EXCLUSIVE: “IDIA” Creators Explain Why Nollywood Horror Still Has New Stories to Tell

When IDIA opens in cinemas across Nigeria on October 24, audiences will walk into what first looks like a story about answered prayers. This kind begins in joy and ends in silence. It starts with longing, a family’s desperate hope for a child, and then blooms into something darker and inexplicable. The film, written and directed by two Gen Zers, Ese Ariremu and co-written and produced by Jasper Aziegbemhin, a doctor of optometry, unfolds like a prayer whispered too many times, one that begins to echo back differently.

A Golden Mhinutes Pictures’ production and distributed by Silverbird Film Distribution, IDIA is not just a film about faith and spirits, it’s about what happens when love and belief blur into obsession, and how the line between miracle and curse can disappear without warning.

Set in Edo State and performed in a mix of English and native tongues, IDIA stars Gbubemi Ejeye, Mercy Aigbe, Linda Osifo, Tope Tedela, and veteran director-actor Lancelot Oduwa Imasuen. At the heart of the story is a young girl, the answer to her parents’ endless prayers, whose arrival transforms their home into a shrine of devotion and dread. The child becomes both a blessing and an omen, carrying the weight of their longing and the shadow of something far older.

For director Ese Ariremu, the film began as a meditation on what it means to receive for what a person begs the heavens. “We wanted the audience to feel safe first,” he tells The Nollywood Reporter, recalling how the story was built to move from comfort into chaos. “That feeling of peace and answered prayer is what makes the turn into fear hit harder. You have to let them love the family before you start to take that love away.”

Ariremu’s approach is subtle, grounded in emotion rather than spectacle. Instead of leaning on loud scares or exaggerated acting, he creates unease through intimacy, by letting the camera linger too long, holding on to silence, and allowing everyday moments to crack open slowly. “In horror,” he says, “silence can be louder than screams. We used prayers, whispers, and even breathing to create fear. Sometimes, when there’s nothing left to say, the quiet does all the talking.”

The film’s tone is built on contrast, laughter at dinner tables, lullabies that drift into prayers, and a gradual suffocation of light. Ariremu speaks of his fascination with stillness and desire to create a Nigerian horror film that trusts its audience to feel rather than react: “Our culture is expressive and dramatic, but I wanted something more global without losing its soul. The gestures are small, and the fear is internal but real. We didn’t need anyone screaming to show they were afraid.”

That quiet power extends to the young girl who anchors the story. A first-time actor, she moves between innocence and terror with haunting precision. “We protected her throughout the process,” Ariremu says. “She was never asked to understand horror, only emotion. The scene that stays with me is when she whispers, ‘Is that you, Father?’ in Bini. It’s such a simple line, but it carries everything: love, confusion, faith, and something that feels like destiny.”

While Ariremu shapes the fear, producer and co-writer Jasper Aziegbemhin built the mythology. The story draws deeply from Edo folklore and spiritual practices, combining old beliefs with modern anxieties. “It’s where our folktales meet our reality,” Aziegbemhin says. “The longing for a child, the weight of expectations, the fear of unanswered prayers, these are things Nigerians understand. They’re not supernatural ideas; they’re human ones.”

Aziegbemhin explains that IDIA was never meant to be a story of pure horror, but a mirror to the human psyche:  “We debated for months whether the story should lean more supernatural or psychological,” he said. “In the end, we chose something that lives between both. The real horror isn’t in the rituals or spirits, it’s in what happens to people when faith turns to desperation.”

Making a film like this in Nigeria, where spirituality is sacred and often misunderstood, came with its share of challenges. Aziegbemhin recalls facing questions about whether the film was anti-religion or too dark for local audiences: “People asked if we were attacking faith,” he says. “We had to explain that IDIA isn’t mocking belief; it’s exploring it. In this country, faith is powerful, but so is fear. Sometimes they come from the same place.”

To ensure authenticity, the filmmakers sought the guidance of Edo elders and cultural custodians. “We wanted to represent the rituals and language correctly,” Aziegbemhin reveals to The Nollywood Reporter. “That small change transformed the entire meaning of the ritual. Their insight gave the story truth and protected it from becoming a parody.”

Visually, the film’s world is dense with symbolism. Every location, prop, and costume carries a quiet spirit. The house itself feels alive, its shadows deepening as the story unfolds. “The house had its own energy,” Ariremu says. “From the first recce, we knew it was perfect, peaceful in the day, almost breathing at night.”

One of the film’s most striking objects, a small, handcrafted doll, becomes a recurring motif. “The doll has a journey of its own,” Ariremu reveals. “It starts as a toy, becomes a vessel, and reflects the child’s fate. We even gave it its own sound design, a mix of faint wind chimes and heartbeat. If you listen closely, it tells its own story.”

Aziegbemhin sees IDIA as a chance to elevate Nollywood horror, to make it less about jump scares and more about atmosphere, humanity, and emotion. “I wanted a film that respected culture, that made horror feel intelligent and deeply African,” he says. “We’re at a point where our stories can be both spiritual and cinematic. We don’t have to exaggerate to be powerful.”

That philosophy runs through every frame. Ariremu’s directing feels patient, deliberate, and confident. Aziegbemhin’s writing grounds the supernatural in emotional realism. Together, they’ve built something that feels local and global, intimate yet universal.

“This film is not about evil spirits,” Ariremu says softly. “It’s about what happens when love and faith are tested, when what you asked for finally comes, but at a cost you didn’t expect.”

Aziegbemhin echoes that sentiment. “Every prayer, every dream, every desire, they all demand something in return,” he says. “That’s the truth we wanted IDIA to confront. Not to scare, but to make people think about the price of their miracles.”

When the credits roll, IDIA leaves behind the echo of prayer, one that begins in faith and ends in reflection; it asks audiences to look inward, to feel both the warmth of belief and the chill of consequence. In a film where silence speaks, love burns, and miracles turn, IDIA becomes more than horror. It becomes a haunting reminder that sometimes, the most frightening thing is getting precisely what you requested.