There is something profoundly unsettling about the state of contemporary Nigerian cinema. Not its output, which has grown exponentially, nor its technical capabilities, which continue to improve. What disturbs is the widening chasm between the films that represent Nigeria on the world stage and those that dominate local screens. It is as if we have created two parallel film industries, one speaking to global festival programmers, the other to weekend audiences at Silverbird and Filmhouse. The question is not merely aesthetic but existential: what stories are we telling ourselves, and who gets to tell them?

C.J. “Fiery” Obasi‘s Mami Wata won the Jury Prize for Cinematography at Sundance and was selected as Nigeria’s official entry for Best International Feature at the 96th Academy Awards, but played to near-empty cinemas in Lagos. Akinola Davies Jr‘s My Father’s Shadow received a Camera d’Or Special Mention at Cannes and was acquired by MUBI for distribution in North America, the UK, Ireland, and Turkey, ensuring it will play in cinemas across these territories while we can predict with depressing accuracy what awaits it in Nigerian multiplexes: limited screenings, minimal marketing, and the kind of grudging exhibition that treats ambitious local cinema as an obligation rather than an opportunity. Very recently, Dika Ofoma‘s Kachifo won CHF 20,000 in development funding at Locarno’s Open Doors forum, along with the ARTEKino International Award worth €6,000 and the Sørfond Award, joining a growing roster of Nigerian films celebrated abroad.

This is not simply a matter of taste or commercial viability. It represents a fundamental disconnect in how stories are conceived, funded, and distributed within the Nigerian film ecosystem. The films that travel well tend to share certain characteristics: they are often co-productions with European or American partners, they receive funding from international film funds, and they are structured around narratives that translate across cultural boundaries while maintaining specific cultural authenticity. Perhaps more tellingly, these filmmakers increasingly look abroad not out of disdain for local audiences, but because international festivals and distributors have proven more receptive to ambitious storytelling. They want their films to succeed at home, naturally, but they can only control what they can control.

Consider the trajectory of films like Eyimofe, which premiered at the Berlin Film Festival and went on to screen at over 17 international film festivals. The film was fully financed within Nigeria by GDN Studios with Nigerian producers, yet it still managed to capture international attention precisely because Chuko and Arie Esiri had the vision and resources to experiment with form and take time with their storytelling and one could also say that American film distributor Janus Films added to the film’s international reception when they acquired it for North American distribution. This was a film that felt distinctly Nigerian while speaking to universal themes of migration and economic displacement. Yet when Eyimofe finally reached Nigerian cinemas, it was treated as an afterthought, relegated to afternoon screen times and minimal marketing support.

Juju Stories won Best Film at the Locarno Film Festival, but its domestic release was handled with the kind of indifference typically reserved for foreign art films. The anthology film, which showcased the storytelling range of directors C.J. Obasi, Abba Makama, and Michael Omonua, represented exactly the kind of genre experimentation that mainstream Nollywood seems incapable of supporting. This was proof that Nigerian filmmakers could work within popular genres while maintaining artistic ambition, yet the film’s commercial failure at home reinforced the industry’s conservative instincts.

The funding structures reveal the deeper problem. Films like Mami Wata, a co-production between Nigeria, France, and the United Kingdom, benefit from development funding that allows for extended scriptwriting periods, extensive location scouting, and the kind of careful pre-production that mainstream Nollywood cannot afford. When your film needs to be in cinemas within six months of conception, there is little time for the kind of story development that creates lasting impact.

This is not to romanticize international co-production or suggest that all foreign-funded films are superior. Rather, it is to point out the structural constraints that shape creative possibility. The domestic industry operates on what might be called the “turnover model,” where success is measured by the speed with which capital can be recycled. Films are greenlit based on the star power of their leads and the commercial viability of their premises, not on the strength of their scripts or the vision of their directors.

We have a local industry that has become remarkably efficient at producing content while remaining ineffective at producing lasting stories. Walk into any Nigerian cinema on a weekend and you will find films that feel like variations on the same few themes: family melodramas centered around inheritance disputes, romantic comedies that mistake shouting for wit, and action films that prioritize spectacle over coherence. These films serve their commercial function, providing employment and entertainment, but they do little to advance the medium or expand its expressive possibilities.

Meanwhile, the films that do push boundaries find themselves caught in what might be called the “festival circuit paradox.” They are celebrated abroad precisely for their artistic ambition and cultural specificity, but these same qualities make them difficult to market to domestic audiences who have been trained to expect different things from local cinema. The sophisticated visual language of a film like Mami Wata, with its black-and-white cinematography and mythological themes, feels alien in multiplexes designed around the aesthetic of Nollywood blockbusters.

The distribution infrastructure compounds the problem. Cinema chains, operating on thin margins and high overhead costs, naturally gravitate toward films with proven commercial appeal. A film that has won awards at Cannes carries no guarantee of local box office success, especially if it lacks the star power or marketing budget of mainstream releases. This leads to a vicious cycle where ambitious films receive minimal theatrical support, perform poorly at the box office, and reinforce industry skepticism about “festival films.”

The irony is that Nigerian audiences are not inherently opposed to challenging cinema. The same viewers who flock to Hollywood films and tv shows and Korean dramas are certainly capable of engaging with sophisticated local content, provided it is presented with the same production values and marketing support. But they have been trained by years of inconsistent theatrical releases to approach local “art films” with skepticism.

The reality that surfaces is a portrait of an industry at odds with itself. On one side, a growing cohort of filmmakers who have probably studied abroad, worked on international co-productions, and developed aesthetic sensibilities shaped by global cinema. On the other, an exhibition infrastructure and financing system built around rapid turnover and proven formulas. The two sides speak different languages, literally and figuratively, and seem increasingly incapable of finding common ground.

The path forward requires structural change rather than individual heroism. Funding bodies need to be established that can support longer development periods without demanding immediate commercial returns. Distribution strategies need to be developed that can position ambitious local films as events rather than afterthoughts. Most importantly, the industry needs to develop a more sophisticated understanding of its audience, one that recognizes their capacity for complex narratives while acknowledging their commercial expectations.

Until these changes occur, Nigerian cinema will continue to exist in a state of productive schizophrenia, creating two separate bodies of work that rarely intersect. The films that represent us abroad will remain largely invisible at home, while the films that dominate our screens will continue to operate within increasingly narrow creative parameters. Both traditions have value, but neither alone can fulfill the promise of what Nigerian cinema might become.The question is not whether Nigerian filmmakers can tell really good stories. Films like Eyimofe, Mami Wata, and My Father’s Shadow and more have already answered that definitively. The question is whether the industry can create the conditions for those stories to find their proper audience.