There are some names you feel like you have heard all your life. In my short twenty-something years, the name Afolayan has been a constant in the Nigerian film landscape, woven into the fabric of every cinema trip, every film studies debate, every hushed conversation about what African storytelling could truly become. I remember the first day I saw October 1. I remember thinking, “This is different.” That same feeling followed me through The CEO, through Aníkúlápó, through every project that carries that unmistakable stamp, that quiet certainty that whatever this man
touches, it turns to gold.
I met him at KAP Hub in Lagos, and nothing quite prepares you for walking into that space. The man himself is magnetic, regal, unhurried, carrying the kind of presence that fills a room before a word is spoken. And yet, he is warmer than you expect. Far warmer. But it is the office that catches you first. Everywhere you turn, there is something worth pausing for: a plethora of awards on the shelves, their shine so unapologetic you are almost blinded stepping through the door. A table dressed in seashells and sand sits like a meditation on memory. There are sculptures, carefully curated light bulbs casting amber pools across the room, surfaces that reward a second and third
look. It is, without overstating it, the interior of a man who sees everything as composition, who cannot, even at rest,
stop making something beautiful. We sat down. He smiled. And the conversation that followed felt less like an interview and more like being let in.
Interview By Ayo Lawal
Your films carry a very distinct Pan-African flavour, particularly this embrace of Francophone culture. Where does that come from?
Growing up, I had several encounters with Francophone African countries. From the age of ten, I was always following my
father’s theatre group on tour across West Africa — Benin Republic, Togo, Abidjan, Gabon, Ghana. I have clear memories of
what it felt like. When I was about sixteen, in Togo, I met a girl in a community called Aneel, she was the only one in the
entire place who could speak English. I was a teenager. She would take me to play basketball every day. But I was also being
exposed to Francophone films, and I noticed something: most Francophone African countries were far more hungry for films
from the Anglophone side. They looked forward to my father’s films, to Tunde Kelani’s films. Their own films were largely
funded by the West and made for festivals nobody got to see them in cinemas. So what informed the multilingual idea
behind The CEO was this: I wanted to see if Pan-Africanism could actually break something open. We took it further with
Citation, I thought, okay, I have done a lot with French-speaking Africa, let me do something with the Portuguese-speaking
side. That is why Cape Verde was included. Film and the audiovisual is one of the most powerful tools we have to bridge that
gap.
You come from a lineage of storytellers. At what point did the legacy start to feel like a responsibility?
Nobody has ever asked me that, and I really like the question. Honestly, it has never felt that way, and I think it is because I
just sank into it naturally. I did not start until after my father passed. It was not like, while he was alive, I was actively trying
to step into his shoes, even though I made one or two moves, you know, hovering around hoping he would say, come on, come on. He completely discouraged it. But after he was gone, I saw a vacuum in the industry, and I thought: maybe this is the time. Maybe I can carve out my own corner and do this thing entirely. There was never pressure. It never even occurred to me to want to be better than my father. I just knew there was something I could bring, something that, if I committed to
it fully, would not just continue his legacy. It would push the needle of African cinema altogether.
When I watch a Kunle Afolayan film, I know I am watching a Kunle Afolayan film. What does a frame need before you are satisfied and ready to move on?
Visual storytelling and depth. I was talking to a group of writers just yesterday, and I said to them: in Nigeria, we rely far too
much on dialogue as the medium of expression. But in film, that is not how it works. Everything in the frame should be
saying something. That is why my office looks the way it does. I am always thinking, that way is interesting, this way is
interesting. So before I even set my camera, I am looking at the background. The camera alone cannot carry it. The director
alone cannot carry it. It has to be a combination of art, literature, and craft. If someone in a white shirt is being shot against a
white background, I will not shoot. The frame is not speaking. You also have to understand the camera deeply, the lenses,
and the light. I always say: if I shoot with this phone, in the right light, and I know where to position you, I will get something
extraordinary. That is what I am always after: a frame that is artistically alive.
Was refining the look and feel of Nollywood a conscious rebellion, or was it simply the natural evolution of who you are as a filmmaker?
