Daniel Oriahi has always known that in Nollywood, anything was possible. But for him to achieve these multiple possibilities, he had to make compromises. After his 2015 hit, Taxi Driver: Oko Ashewo, was released, he spent the next decade directing a ton of Nollywood films with characters not fully formed, a moment in his career he says he is proud of. It was what the industry demanded for him to succeed.
Then, in 2018, Sylvia, a psychological thriller, was released, and the world was once again reminded of his chops as a director who could compete globally. Last year, his thriller, The Weekend was screened at the Tribeca Film Festival, the first for a Nollywood film.
In this week’s #MadeinNigeria, he talks about his love for Stephen Spielberg, how Nollywood can grow, and why we need a film market in Nigeria.
This interview has been edited for clarity and length
When did you first realise you wanted to be a filmmaker?
Consciously, I was about 13 at the time. I grew up in a small town in Edo State, Nigeria. My dad worked for a German company that specialised in flour production—he was an engineer. We lived in the staff quarters, a beautiful place designed for foreign expatriates from different parts of the world. Because of that, we had access to satellite TV, which was a big deal in the late ’80s and early ’90s.
That’s how I first experienced the world beyond my immediate environment. We had local channels, but I was mostly drawn to the foreign ones. Before it became DStv, M-Net was running this one-month celebration of Steven Spielberg, where they showed all his films—from his first movie Duel to Schindler’s List. This was around 1995 or 1996.
I had always loved films, but what really fascinated me was seeing behind-the-scenes footage—those “making of” documentaries where filmmakers talked about how they brought their ideas to life. Watching Spielberg’s movies back-to-back, along with those BTS clips, was a game-changer for me. It was like a switch flipped in my head. I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to be a filmmaker.
That was the first profession I consciously chose for myself.
How did having access to those movies shape your approach to filmmaking?
That was the major shaping I had when it came to my interaction with what film is and what film could be.
Even though we had local channels, they had specific times for specific things—primarily news. And there was this interesting thing about local channels at the time because everything was in time slots.
You could be watching a film, and suddenly, it’s 5 p.m., and they just take it off because they need to switch to the news or something else. That really sparked my interest. I never got to see those films to the end, but I stored that experience—watching something without knowing the title or the ending, but engaging with it for a short period of time. And yeah, when Nollywood started, it felt very exotic to me.
How so?
Because someone would come home with a VHS tape and say, “This is a Nigerian film,” and you’d watch it. Compared to what we had been exposed to, it was very crude—but it was us.
Most of the films we were watching before were predominantly Western—white cast, white-owned, white everything. It gave you this idea that for something to be a “real film,” it needed to have a certain look.
I have to mention a channel that popped up for a short time and showed a lot of African films—mostly Francophone movies. That’s how I first heard about Ousmane Sembène.
There was this film called Xala—it had one of the most disturbing endings ever. It was a satire on one of the Senegalese presidents, and the actor playing him literally looked like the president. The character was impotent, had so many girlfriends, and was trying to, you know… It was wild.
But what struck me was that these were Black films made with the same intentionality and structure as foreign films—unlike Nollywood at the time.
What do you mean?
Nollywood back then was very camcorder—very videotape. You’d watch a film, and you’d see those streaks of videotape lines on the screen. The staging, the lighting… I mean, now I can analyze it technically because I make films, but even back then, you could tell the difference. And of course, Nollywood films always had a Part 2, and they always ended with “To God Be the Glory.” It was interesting, but it never really made me go, “I want to make films.”
I feel like, in the early days, Nollywood was all we had access to. But it was also something you could sit down, watch, and be really excited about.
Well, I don’t know, but I think that’s because you’re recollecting it now. There’s a nostalgic effect, you know? But honestly, have you tried watching most of those films again?
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I recently watched August Meeting, and it was watchable.
It’s interesting you said that. So, my dad lost his job at that company in late ’97. By 1998, I was beginning to truly understand the realities of being Nigerian—living in Nigeria. There was no electricity for months, my dad was unemployed, and my mom had to carry the family on her back. We were basically at the mercy of the elements around us.
