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What emerges from this confluence is an exhibition of emotional and intellectual breadth. Across the artists, there is coherence, despite geographical and formal differences. From Ruins to Remembrance is in that sense a wake-up call. The festival holds up ruins not to glamourise decay, but to demand accountability: for heritage, for neglect, and for stories that risk being forgotten.
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Despite all these, My Father’s Shadow is not a dirge. Its fragmented form allows for moments of tenderness and beauty, even humour. These flashes underscore the resilience of ordinary Nigerians, who, despite betrayals by their leaders, continue to love, to sing, to imagine futures for their children.
My Father’s Shadow is not a film that tells you what to think about 1993 or about Nigeria’s long arc of disappointments. It’s a film that teaches you how to feel history: to smell it, taste it, hold it against your ribs. It’s a portrait of a father whose love is messy and incomplete, and a nation whose promises frequently arrive late or not at all.
Lagos, more than any other space in Nollywood, crystallises the contradictions of Nigeria itself. The city promises opportunity yet metes out hardship with the same intensity; it dazzles with its excess while suffocating with its scarcity. To enter Lagos on-screen is to be confronted with the paradoxes that define the nation = ambition and corruption, resilience and fatigue, spectacle and decay.
