The Trade

A review of one of the most cohesive Nollywood films ever made and what it uncovers about what being a Nigerian means through its protagonist

In Comparison With Others

This year alone I’ve watched more Nollywood films than I’ve ever done in the previous decade alone. The hyperbole holds water because I rarely watch films—I prefer TV series.

In these few months, from occasional Twitter spaces, reading lengthy reviews, listening to podcasts and etc., I’ve uncovered a pattern.

When most people criticize Nollywood films, they come from a place of spite, condescension, and dismissal. They don’t believe anything good can emerge from Nollywood. Half of it is fury, and the other half is disappointment from botched expectations yet again. This sentiment doesn’t surprise me: the industry is notorious for releasing films that rarely actualize their potential or live up to the hype they garner on social media. But I think it’s misplaced outrage.

Sometimes the complaints come across as witch-hunts and less as critiques with merit, a superciliousness redolent of when people bragged that they didn’t listen to Afrobeats. It’s almost as if they wouldn’t be impressed if Nollywood actually released a spectacular picture: moving, gripping, ambitious, emotional and culturally significant. And that’s just a  shame with a shadow.

Although I’ve been critical of present day Nollywood films, too, my remarks have been mere confessions of disappointment—because I believe they can do better. You can always see the ambition and trace the point where the story turns ambiguous, where the plot runs into a cul-de-sac and one’s suspense of belief can do nothing but falter.

As a case study, the opening sequence in The Man of God was one of the most seamless I’d seen in ages from our filmmakers. They established the character, his dilemma, his goal, and conflict using backstory, which, although a risky approach, managed to work. But the inciting incident was postponed; it came more than halfway into the movie in the form of a rushed love interest. From there, things happened without causality. The story shot itself in the foot and derailed.

Gangs of Lagos, directed by Jade, suffers a similar fate, too. It had the potential to be one of the biggest Nollywood flicks ever. It does a lot of crucial things right: the casting couldn’t be any more perfect, the cinematography is masterful, the blocking A-class, and the delivery from some actors sell the story. The beginning held promise—the setting was well established, the characters were distinct—but it failed to deliver on multiple grounds, many of which other critics have pointed out. However, a few subtle fault lines, caused by flaws in the story itself, cracked into glaring fissures as the movie progressed:

• Unbelievable escalation (endearment and innocence aside, why should Pana’s death throw all the factions into chaos as the death of the former Eleniyan did when both characters are not on the same level?)

• Weak sexual tension (need I say more?)

•  No established motivation for the protagonist (at the end Obalola becomes Eleniyan when the other warring gang members make his political shortsightedness glaring to him but somehow pledge their loyalty; he manages to achieve a goal we never see him strive for, because of what, kadara?)

• Contrived conflict that serves the spectacle rather than convincingly express the political tension and the lobbying used to achieve power at whatever cost.

The Trade

Jade Osiberu’s The Trade is a stellar exception to all the things most people complain about in Nollywood pictures. If perfect is a finish line which no work of art can ever cross, then The Trade reached the 80m mark—close enough to warrant applause even a decade from now. 

I stumbled upon the movie on Twitter; every refresh seemed to bring a new over-the-top review about the film to my feed. This intrigued me. I rarely am in a hurry to see a picture or commit to a TV show—be it a classic or not—except from a trusted director like say Nolan, Bong-Jun Ho or Damien Chazelle.

What I do instead is wait for reviews from Letterboxd and whatever app’s algorithm (YouTube, Twitter, Instagram) to recommend the movie over and over before I invest. I might go as far as reading the synopsis to judge the story’s value or weigh its subject matter—spoilers don’t scare me. This method has saved me valuable time, because I am not one to doggedly stick to the end of a boring film. When The Trade appeared on my feed for the umpteenth time, I had no choice but to surrender to curiosity.

At this point it is best to warn you of spoilers ahead. (If you haven’t watched the film, go to Amazon Prime and do so then come back and read this review to judge if my praise is biased). 

Directing, Cinematography, and  Design

Jade Osiberu, who also wrote the script, is a master of her craft. In The Trade, her understanding of visual storytelling is evident in nearly every frame, but even more so in certain scenes, where her brilliance can be missed due to how subtle she is with application of certain cinematic techniques. From the blocking to the camera’s placement in different shots, she makes it nearly impossible to tear your eyes away without fear of missing out on some vital revelation. I should attribute this small example to the editor, but I’m sure Jade’s script acted as the blueprint in this regard—a simple thematic match cut from Eric (Blossom Chukwujekwu) praying to DCP Bukar (Ali Nuhu), also praying. 

The lighting is inconsistent at some point, the accent is overdone, the audio quality is terrible and inconsistent in some scenes, the danger is downplayed by the unconvincing performance of the extras in the opening scene; however, the shots are clean or dirty when they need to be. Every scene has a purpose. Despite these minor flaws, the story excels.