That was also when I started getting more exposure to Nollywood films. I remember one filmmaker at the time who really fascinated me, Izu Ojukwu. What stood out about his work then was that he was making a conscious effort to elevate his films beyond the typical Nollywood production. You could tell he understood, to a large extent, the nuances of Hollywood-style storytelling. I really enjoyed how he used the camera and told bold stories. He and Teco Benson were making action films at a time when Nollywood mostly stuck to three genres: action, religious horror, or straight drama. It wasn’t until the early-to-mid 2000s that we started seeing overt comedies.
But even as I got more exposed to Nollywood, I still made a conscious effort to watch foreign films. But then, there was one film that changed everything for me—Kunle Afolayan’s The Figurine. I remember coming across it and thinking, “Wait, Nigerians can actually do this?” A psychological thriller? And pull it off? That was a moment. The Figurine was the film that made me believe it was possible—that I could actually pursue filmmaking in Nigeria.
Over time, I’ve noticed that many aspiring Nigerian filmmakers naturally gravitate toward thrillers when watching foreign films. They love complex storytelling, non-linear structures, and layered narratives. But for the longest time, Nollywood didn’t attempt that. We stuck to genres we knew we could execute well—religious horror, drama, and comedy. But when it came to stories with twists and turns, with intricate character arcs, it always felt like something we just couldn’t pull off.
We’ve had movies that tried to be ambitious and go against the grain. They didn’t do well.
No, they did not. But let me bring you back to something you said. You mentioned accessibility at the time and for a lot of Nigerians. You can’t take away the fact that what they had access to were Nigerian films and Nigerian television. That has subconsciously shaped what they expect a Nigerian film to be.
So even when a Nigerian film makes an effort to be something different, it’s often not seen as Nigerian. People say, “No, this is not Nigerian,” or, “Oh, you’re trying to be something else.” That’s because they aren’t aware that, for instance, film grammar isn’t something that belongs only to the Americans. Film grammar is a universal thing.
If I’m exposed to film grammar and I use it in my storytelling, there’s a tendency that when you see my work, it won’t necessarily look like a Nollywood film. But in terms of approach—how you tell stories, how you use the camera, how you direct performances, how you utilize lighting, costume, and other foundational elements of film grammar—those techniques are universal. The question is, how do you use them to tell uniquely Nigerian stories?
Also, the majority of Nigerians, over 80%, still live below the poverty line. Even with access to social media, their film preferences are shaped by what they’ve been exposed to over time. It’s not just about accessibility; it’s about familiarity.
Films like Mami Wata and Eyimofe draw inspiration from world cinema—Eyimofe is influenced by Taiwanese cinema, while Mami Wata has elements of South American and European avant-garde styles. However, most Nigerians aren’t familiar with these references, which creates a gap in reception.
Many Nigerian filmmakers aren’t cinephiles. True cinephiles explore cinema globally—not just Hollywood. They study filmmakers like Lars von Trier or Alejandro González Iñárritu. However, most Nigerian audiences aren’t exposed to these influences, making it difficult for them to connect with such films.
Nigerian audiences are more accustomed to storytelling inspired by telenovelas and bootlegged Hollywood and Hong Kong films from the ‘80s and ‘90s. These influences shaped how people understand and engage with films. This is why films that succeed at international festivals often struggle in Nigerian cinemas. Even elite Nigerians don’t always engage with them because their exposure to cinema is still limited.
A good example is Sylvia. It failed in Nigerian cinemas but later became a hit on Netflix because the platform initially catered to a more selective audience. As Netflix expanded, it had to include more mainstream Nollywood films because that’s where the mass audience was. The only way to shift this dynamic is for filmmakers like myself, Abba Makama, CJ Obasi, and the Esiri Brothers to keep making our kind of films. By doing so, we can build a following and create an alternative film culture.
What’s needed is a dedicated distribution and exhibition outlet that focuses on alternative films. This would help build an audience that appreciates these films. Changing audience taste is crucial. If audiences don’t evolve, ambitious storytelling won’t thrive beyond niche pockets. Filmmakers need wider audience acceptance to sustain their work.
There has been criticism of the hyper-focus on the glitz and glam at AFRIFF. Critics say its focus should be selling movies. But AFRIFF says it is an international film festival that provides a platform for African filmmakers to screen their work. What do you think of the debate?
