A native of Abia state, Joel ‘Kachi Benson is an outstanding documentary filmmaker and visual storyteller, globally recognised for his innovative use of Virtual Reality (VR) technology to amplify underrepresented voices. Benson has maintained a long-term, impactful engagement with the families of the abducted Chibok schoolgirls, which is evident in his cinematography. His 2019 VR short, Daughters of Chibok, won the prestigious Venice Lion for Best Immersive Story at the Venice International Film Festival, making him the first African to win in that category. He expanded this work into the feature-length documentary Mothers of Chibok (2024/2026), which focuses on long-term community rebuilding and enterprise rather than just the tragedy itself.
In 2024, he co-directed the Disney+ documentary Madu alongside Matt Ogens, which earned him two Emmy nominations and one win. His recent work, Mothers of Chibok, continues to garner international acclaim, winning the Willy Brandt Documentary Film Award last month and also Al Jazeera Award for Best Documentary Feature. Beyond filmmaking, Benson is deeply involved in mentoring the next generation of African storytellers. In an encounter with Yinka Olatunbosun, he expressed his optimism for the future of the Nigerian cinema
Your documentary Madu recently won an Emmy for Outstanding Arts and Culture Documentary. Looking back at the 44-second viral clip that started it all, what was the specific “truth” you saw in Anthony’s story that you felt a short video couldn’t capture?
That clip had a spark the world immediately recognised: discipline, talent, and a kind of freedom that felt impossible in the rain and the concrete. But what I saw was a deeper truth the internet couldn’t hold in 44 seconds – what it costs a child to keep choosing beauty in a world that doesn’t make it easy. I wanted to understand the life around the moment: the family, the sacrifices, the training, the distance between viral attention and real opportunity. The short video was a snapshot moment; the film gave the world a wider view and deeper perspective about this unique story.
You’ve made history as the first Nigerian filmmaker to win an Emmy for directing a documentary and the first African filmmaker to win a Venice Lion for Best VR Story. In what ways do you hope this win shifts the global industry’s “gatekeeping” of African stories?
I hope these wins shift the assumption that African stories need permission to matter. Gatekeeping often shows up as taste – what gets funded, what gets distributed, what gets reviewed as “universal.” Wins like mine don’t end gatekeeping, but they widen the door. They make it harder to ignore craft and ambition coming from here, and they give younger filmmakers proof that you can tell a story rooted in Africa and still be taken seriously on the biggest stages.
You often allow your audience time to take in moments in your movies. What determines the pace in your work?
The pace is determined by the people, not by my impatience. Real life doesn’t reveal itself in soundbites. Sometimes, you need quiet to understand what someone is carrying. I’m always asking: What rhythm does this world have? What is the natural tempo of work, waiting, prayer, learning, farming, and practice? When the pace is right, the audience stops consuming and starts witnessing.
You are a pioneer in using Virtual Reality (VR) in Africa with Daughters of Chibok. Why did you feel VR was the necessary medium for that specific story, rather than traditional 2D film?
I chose to use immersive technology for Daughters of Chibok because the world had become numb to the headline. VR gave me a way to restore proximity, to put viewers “in the room” with the mothers, so they can’t look away, can’t scroll past, can’t reduce them to statistics. For a story like Chibok, where distance had become a kind of forgetting, immersion wasn’t a “cool tool”; it was a moral choice.
There is often a fear that “high-tech” filmmaking can feel clinical or gimmicky. How do you ensure the technology enhances the empathy of the viewer rather than distracting from the subject’s humanity?
I treat technology as a language, not a message. The story must still be human, and the camera must still behave with dignity. If the tech draws attention to itself, I’ve failed. So, I endeavour to strip everything back to presence: respectful framing, honest sound, and enough time for the audience to feel. The question I keep asking is simple: does this tool bring you closer to the person, or does it just make you admire the tool?
As VR and AI continue to evolve, where do you see the future of Nigerian documentary filmmaking heading? Are we moving toward more “immersive” news and history?
