger at being undervalued exposes how financial pressures test artistic boundaries. His observation that “Nigeria very much welds money and message together” captures the industry’s complex alchemy of commerce and art.
At the pragmatic end, Sonia John normalizes the pressure: “Capital/Investment to make films. The pressure is almost normal.” Her matter-of-fact response suggests resignation to an industry where financial considerations routinely dictate creative choices.
These accounts paint a spectrum of responses – from Azeez’s idealism to Doherty’s adaptive pragmatism – with all navigating the same fundamental tension. What emerges is less a moral judgment than a recognition: in an industry with limited safety nets, the choice between money and message is often no choice at all. The real test becomes how creatives navigate these compromises without losing sight of their artistic north star.
As these filmmakers demonstrate, survival in this landscape requires both flexibility and conviction: knowing when to stand firm, when to adapt, and how to find meaning even in work taken primarily for the paycheck. Their experiences suggest that in Nigeria’s creative economy, purity is a luxury few can afford but integrity can still be maintained through careful negotiation of the space between ideals and necessities.
These filmmakers’ experiences expose Nollywood’s open secret: artistic purity becomes a luxury few can afford. As one veteran producer told me off-record: “We all have that one project we took just for the check. The real ones admit it.”
The question isn’t whether creatives face this choice, but it’s how often, and at what cost to their souls. For every filmmaker who proudly declares they’ve never compromised, there are ten who’ll whisper: “You will. Just wait.”
Creators Envision a Better Future for Nigerian Entertainment
As our investigation draws to a close, we asked our panel of creative professionals a forward-looking question: What changes would they like to see in how Nigeria’s creative industries value creative work? Their answers revealed both shared frustrations and diverse visions for a more sustainable, artistically vibrant future.
For director Elimihe Osezuah, transformation must begin with independence from government support. “My fellow producers and practitioners should STOP looking up to government for help,” he emphasizes. “They will never help this industry; they can only keep using it as they see fit, not for the glory of Nigeria, but for the good of their partisan and elective ambitions.”
Instead, Osezuah calls on successful industry figures to reinvest in the ecosystem that enriched them: “Those who have been making money from this industry and those who are now making money from it should begin to think of using their growing influences to grow themselves into studio entities which can commission film projects and expand this industry.”
He criticizes what he sees as a pattern of extracting wealth from creative work only to invest it elsewhere: “Their escape and survival mindset must stop. These people make so much from this industry be it directly or indirectly and then they turn the proceeds to other industries all in the name of protecting their finances.”
Osezuah also challenges creators to maintain their artistic ambitions despite institutional barriers: “The cooling off of interest in cinema films just because they’ve been scared off by some unfriendly gatekeepers in that sector must stop. Nobody who thinks they are worth their calling should be scared away by the roar of dogs in lion garbs.”
His vision includes reclaiming spaces that once supported Nigerian cinema: “If we should abandon the cinemas and begin to produce for YouTube and TikTok, we would have taken our cinema play list to the pre-2012 era. FilmOne and Film House came with a mission to grow the local content in cinema, but those who made it to the glory of the cinemas suddenly became blockers of the way.”
The solution, in his view, requires greater ambition and investment: “Our attitude of small movies and small budget must die. We must grow our risk appetite and thinking big and investing big. If any industry will take Nigeria out of this quagmire, it is the Creative and entertainment industry.”
For screenwriter Cephas John, the industry’s challenges stem from deeper cultural issues: “It’s a culture. The ripple effect is in the prioritization of functionality over artistry; box office numbers over impact; shit quality; underpaid, abused creatives some of whom under-deliver and abuse projects.”
John sees a troubling cycle of exploitation perpetuated through the industry: “Art is bastardized by the industry’s cognizance of the never-ending stream of creatives who will collect shit pay and treatment comforted with the thought that they, too, will ‘do their own back’.”
His solution is succinct but profound: “For us to hang it up, we need a rope called Consequence.” He laments that “contracts are not taken seriously. Nobody sues. It has been degraded to a formality – a shelf of dummy books meant to sell the look of the conscious and cultured.”
Director and producer, Sherif Olorunrinu Adekunle frames the industry’s challenges within Nigeria’s broader economic struggles: “There’s a lot of hustle going on in the industry. You can’t be hungry and value art. So yeah, our economy is a huge factor. I hope things get better on that front.”
Beyond economic factors, Adekunle calls for a shift in creative priorities: “As for creatives, we must feed the audience. We can’t continue to mirror real life. Everyone watches film and in as much as it has to be entertaining, it’s got to be educative too.”
His vision includes greater investment in development: “So more time to research and develop our content. I want to watch a Nigerian film and be proud!”
This sentiment resonates with screenwriter Ifedoyin ‘Fe Doyin’ Igbasan, who observes a contemporary deficit in meaningful storytelling: “These days, we hardly get those jobs done where there’s a true message. We have to be the change we want to see in this industry.”
For screenwriter Hope Osatare Matthew, the focus should be on attracting industry expertise that can bridge artistic integrity and commercial viability: “I would like to see more financiers and business development experts with a background in film, who care about depth in stories enough to create a viable model that makes Nollywood movies a product that stands a chance at world dominance.”
Director Dele Doherty’s vision begins with supporting new voices: “First, I would love for the industry to take chances on the younger generation of filmmakers, to take risks, and to learn from other successful film industries.”
