Why Nigerians Cannot Handle Criticism

On Contemporary Culture and Nollywood

On 18 April 2018, in response to an interview question during a business forum, the now-late former president Muhammadu Buhari criticised young Nigerians for their insistence on enjoying free healthcare and education without doing anything significant to either warrant or contribute to it. This sentiment got paraphrased on social media and offline into the saying “Nigerian youths are lazy”, which would later form the hashtag/slogan (LazyNigerianYouths) that came to dominate the protests that ensued.

While nothing threatened Buhari’s presidency—due to Nigeria’s corrupt courts and other factors, he remained both immune to impeachment or making a dent in APC’s already sullied reputation—many protesters who criticised the President were harassed, beaten, and jailed. Given the glaring asymmetry of power and abuse of state apparatus, the cost for citizens making a counterdiatribe was not the same.

Several cases bolster this conclusion: the 75-year-old man who, after learning how his brother had been butchered due to a cow-related dispute by insurgents, was jailed for criticising the governor of Kano and Buhari; the boys who were flogged and fined 10,000 for releasing a TikTok criticising the governor of Kano; and, more recently, the girl who had her NYSC extended for a month due to the comments she made criticising President Bola Ahmed Tinubu for inflation.

From a quick sociopolitical survey, an obvious pattern emerges: Nigerians exist within a strict, authoritarian top-bottom criticism culture. Presidents can criticize their citizens; parents can criticize their children; bosses can criticize their workers; filmmakers can criticize the film critics. This is the dominant mode of criticism, where those with the most power within an institution, a relationship, or an ecosystem can criticize everyone they ought to be beholden to or whom they perceive as beneath them. This dubious hierarchy is maintained through several fallacious and insidious arguments that give bones to the mirage.

The Respect Argument

The first argument that pops up frequently to cement this top-bottom culture is the respect argument, which basically goes: you should not criticize people who are older than you, even if they are in the wrong. In this particular argument, there’s no care for the harm caused by the authority figure, either slight or colossal; rather, an undue focus is placed on maintaining respectability politics and social dynamics, even when there is a strong case/need for dissent. Everyone is supposed to suffer the consequences of the leader’s incompetence, exploitation, or abuse without any complaint. A perverse stoicism is required: one must weather the storm at all costs. In essence, the respect argument stonewalls against any criticism. Everything those in power do must be revered or, at the very least, tolerated. Dissent is uncalled for and, frankly, unwelcome.

It doesn’t matter if the complaint is from a physically assaulted woman calling out her abuser, a child calling out a deadbeat father, wronged crew members criticizing unprofessional conduct on a filmset, the breach in expected dynamics, the utter neglect of social duty (including the mercenary aspect) is forgiven by the general public or immediate community without consent from the wronged individual or group in question. If anything, the victim is blamed for the situation, its escalation into blatant abuse or perpetual neglect: excuses are imagined for the powerful, and justifications are manufactured for the victims: adults are infantilised, children parentised.

Respect, especially in Nigeria, is a function of power before anything else. It isn’t earned; it’s assumed. And it is dangerous for a culture to traffic solely in assumed respect as opposed to earned respect or to use tactics that confuse both in certain situations. The respect we practice in Nigeria, the one we champion as beyond criticism in everyday interactions, is assumed respect. This type of respect is strictly positional, derived from granted authority, immunity status conferred upon by virtue of an office (Senate President, principal) or due to sequential sociobiological hierarchy (husband, parent), rather than through character, competence, or integrity, all of which constitute earned respect.

What makes this argument even more socially potent is how solidly it’s imposed at every level of the hierarchy within any known institution, which, given the transfer of aggression, leads to the trickle-down of abuse easily observed in Nigerian society. In a way, this explains why Nigerians are not averse to oppression per se but kick against being oppressed. The hierarchy, strangely feudal in expression, gives ample room for those below to take out their frustration on those beneath them. Power is mimetic. And in a top-bottom criticism culture where an assumed respect argument carries the most weight, this mimetic nature of power leads to a strange synthesis. People without power stop being persons and become their positions; people with big positions underplay their power to seem like normal persons, both as a tactic to abuse others and sidestep criticism.

Soft positions (elder brother, senior colleague in a uni) are referred by these people to in a bid to induce depersonalisation, to create a distance, a space for deference to take root so they can access power, which they can then abuse; while hard positions (uncles, pastor, lecturer) are referred to less, a kind of familiarization is introduced by insistence on informal tags as a backdoor to create a peer-to-peer relationship to disguise the abuse of power and annul criticism. Curiously enough, when abuse happens between people who reinforce soft positions as hard positions, the mediators often appeal to assumed respect, referring to those largely negligible positions as reasons why they ought to act better: “You have to respect them because they’re your elder brother.” Whereas, when a person acts out of conduct within a hard position, they are personalized to the public, a referent is made to their soft positions to suppress dissent and to obfuscate the severity of their offence: “He is a father, a brother, an only son of ailing parents” not a lecturer who has raped his student.

