Indie Films in Nigeria and Silent Triumph of Talents Unknown

Independent filmmaking in Nigeria has always existed in some form. Still, today, it feels like it’s undergoing a quiet revolution — driven not just by the hunger to tell stories, but by the growing refusal to wait for permission. It’s a movement that spans self-funded projects, intimate collaborations, and the ever-increasing reliance on international circuits to amplify local voices. And while the Nigerian film industry, popularly known as Nollywood, remains one of the most prolific in the world, a new generation of filmmakers is redefining what it means to make films outside the mainstream.

For some, independence is not just about working outside of studios. It is about control, as Babatunde Apalowo puts it — “Creative, financial, and ideological. It’s the freedom to tell the stories I actually care about without contorting them to fit someone else’s marketing fantasy or trend forecast.” That freedom, however, comes at a cost. Many directors, writers, and producers find themselves between artistic integrity and the unforgiving economics of production and distribution. But they are often willing to bear the price in exchange for the truth.

Russel Oru describes independence as the ability to carve out one’s own space. “It means not waiting for permission or an invitation to the table,” he says. “It is about telling the stories you believe in, on your terms, regardless of scale.” Oru is clear-eyed about the limitations of this choice. The reality is that in Nigeria, independence often comes without institutional support or financial safety nets. He explains, “The irony of independent filmmaking in Nigeria is that both indie filmmakers and big production houses rely on the same ecosystem: the same crews, the same actors, the same equipment.” There’s no discount for passion; an actor who charges ₦1 million a day won’t lower their rate because your project is self-funded.

For Abigail Chukwu, the distinction between mainstream and indie is blurry. “Honestly, on a much broader scale, we are all indie filmmakers in this country,” she says. “We don’t have big enough studios to make that distinction.” But she sees true independence in those who create without chasing the market. “What truly sets the ‘indie’ guys apart is the freedom to make whatever they want without the pressure of a market/commercialization need.” That kind of freedom is as liberating as it is difficult to maintain.

And this challenge of independence is not just financial — it’s ideological. For Olisa Eloka, the real danger is the slow erosion of artistic voice under the weight of survival. “It’s easy to betray all your creative visions when your belly is empty,” he says. “To stay afloat, some talents become mercenaries… doing whatever they can to survive.” That means taking on commissioned jobs with little room for input or imagination. “Your mandate is strictly to write whatever is in the producer’s head, or shoot whatever’s in the script,” he adds. “I don’t see how a talent who is seeking self-realization can be fulfilled in such conditions.”

Eloka, like many others, had to build from nothing. His film Loose Cannon was made with “almost nothing,” carried on the backs of crew members who believed in the story enough to work for free or exchange favors. “You can’t be the only one to seek favors. You must be willing to grant them,” he says. In Nigeria, where formal support structures are nearly absent, the informal economy of goodwill, friendship, and barter often keeps indie film alive.

This resourceful resistance is a hallmark of the indie scene. Babatunde Apalowo refers to it as “building from scratch, every time.” It’s a cyclical problem: without development funds, you can’t plan long-term, and without long-term planning, projects are always at the mercy of whatever funding or goodwill you can scrape together. That’s why Apalowo says he designs his films “to live beyond Nigeria,” aiming from day one at international festivals and diaspora audiences.

Others share this global perspective. Nnamdi Kanaga, whose short films have travelled widely on the festival circuit, believes independence today is about more than just self-funding. “It used to be just about self-funding; now it’s about protecting creative freedom, even as we reach for bigger platforms that can amplify our voices globally,” he says.

Diji Aderogba, who began by making films on an iPhone with friends volunteering their time, emphasizes the grassroots nature of his process. “Passion and belief in the story drive everything,” he says. “Even if the budget is small, you can still make meaningful work with the right community.” That community-based approach, built around shared values and commitment, is echoed by nearly every filmmaker interviewed.

For Orobosa Ikponmwen, collaboration isn’t a backup plan — it is the plan. “For me, true independence comes from true, intentional collaboration,” she says. When she started, she was working alone, but over time, she realized how much her voice as a writer-director could expand through others. “It’s about collaboration that elevates the story I’m telling, rather than controlling the story or how it’s being told.”

Still, even with a strong community, indie filmmaking in Nigeria runs into one major wall: distribution.

The Audience Dilemma

Is there a sustainable audience for indie cinema in Nigeria? Every filmmaker has a different take.

Some, like Adesuwa Omon, are doubtful. “If I’m being honest, I don’t believe there’s currently a sustainable audience for indie cinema in Nigeria,” she says. Economic hardship, piracy, and a strong preference for commercial entertainment shape viewer habits. “Indie films tend to be quieter, more introspective, and stylistically different… and that makes it harder to convince the average viewer who’s already budgeting tightly.”

Others, like Babatunde Apalowo, are more hopeful. “Nigeria has a young, culturally literate generation who are deeply online, hyper-curious, and bored of the same three Nollywood tropes,” he says. “They stream, pirate, pass files on hard drives and social media.” The problem, he argues, isn’t that the audience doesn’t exist — it’s that infrastructure hasn’t caught up to their needs. “If you want to reach them, you have to curate the experience, not just dump the film. Build context. Build community.”

This idea of a hidden audience—one that exists but hasn’t been fully tapped—is echoed by many. Taiwo Ẹgúnjobi notes that Nigerians are already consuming indie content, from YouTube to Telegram to underground film festivals, but it’s scattered. “We haven’t solved that problem yet,” he says. “That might be about economics, but also about the product, and also about the distribution mechanism.”

Distribution remains the indie filmmaker’s biggest riddle. Without strong festival platforms or local art house cinemas, and with streaming algorithms skewed toward celebrity-driven content, the pathway from creation to audience is often murky. Some filmmakers manage to get international streaming deals; others, like Olisa Eloka, turn to local YouTube channels like TNC Africa. “We need more platforms like TNC,” he says. “We need options. Variety is the spice of life.”

Abigail Chukwu pushes back against the narrative that Nigerians don’t appreciate art. “Saying there isn’t [an audience] is a lie from the pit of distribution hell,” she says. “We have an audience that will appreciate art. And we have seen it with musicians!”

Russel Oru, however, strikes a more pragmatic tone. “Let’s cut through the romanticism, Nigeria currently lacks a sustainable audience for independent cinema,” he says. “While we like to talk about artistic merit, the average Nigerian viewer prefers commercial films: A-list casts, spectacle, comedies, and high-energy entertainment.” Indie films, he adds, rarely recoup their budgets and are sustained more by passion than profit.

Betting on the Long Game

Despite the many roadblocks, the spirit of indie filmmaking in Nigeria is resilient. It thrives in the shadows of the mainstream, pushing forward through belief, vision, and community. It is not a mass movement — at least not yet — but a growing force of artists committed to pushing the boundaries of storytelling.

Many filmmakers see their work as part of a long-term cultural shift. As Eloka puts it, “I think an audience can be groomed. When you stick around long enough, they will come around.” Kanaga agrees, adding that his goal is to keep putting the work out there — “festivals, community screenings, or by following the work online.”

And that may be the true mark of this movement. The Nigerian indie filmmaker isn’t just making films. They’re building institutions, shaping audiences, reclaiming voice, and challenging structures that have long marginalized alternative narratives. They’re creating not just content, but culture.

As Russel Oru says, “Being an independent filmmaker in today’s Nollywood means choosing vision over virality and staying committed to telling stories that may not be crowd-pleasers but are culturally urgent and thematically relevant.”

That commitment, even when unrewarded, is what keeps this movement alive.