Angry Fan Pens Open Letter To Nollywood
Months have slipped into years, which in turn have crawled into decades. All around you, inertia has being challenged and demolished, the status quo has been questioned and jettisoned, strategies have been thought up and revolutionized, colossal strides have been made and translated into swift sprints, yet, like the Christian god, as old as you are, you still haven’t changed- and most probably would never. Tell me, just tell me why you I should greet you.
You see, I do not like you and I make no pretence of it. I most certainly do not respect you. Time and again, you have proven yourself to have fallen so deeply in love with the comfort of your past (if I’d call that comfort) that like your immediate elder brothers, The Police Force and the Power Sector, you have not only cocooned yourself in the illusion of its fake warmth, but have kicked furiously against change and even gone a step further in threatening the vaguest emergence of it.
From your unbelievably daft titles whose only sole purpose is the desire to outwit the stupidity of other titles, to the shallowness of your plots that try unashamedly hard to pique interest through the attractive actors and actresses who’re just that- attractive, you have succeeded in defying reason and all things near it. Just what the hell is Beyonce and Rihanna, Igala, Igodo, Igidi, Igadagidi, Akakabota, Jaggajargo, Skelewu, Bolligwe, The Virgin Prostitute, iPhone Babes? What of The Dog That Could Bark, The Spanner That Could Open Screws, Jay Z and Kanye West and Gerrarrahere Babes? Una no add those ones join, you thoughtless goat?
What of the annoying monotony and predictability of your plots? Yeah, Hollywood movies might be predictable too but I find myself having jitters when I see them because I’m unaware of how what is sure to happen will happen. Your own? Nah. I know everything. Can’t you make a change for once? Must bad guys always smoke weed in uncompleted buildings, wearing obnoxiously fake chains and dark shades even when it is night? Must everyone that travels from the village to Lagos always make it? Must your gunshots always sound like Christmas bangers? Must your police detectives always be brash and loud-mouthed, glorifying the art of senselessness with their silly questions and enthusiastically taking folly to new heights? Must your gatemen always be rude, nosy and dressed like court jesters? Must your villains always die or run mad after they confess? Must you say Three Years Later even when the film has barely gotten within two minutes? Must you shout when advertising a movie and talk like you’re condemned to a lifetime of selling second-hand underwear? Did they tell you we’re hard of hearing? And must you say the ‘now’ at the back of Grab Your Copy thrice?
Must you say, “This is just the beginning” at the end of a movie when we already know the end? Must your movies always have part 2 that invariably start from mid part one? Must bandages always be tied to the head even if someone was shot in the leg? Must the policemen always hold guns like they’re catching cold and run like they’re snatching ballot boxes? Must they always be theatrical, searching under glass tables for thieves and opening sugar cartons to search for kidnapped grannies? Must your mad men and women have people gathered around them, jeering and laughing? For Naija, dem born you well near mad man? Abi, you wan use your own hand pack your full teeth go house?
Why do your newborns have no blood on them? Who washed them and cut their umbilical cord? Your father who art in Heaven, abi? Okay. Must your old women who happen to be witches always talk in drawls and have their faces smeared with charcoal? Why does one out of your pair of twins always have to be bad and end up asking for forgiveness when her envy-inspired plans backfire? Must your love be so fake with you guys running around trees like bloody refugee kids playing silly games drawn on sand? Must your poor men always wear torn shirts and faded trousers and beg so much that their palms get to their elbows?
Why must the actresses twist their heads three sixty degrees and roll their eyes to emphasize a point that isn’t really much of a point? Why must the pastors who haven’t finish delivering themselves from the poverty they’re in deliver others, prancing about like Hot little goats when they pray? Why must thunder strike when god wants to answer prayers? And why the hell must To God Be The Glory appear at the end of your movies?
Why the hell are your soundtracks so useless and silly, going to a crescendo and diminuendo at the same time, betraying the suspense and intrigue you intend creating? Should that silly little flute always depict suffering? Is that annoying Igbo-laced accented lady supposed to make us desist from evil by singing those songs that would’ve, in fact, might’ve been hit tracks when my mom was still playing hard to get for my dad? And why do we see the shadows of crew members gesticulating wildly and spirits substituting their arms for wings as they make prophecies of what would always be doom?
Why, in Heaven’s name, are you incompetent bu.ttholes incapable of connecting with reality?
Your comedies make no sense. I laugh more out of the misbehaviour and gross incredulity your characters consistently display than out of the inherent fun in it. So silly!
And then, the use of silly proverbs too. Just what the hell is, “No matter how rich a son is, he cannot boast of more rags than his father”? Like, what the hell? Why should he bother with rags in the first place, not to talk of boasting of them? Then you have something like, ‘A cat does not run into the bush, only to cover its poo for nothing’ and ‘No matter how wide a boas’ mouth is, it cannot swallow the proverbial tortoise’. Why didn’t you add, ‘No matter how good your girlfriend blo.wjobs you, two heads would always be better than one’? or better still, ‘No matter how fast your legs are, your hands would always do it faster’? Why?
As time is lacking to talk exhaustively about other stuff and considering I’ve said a lot already, I’d just end by telling you what I’ve told others like you- Growing old is mandatory. Growing up is optional. Nollwood, Follywood or whatever you call yourself, Grow the hell up. It’s high time you did.