Take, for example, Surreal 16. It’s exposing Nigerian audiences to alternative films, showing them that beyond mainstream cinema releases, there’s a different set of Nigerian filmmakers making unique, interesting movies. It’s a niche festival, and that’s valuable because different types of film festivals serve different purposes.
I’d say AFRIFF has done more than enough, and it continues to do a lot. Maybe it’s not its responsibility to take on film distribution. Maybe another festival should emerge with a clear focus on being a market-based event where films are screened and producers, distributors, and investors can connect in a structured way. I’ve attended TIFF – Toronto International Film Festival, Tribeca Film Festival, and Berlin International Film Festival (Berlinale). When I went to Berlinale and saw their film market, I was stunned. You see films from the most obscure parts of the world, each with booths where distributors and buyers can engage. Deals get made.
Maybe that’s not what AFRIFF is designed to do. But Nigeria—considered the second or third largest film industry in the world—needs its own film market. A space where filmmakers, investors, and distributors can come together with a clear goal: to buy and sell Nigerian content.
You have been critical of storytelling in Nollywood. What do you think is missing in scriptwriting?
I’d say story development. There needs to be more time allocated for it. Right now, the timeline for filmmaking is too short. If you want to release a film in December, you start writing in February, shoot by June, and release by November. That’s not enough time to properly develop a strong story. Storytelling is one thing; writing a screenplay is another. When telling a story, you might not immediately think about backstory, character development, or narrative structure. But those are critical elements in screenplay writing.
Unfortunately, we don’t always have the luxury of time. And it’s not just about money. If more people understood the importance of dedicating time to script development, producers would invest in that process. Writers would get paid properly for three months of work, knowing they’re developing a strong script rather than rushing one. The issue is that many of the highest-grossing films have weak storytelling. They have plot holes, but they still make money. So, if producers don’t see a direct link between story quality and box office success, they won’t prioritize investing in story development.
Nollywood is built on speed. The system is fast, and you have to work quickly. I remember working on Taxi Driver—we got FilmOne involved around March or April, and by June, we had to start shooting for an October release. In May, we had a setback. Our original writer’s computer crashed, and we lost the script. We informed FilmOne, and they emphasized that we had to meet the exhibition date. It was a business decision—slots for film releases were already set. My co-producer and I locked ourselves in a hotel for a weekend and rushed out a third act.
Even though Taxi Driver was successful, every time I watch it, I feel dissatisfied with the third act. It was rushed, and it shows. For The Weekend, we shot in 16 days. The only reason I pulled it off was because I borrowed a template from a film I had been developing for seven years. I already had an extensive script breakdown, shortlists, mood boards, and visual references. I just applied that prep work to The Weekend. The only way to improve Nollywood filmmaking is by investing more time. But right now, Nollywood films are made quickly—everything moves at high speed.
Did screening at Tribeca help The Weekend in the long run?
Yes, absolutely. The film is still travelling to festivals. Tribeca showed that Nigerians can create films with familiar tropes for an international audience. I don’t think any other Nigerian film has leaned so heavily into those kinds of storytelling structures while also gaining international recognition.
Right now, The Weekend has been in over 20 festivals, and every week, I’m hearing about new selections. That’s a lot of exposure for one film, and it’s proof that well-crafted Nigerian stories can travel globally.
Where do you see Nollywood in five years?
If we can hack distribution, Nollywood will change drastically. For instance, Nile Entertainment is now taking Nigerian films to local theatres worldwide. If we start seeing strong numbers from those markets, Nollywood filmmakers will be encouraged to improve quality. It’s a numbers game—once producers see financial benefits, they will invest more in better scripts and production values.
For filmmakers making films that travel internationally, there’s already a growing movement. A handful of us are pushing the narrative forward, just as it has happened in the history of cinema worldwide. Over the next five years, these filmmakers will get bigger opportunities, leading to more ambitious films making waves in global festivals and securing international distribution.
Nollywood will evolve in two ways: mainstream Nollywood will expand within and outside Nigeria, and alternative filmmakers will continue making globally recognized films. I aim to be positioned in the middle—creating films with mainstream appeal that also earn international recognition.
Where do you see yourself as a filmmaker in five years?
I have great opportunities ahead. I’m definitely going to get signed by an international talent agency and work on a film backed by international companies. I’m already in talks with multiple people, but I’m taking my time to make the right moves.