Within this top-bottom criticism culture, power exists to exploit. Dissent is effectively curbed at all levels through these insidious tactics. And what happens next is almost inevitable. Within any system or culture where criticism cannot go up, abuse will surely trickle down. Because earned respect requires not only reciprocity but an embodiment of certain characteristics, whereas assumed respect can be accessed through dubious means. Ultimately, assumed respect—divorced from competence or character, respect pegged to power in relation to biological (age), sociocultural (husband), or bureaucratic signifiers (a boss)—sets the groundwork for an authoritarian dynamic, one that asphyxiates criticism and recasts every pan as character assassination, malicious rhetoric, or a business hazard. When assumed respect becomes the norm between all asymmetrical relationships within a culture and criticism gets successfully suppressed, sycophancy is soon rebranded as diplomacy, and mediocrity is heralded as excellence.

The Effort Fallacy

Mediocrity demands to be praised for its efforts rather than be critiqued for its performance. This is the logic behind the effort fallacy. Instead of an outright rejection of criticism, proponents of the effort fallacy demand that criticism include an appraisal of the effort it took to realise something. In Nollywood, these are the filmmakers who introduce caveat upon caveat to explain why they couldn’t shoot a movie well and tell a good story, citing logistics, hostile environment, and delinquent cast or crew members. Attempt demands its own gossip column.

This insidious complaint is a hoax because if, and when, they do come across a positive review of their film, book, or play, they do not clamour for a “balanced review” as they often do when faced with a scathing pan. The effort fallacy is deflective by design. Its definite aim is to distract from the art’s mediocrity or botched execution. A critic calls out flaws in the story, and the filmmaker asks, What about the cinematography? What, indeed, about the cinematography? It’s ridiculous, cyclical, and unnerving: the dynamic is perpetrated to wear and drown out meaningful critique. It’s difficult to square off with a person going round in circles. You tell a not-so-dashing, young man he has birdshit on his collar, and he gets angry because he ironed the shirt and he’s the first person in his bloodline to ever wear a pressed shirt. But, sir of the not-so-dashing-first-in-his-bloodline-to-ever-wear-a-pressed-shirt, you have birdshit on your collar.

The effort fallacy courts the ampersand with little to no impunity. It rejects any isolatory observation that isn’t ‘nuanced’ enough. It desperately wants an ‘and’ to bridge the critique and its perceived merits. One can tell that the effort fallacy is dubious because when a critic insists on their insight as a deliberate framing to make an observation glaring, the critiqued person, movie fandom, or enterprise resorts to the infamous line: Go and do your own. They argue that the only way to be able to judge something is to either have done it yourself before or to realise the same effort within the same domain. It is laughable.

Many great writers realised their works through great effort and stifling conditions. While still an editor at Random House and a divorced single mother, Toni Morrison, considering her impossible schedule, had to wake up by four a.m. daily to write her first few novels. Dambudzo Marechera wrote his startling debut, The House of Hunger, as a homeless dropout, living in tents and shantytowns. The early history of many great novelists follows a similar pattern: working within unsavoury and unfavourable conditions to produce a masterpiece.

Despite the debilitating conditions they braved, we don’t judge either Morrison or Marechera’s effort; we judge and appraise their art, what they achieved on the page. True, in their respective biographies, critics, journalists, and academics involved in historicism or concerned with excavations that seek to uncover why writers of such calibre are rare or social conditions that steal time and education from the common person, these writers’ efforts will be highlighted. Only to show how the system truncates the mass production of such staggering talent.

But effort alone, effort in itself, cannot be the mark or measure of genius or a factor considered in a serious aesthetic, philosophical, or cultural appraisal and evaluation of an artist. It would be an error to evaluate effort over, or in tandem with, masterful execution, subversive brilliance, and colossal resonance. Great art can emerge in spite of a dozen and one handicaps. Nobody gets canonised for an attempt.

The Tone Argument

At the 2024 African International Film Festival (AFRIFF), during a panel interview, the British actor John Boyega made some criticisms about Nollywood, citing reasons why they couldn’t scale globally. He was careful with his wording, trying his very best not to offend industry players while also not wanting to mince words or lie about how dire the situation at hand was. He employed humour and referred to anecdotes to show how much he, too, had suffered to get to where he did, a parallel that Nollywood would have to be willing to embrace if they were to get the change so desperately needed.

Hours later, people were quick to observe that most of the points made by Boyega had been made so many times already by so many critics and some dedicated/informed audience members or cinephiles. Those impatient with Nollywood critics highlighted John Boyega’s tone as the reason why his admission might—key word, mind you—be accepted or adhered to eventually. But I disagree. The main reason more people were willing to listen to John Boyega is that he’s higher in the film hierarchy than they are. He’s been in Woman King, They Cloned Tyrone and Star Wars, one of the biggest franchises of all time. He’s at a level many will never reach, a global star, a status many Nollywood veterans will never attain, no matter how much effort they put in.