The set design is a bit bland, the colour palette is drab, too, but fits well when the context of the story is considered. Any further addition would have tilted the film towards spectacle and spectacle would have corrupted the veracity in the story. So although I’d have loved to see more incredible set pieces, Jade knows best. The set design is so well done that it doesn’t draw attention to itself.

The Story

Synopsis: The Trade Movie is a story about a notoriously cunning kidnapper, who has ravaged the southern part of Nigeria for over a decade. Will he get caught?

The Trade is a crime thriller that hits every single beat in the genre whilst remaining true to its Nigerian roots. This is something most Nollywood films often fail to do. They can’t stick to or transcend their chosen genre. That it is based on real events must’ve made this easier to conceive because it’s somewhat uncanny how much real life and fiction have in common.

Plot is most critical in the thriller genre, and The Trade is structured to make sure the audience gets the right information at the right time, which in turn builds mystery, tension or suspense, depending on what the scene requires. 

The characters are entangled in a grid of needs and wants. Everyone has something covert or overt that they want or need. These wants and needs drive negotiations; alliances are built and betrayed based on what the characters perceive will get them their desires. Hence, the story, for the most part, remains healthily unpredictable.

While I can harp on and on about every single character and the meticulousness the actors brought to the film, I will focus solely on Eric, who is such a compelling protagonist.

Eric is a meticulous kidnapper with two families. Normally, this shouldn’t work—yes, it’s a reality in Nigeria but how does it fit into the story as a whole, in such a limited runtime, too? The answer lies in Eric’s favorite thing to say, which I’m paraphrasing for consistency since he says different versions of the same thing: “A man [husband] who cannot provide for his family isn’t a man.”

On its own, the sentiment can be dismissed as a platitude, an obvious proverb. But when you add one layer of context—Eric’s father not being able to provide for his family—things starts to get a little bit interesting. If his father couldn’t cater for them, he has elevated past that and can provide for two families, which he does by gifting his girlfriend a car and paying for a new family house on the same day, surprising his wife. The stance of a masculinity only accessible through one’s capacity to provide is a back door to the underlying argument the story explores: In Nigeria, money is power, and the means justifies the end because people are quicker to question the source of your poverty than the source of your wealth.

This philosophy pervades the Nigerian society at all strata and Eric embodies it all too well. He understands something fundamental about Nigeria: all of us are thieves, from the politicians, to the policemen, to the people. Every Nigerian must choose their crime and figure out how to steal without upsetting or allowing themselves to be upstaged by the other thieves.

It follows that being a kidnapper is his chosen trade, his chosen crime, which he excels at. He has the wealth of a capitalist and the greed to match. Add dedication to that greed and you have a character who’s an embodiment of the corruption in our country. This explains something crucial about his success: he hasn’t been able to remain elusive through sheer brilliance and sophistication alone, but the institutional corruption—in the police, for example—benefits his trade. This is evident in a scene where Eric and his henchmen get stopped at a checkpoint by a group of police officers, who, after initial gra-gra, succumb to the proffered bribe instead of searching the vehicle as protocol would demand. Their willingness to patrol the road at night should not be confused with their obligation to the duty of upholding justice: they are not out to fight crime, but to commit theirs, under the protection of their authority. Their greed gives Eric’s greed breathing room—in fact, ample room to flourish.

Eric is a complex man. He cares for his victims in the same way a butcher cares for his pigs. He doesn’t smoke, but he loves palm wine. He doesn’t judge people either: in one crucial scene, when he brings up his victim’s infidelity, it is as a tactic to extract her husband’s number from her, not as a conduit to shame. He’s no hypocrite: it’s none of his business. He’s minding his own business, and her silence is getting in the way of that. When she doesn’t budge, he, while still maintaining an unnerving cordiality, resorts to blackmail and finally the threat of murder, which, by asking the question once more, he wants to avoid but isn’t afraid of enacting. He is a calculating man, a cunning man, a businessman.

Watching Eric, it isn’t far-fetched to say: the only greed greater than that of the capitalist is that of a Nigerian. This is why Eric, even though he makes $1,000,000 per kidnap, doesn’t pay his workers well. When a henchman begs for extra cash, he suggests a loan. His money cannot go out for free. There’s always a price to pay with him.

In the opening scene, Eric, who gets kidnapped by the henchmen of a competitor now in jail, talks his way out of the ordeal, which casts his capture in the end of the film in the light of a pyrrhic victory. He hasn’t been caught, he’s just been transferred to a new region of operation. Because the policemen who will guard his cell need money, which Eric has in millions. Since money is power, he will buy them over and orchestrate more kidnaps.

We are all thieves with limited crime power. It is such an ugly thing to be true about Nigerians, but here we are, merchants of the same trade under different guises.