If you have been living under a rock for the past decade or so, you would not know about Nollywood. And no, it’s not just a smaller form of Hollywood with the ”H” replaced by an ”N” for some absurd reason. Nollywood is Nigeria’s answer to Hollywood. It is also the world’s third-largest film industry after the United States and India.
The most intriguing thing about the people behind this undertaking is that they are not about glitz or glamour; nor are they about selling the blockbuster idea or targeting, reaching or surpassing box-office objectives. What they seem to be about is telling everyday stories, unapologetically African, and as pointedly and humorously as possible.
This industry churns out flicks at an admirable rate of between 40 and 50 a week, which translates into more than 2 000 films a year.
This is no mean feat, more so because these films make the Nigerian economy over $280-million a year, significantly lower than South Africa’s R2,6-billion. What this means is that the market, quality and resources, among other things, with which this vast quantity of films is produced is hardly comparable with that of its competitors — the United States and India — who are in the number one and number two spots respectively.
Filmmaker Franco Sacchi describes it as a grassroots movement that received no foreign investment or aid from the Nigerian government 15 years ago. He says Nollywood tells the story of the African, by an African, and for a long time nobody believed the films were coming out of the continent. He even held a talk back in 2007 on the Nollywood phenomenon.
A lot has been said and written about the movies and their poor production quality, stereotypical storylines and the rapid rate at which they are produced, one after the other, with no coherent intervals. One film critic asks: ”Is Nigeria’s booming film industry pioneering an Afrocentric cinema or just grinding out third-rate pulp?”
But what is it that the Nigerians are doing differently from the people of Obamaland and Slumdog Millionaire‘s home-away-from-Hollywood, India?
Maybe the best people to ask are black South Africans, particularly those living in the townships, who have taken to Nollywood’s wares in a big, big way.
Let me demonstrate what I mean: I was out shopping at a Pick n Pay recently (I won’t say which one because I’m not in the habit of getting supermarket employees into trouble for engaging in non-work-related conversation) and while in the juice aisle, I stumbled upon a conversation already in progress between two female merchandisers, who were packing stuff about 2m from each other. They were clearly embroiled in something big, and didn’t notice me walk past them.
”… And that was even before the wife found out,” the conversation went. ”He just suddenly felt all funny at work and didn’t know what to do, and when he asked his boss if he could go home he was told he’d have to take it like a man and bear it out until knock-off time because they were already short-staffed and he [the boss] couldn’t afford to let another person go.”
Juicy stuff, I thought. The kind of conversation that gets you into trouble if you’re caught. A little voice inside me reminded me that it’s rude to eavesdrop on people’s conversations, but I ignored it and pretended not to find what I was looking for, even though my son’s favourite fruit juice was staring me right in the face. I listened to the babble, despite not having a clue of who or what it was about. It was as if I was invisible to them.
”… Iyoo [wow]. So he was in pain like that until chayile [knock-off time], and as if that was not enough, by the time he got home, not only had his father-in-law found out about his affair, but he was already waiting for him at his house, and boy, did he give him a piece of his mind! Telling him he’d disrespected his daughter and the whole family, telling him he’d better start watching his back because ‘this family does not take this sort of thing lying down, you’re gonna pay for this’.”
The last part was said not only in English by our aisle narrator with an audience of two, but also with a ridiculous Nigerian accent that cracked up the other audience member so much she leaned into the shelf.
Of course I felt like a complete fool, because there I’d gone and eavesdropped on nothing more than one lady relating to her friend a Nigerian movie she’d watched recently.
That encounter, after having embarrassed the hell out of me, brought to my attention how much people from ekasi have been sold on Nollywood. People refer to popular characters, such as the likes of one Mr Ibu, like they are flesh and blood. They’re embroiled in the witchcraft, love triangles and family feuds of these characters, and form lasting relationships with the characters in a way I don’t remember them doing with the Mel Gibsons, Arnold Schwarzeneggers and Chuck Norrises of the 1980s and 1990s.
Those Hollywood stars captured the attention of many young boys, much to the distress of their parents, I’m sure, because they just saw violence, violence and more violence in their films.
But the novelty of Nollywood is such that it captures the interest of the whole family. Ask any kid in any township in the country who Mr Ibu is and I bet they’ll know. DVDs exchange hands between neighbours and friends at such an alarming rate that you are seriously looked down upon in the township if you haven’t seen the latest flick.
I have never watched one myself, but I can tell that Ibu is a popular character among lovers of Nollywood movies. I’ve heard people refer to characters in the films in a way that they used to do about the public broadcaster’s flagship soapie, Generations.
They may not do it like the Americans and the Indians do it, sans resources and all, but they sure have got the masses captivated and waiting for more, more, more.
Click here to watch a clip from Hitler, a film about forbidden love, gangsterism and everything in between.