He pushes back against creative limitations imposed on Nigerian filmmakers: “We shouldn’t be stereotyped or bound to a particular style of storytelling. There was a review of my film ‘Landline,’ where they said it wasn’t authentic or original for their African audience. But who said time-loop stories are only for the Western world?”
Doherty’s experience living abroad has shaped his perspective on Nigerian cinema’s global footprint: “Spending some time here in the US, I’ve found that most people aren’t familiar with the Nigerian film industry. It’s either too hidden or doesn’t cater to them.”
He notes a troubling asymmetry in global cultural exchange: “We in Nigeria consume films and creative works from different parts of the world – the Koreans, the French, the Germans, Hollywood, Bollywood, and so on. But it’s not the same for us.”
Doherty sees successful models in other non-English language productions that have achieved international recognition: “See ‘Money Heist’ and ‘Squid Game,’ for example. But they were able to create films that cater to a global audience, regardless of language and culture.”
His challenge to the industry is clear: “It feels like there’s a cloak covering the film we make, restricting it to only Nigeria. If we really want to make a statement in the world, we have to try harder to break out and apply more pressure to cater to a global audience.”
Director Uduak Obong Patrick’s vision for change begins with audience expectations: “I want to start with the audience. I want them to see beyond the façade and look deep. We don’t take our own projects very seriously. We don’t celebrate that.”
He identifies what he sees as a cultural inferiority complex: “I don’t know if it’s an inferiority complex, but the audience tends to look down on Nigerian-made films. They find it hard to believe that Nigerian creatives are capable of doing more.”
Patrick shares an experience with his own film to illustrate this dynamic: “I’ll use my film – ‘The Masked King’ – as a case in point. Many people underrated the film. However, when they watched it, they came out of the theater beaming and saying, ‘No, no, we never saw that coming.’ And I’m like, exactly. Just take a leap of faith. Start to believe.”
He sees elevated audience expectations as potentially transformative: “We must believe that we are capable of more. Because when the audience believes in us, it challenges us! It pushes us to do better. We won’t feel the need to stoop down to the lowest expectations, thinking, ‘Well, this is what Nigerians like.'”
Patrick extends his critique beyond film to music: “Even in our music! Honestly, a lot of what’s coming out under Afrobeats today is becoming more and more senseless, if you ask me. There’s no depth. It’s all ‘off your brain, shake your yansh’ type of music.” He worries about broader cultural implications: “And that’s not good for us as a people. It lowers our collective IQ when our music isn’t thought-provoking, isn’t challenging the status quo.”
His vision encompasses art’s social function: “Our music – our art form in genera – is supposed to be a powerful tool. A tool to challenge narratives, to confront stereotypes, to inform and inspire not just our society, but the global audience.”
Patrick also highlights a critical gap in cultural documentation: “Our first challenge was that we didn’t document enough. We don’t have many records or archives for people to study: to trace how we got here. The history of Nigerian cinema is locked away.”
Despite these concerns, he concludes with cautious optimism: “But, if there are people out there like me, like you – people willing to look inward, to take these things seriously, to develop and place them where they rightfully belong – then maybe the future isn’t so bleak after all.”
Director Korede Azeez approaches the question from a different angle, challenging the premise that there should be a singular definition of creative value: “I don’t know that I have a simple answer to this because there will always be different subsets of the industry, and those subsets will always value creativity differently. I don’t think it’s okay to have a blanket definition for what creativity means and what it should be. It’s a very subjective thing.”
Her one clear prescription is against creative hierarchies: “That being said, I would just say generally that no version of creativity should be looked down on.”
Azeez offers an optimistic view of creative work’s economic potential: “When it comes to the economics, creativity is a lot more economically viable now if you know how to play your cards right. Do not feel that something that doesn’t have mass appeal cannot make you good money or be economically valuable.”
Her strategy emphasizes finding specific audiences rather than pursuing mass appeal: “I think niches are the way to go. In marketing and social media, you hear that ‘the riches are in the niches,’ and I think we can apply that to filmmaking and other creative spaces too.”
While acknowledging the commercial logic behind formulaic content, she advocates for creative diversity: “Instead of betting on the cookie-cutter stuff all the time – though it makes business sense to keep going with formulas that have worked over and over again – it’s definitely also worth it to experiment, go outside the box, and take a chance on other forms of creativity that may not necessarily have mass appeal.”
Director John’s vision is succinct but systemic: “More structures in place to accommodate every kind of filmmaker.”
Across these diverse perspectives emerges a collective vision for Nigeria’s creative industries – one that values artistic integrity alongside commercial viability, one that creates space for both mainstream and experimental work, one that documents its own evolution, and one that speaks both to local audiences and global viewers.
As Samuel Martins asked in the video that inspired this investigation: “How do you keep creating?” The answers from these industry professionals suggest that sustainable creation requires not just individual perseverance, but systemic change in how creative work is financed, how it’s valued, how it’s documented, and ultimately, how it’s remembered.
The path forward, they suggest, will require reinvestment from those who’ve benefited from the system, greater accountability through contracts and professional standards, more diverse financing models, expanded creative freedom, elevated audience expectations, and perhaps most importantly, a commitment to creating work that matters: not just for its commercial potential, but for its cultural significance.
In an economy that often treats creative work as expendable or values it only for its immediate commercial return, these voices call for a fundamental reimagining of value, one that honors both the economic realities of creative production and the cultural impact of meaningful artistic expression.
Additional reports by Esther Kalu, Alo Folakemi, and Justice Henry-Damian