I think we’re moving toward multiple forms of living side by side. VR will continue to deepen certain kinds of witnessing – history, memory, places we can’t access safely. AI is already changing post-production, research, and translation, but it will also create new ethical challenges around truth and consent. For Nigerian documentaries, the opportunity is huge. Yes, we can leapfrog with tools, but we must stay anchored in integrity, clear authorship, transparent methods, and the protection of real people.
Recently, you taught a group of young aspiring filmmakers in Lagos how to shoot with their phones. Why is it important to democratise the medium of obtaining footage?
Talent is everywhere, but access isn’t. A phone can’t replace craft, but it can remove the first barrier: waiting for permission, waiting for gear, waiting for funding before you begin. When young people learn to tell stories with what they have, they build confidence, discipline, and a point of view. And that’s how new industries grow – from many voices, not a few gatekeepers.
Daughters of Chibok was about the loss of the children, while Mothers of Chibok focuses on the endurance of the parents. How did your own relationship with the subjects evolve from the initial apprehension to a place of mutual trust?
Trust came through time and return. At first, there was naturally apprehension, because this is a community that has been watched, spoken about, and often misunderstood. I earned trust by showing up consistently, listening more than directing, and letting them see that my goal wasn’t to extract tragedy but to honour their full lives. Over time, we moved from “filmmaker and subject” to something closer to partnership, where they understood what I was trying to protect and why.
You’ve spoken about storytelling as a “catalyst for change.” When you are in the middle of a difficult shoot, perhaps in a conflict zone or a high-pressure environment, how do you maintain the boundary between being a filmmaker and being a human advocate for your subjects?
I don’t believe you can be present and not be human. The boundary for me is about consent, safety, and respect, never putting the story above the person. I’m careful not to confuse filming with helping; sometimes the most responsible thing is to stop rolling, or to slow down. And when advocacy is needed, I separate it: I don’t perform it on camera. I build it into what happens after, through partners, pathways, and practical support that outlives the shoot.
Documentary filmmaking in Nigeria faces unique distribution challenges. With Mothers of Chibok in cinemas, do you believe the “theatrical route” is a sustainable blueprint for other Nigerian documentarians who usually rely on festivals?
I think it can be part of the blueprint, especially if we treat documentaries as cinema-worthy, not as “content” that only belongs on streaming or at festivals. Theatrical releases create communal viewing, conversation, and cultural weight. But sustainability will require more than one film: we need distributors willing to take the risk, audiences trained to show up, and filmmakers building stories that can carry a room. I hope this release proves there is demand and encourages a wider ecosystem to back nonfiction in cinemas.
Why did you look beyond extracting visual stories from Chibok to finding beauty and potential enterprise?
I intentionally chose to take my Chibok project beyond just the screen because telling the story isn’t enough if the people in it remain trapped in the same conditions. I didn’t want the film to be another moment where the world watches and moves on. As I spent time with the mothers, I saw that their resistance was practical: they farm to fund education. That’s enterprise already. It just needed structure, market access, and dignity-driven support. This is what we are currently working with the women on, to build and bring to life.
What informed your collaboration with the veteran actor Joke Silva in Mothers of Chibok?
Auntie Joke, as I fondly call her, understands the weight of culture and the responsibility of storytelling. She’s not only a respected actor; she’s an educator and a bridge between audiences, generations, and institutions. Her decision to come on board as Executive Producer felt like alignment: she recognised that the film was trying to restore humanity and keep memory alive, and her support continues to help the film travel further and land deeper.
What is your big dream for African storytelling?
My dream is that African stories become normal at the centre; not special, not “emerging,” not treated as a genre. I want us to own our narrative infrastructure: funding, distribution, criticism, archives, and global partnerships on equal terms. And I want our stories to be as varied as our lives – quiet films, big films, experimental films, commercial films. Ultimately, I want storytelling that not only moves people emotionally but also helps build systems that let communities thrive.