Criticise, but be cordial about it. Judge, but don’t come to a negative verdict. If you must come to a negative verdict, announce it in a positive voice. Coddle. Coddle. Coddle. The tone argument is, I think, the most infuriating one to deal with. If the respect argument annuls all criticism, and the effort argument makes a deflection, then the tone argument pretends to welcome criticism, even a negative one, as long as it comes in the right tone. But, as stated earlier, it is a lie. Any clamour for constructive criticism, for words to be used with care not to hurt the ego, is a falsehood that seeks to obfuscate the fact that “cordial/constructive” criticism will only be accepted if and only if a top-bottom dynamic is at play. Power is what is respected, not the critique. It is sycophancy pretending to pay reverence to an esoteric revelation. What, however, is the value of criticism? Or what danger do we court when we allow criticism to be eliminated by peddling these insidious fallacies?

Criticism as Autopsy: On Nollywood

The critic holds a candle to art to reveal its colour and shadow. This applies to people who criticize governments, too. Critics show how things function in an elaborate system, in contrast to how they have functioned before (historical contrast) or how they ought to function (ideal or theoretical scrutiny). Art scars time. Apart from political events and historical happenings, art, just like memory, is how we measure time. And great art not only captures its time, it creates a time capsule of the moment. Criticism, when it’s good, criticism spurred by great art, in turn, uncovers and shows us the true depth of an art. It deepens time. But rather than poetic assertions of who a critic is or what criticism aims to achieve, there are urgent and eternal reasons why criticism—especially aesthetic judgement—shouldn’t be allowed to become extinct, as it already seems destined to be, in our culture.

Criticism is invaluable to the up-and-coming artist. Everyone who practices an art begins as a novice, a novice with promise. However, the beginning artist—apart from a juvenile understanding of how their art functions and a significant gap between knowing certain principles and having the adequate skill to execute them to perfection—needs honest feedback. A critic brings attention to bad habits and tendencies they might have to shorn if they hope to take their craft to the next level, to the point where they can embark on ambitious experiments within their domain and come out successful in the end. The critic illuminates the young artist’s capacity or lack thereof, their strengths, weaknesses, and blind spots.

This education can come from a mentor or a really good master, but a good critic can help here, too. This, among other crucial factors, ensures that those who go on to become veterans will be professionals with more than a good aesthetic judgement.

The work a critic does is not just aesthetically important but also financially and culturally significant. Another spotlight on Nollywood. Given our terrible macroeconomic realities, it is not only expensive to make films, but it is also difficult to make money from releases. Thus, Nollywood applies a hype model for marketing where the filmmakers, at least those still concerned with a theatrical release, try to make back most of their money within the first week of release. Hence, they cast actors who have a considerable number of followers on social media. They engage in sensationalist marketing schemes.

At their worst, they siphon money meant for the film, money gotten from streaming giants, into real estate, buying properties and cars; in short, embezzlement. Then use the leftovers to make the film. In a way, they insure themselves against the market’s volatility by using film as a front to make money. When the film, beset by all these troubles, tanks, they see themselves as proactive visionaries who have averted great misfortune with much ingenuity. To make this unnoticeable, they make the sheen shinier than the steel, the icing thicker than the cake: films that are pretty to look at, but can neither hold one’s attention without insulting one’s intelligence.

But, and this is a big but, if they listened to critics, who’ve called out botched storytelling, half-baked stories, uninspired acting, and shoddy VFX, a different industry would’ve existed with a different culture. Take all the money that’s been funnelled into Nollywood in the past decade and spend it in a different way, with the critics’ observations in mind, and what would happen? Take a quarter of that money and fund writers and actors: residencies, workshops, world-class training programmes that focus on churning out excellent practitioners, and you’ll automatically have a different industry. But I don’t want to dwell on what-ifs. The point here is that ignoring the critics, being obstinate in their tomfoolery, and insisting on mediocre art costs everyone in the end, both the audience and the up-and-coming artist with ambitious designs. The culture suffers, too, because, eventually, the money dries up, expectations dip abysmally, attention dwindles, and the industry becomes an echo chamber cannibalising itself into extinction. What, then, ought to be done to avoid what Seyi observed: “Nigerian mainstream filmmakers have realized that the functionality of their films isn’t in the artistic and cultural value but in the succor they provide.”

Bottom-Top Criticism Culture

A subversion—a bottom-top criticism dynamic—is required to reverse the culture of mediocrity that pervades our relationships and institutions. Neglecting this subversion leads to a culture of mediocrity where excellence becomes not the goal but a distant option. And the problem with that is it leads to a corruption of purpose. A corruption of purpose occurs when people engage in an activity primarily for a secondary reason. Parents having children strictly as retirement plans; lecturers casting themselves as stumbling blocks; students obsessed with grades, rather than learning. And this is because a corruption of purpose leads to sidestepping excellence in place for mediocrity, aiming lower, a drastic drop in expectations. Lecturers no longer concern themselves with teaching so the students can internalize and exhibit knowledge proficiency; many undergrads, by default, aim for a 2:1 instead of a first class, which sounds harmless, a verdict that would come across as absurd with a simple analogy. Imagine a situation where professional athletes aren’t trying to beat their personal record in a final, or a professional archer who doesn’t aim for a perfect score in each round. If we don’t revert from a top-bottom to bottom-top criticism culture, these corruptions will abound, and mediocrity will be enshrined as a norm. Something tells me we, as a country, wouldn’t mind the decay to reach this rot.