I grew up on my father’s films, yes, but I also watched a lot of Western, Indian, and Chinese films. And there is a very
clear difference between sitting in a cinema and watching a motion picture, and turning on your TV to watch a studio-based
drama. A lot of what we call Nollywood films are technically TV dramas, and there is nothing wrong with that, but people
need to understand the distinction. Film is identified by image alone. You should be able to mute it and still understand the
story. When the likes of my father stopped making films on celluloid, Nollywood came and filled that storytelling gap, and
that was vital. But I felt there was room to maintain production value as the non-negotiable. That intentionality is why my
films go to festivals. That is why they are studied in universities. It is not just about entertainment; it is about posterity.
Are there parts of Nigerian culture you feel are still underexplored on screen?
So many. One of my dreams is to make a film with Native Americans, set in their world. The spiritual parallels between
their culture and ours are remarkable. They are about the universe, about nature, about a deep spirituality that mirrors so much of what we carry here. I have always been drawn to that. I also shot my very first film, Irapada, in Kaduna, in the north, somewhere I did not know a single person. Because in my head I was already fantasising about the Sahara, about Mali, about Morocco, about Senegal. That is why Citation was shot in Senegal. I like blending, Yoruba with the north, Yoruba
with the Lusophone world, because it creates a feel that is entirely new. I do not like staying in my comfort zone. As a
storyteller, you have to explore. You have to have geographical depth. And authenticity means getting everything right: the
music, the costumes, the language, the people.
Aníkúlápó traveled far beyond Nigeria. Did its global reception change how you think about your audience?
I have never really made films for a Nigerian audience. I have always wanted my films to be seen anywhere, regardless of
tribe or language. What Aníkúlápó did was validate what I have always believed, that even a film in a minority language
can move the world. Look at the films that have won Oscars in recent years: Parasite is Korean. Tótem is Mexican. Slumdog
Millionaire is Indian. The language was never the barrier. The barrier is the infrastructure of recognition, the politics, the
pushes, the platforms. If Netflix were to put their full weight behind an African submission the way they do for others, the
film would fly. Even if it did not win, it would get the nomination. That bridge has not been fully crossed yet. But I believe it
will be. And when the richness of the work, not just who you know, begins to determine the parameters for selection, African
cinema will be standing right there.
You have built an entire ecosystem, KAP Hub, the Film Village, and the Academy. Was this about control, or about solving an industry problem?
There was never a blueprint. Everything happened out of necessity, out of me trying to solve specific problems and challenges as they appeared. KAP Hub here? We took a loan in 2019, just before COVID, and bought this property. I wanted a one-stop ecosystem: a cinema to curate films, a restaurant, live music, a space where painters, sculptors and musicians
could all find a home. Then Aníkúlápó came, and we needed somewhere bigger to shoot, more like the countryside. We found
the place. After filming, we needed accommodation for future productions, so we added rooms. Now we have about a
hundred rooms, and we are growing. Everything is self-funded. Everything. And I can tell you honestly, I always see the end
result before it exists. Once the idea is conceived, it is already done in my mind. I am not building an empire. I am not
chasing wealth. I am creating solutions to the problems of the creative industry. And there is a way God rewards good
intentions and diligent work.
What is the biggest misconception about being a filmmaker in Nigeria right now?
It is a very confusing industry right now, and the confusion is this: everyone is making films to generate revenue; no one is
making films for posterity. I cannot make a film that I would not want people to remember in ten years. I will not do it. If I make something, it has to make people argue. It has to give them different perspectives, make them sit with something after they leave. Nigeria is in a moment where the economy is forcing filmmakers into survival mode everyone is rushing to monetise the next thing. The literature has gone quiet. And I refuse to follow that. I would rather make fewer films and mean
every single one of them.
How does fashion factor into your filmmaking and into who you are?
There is no film without fashion. The wardrobe department is not a support function; it is a pillar. Whoever designs your
costumes must have a deep understanding of what is worn, when, and why. In the last few years, I have been doing
production design and art direction myself. For October 1, I started researching Nigeria in 1960, before we had even hired a
full crew. I was on eBay buying props. I was thinking about who could make the most authentic colonial-era tailoring, and
the answer was the Alasago, the traditional master tailors. Do you know what it means to have an Alasago design and
produce those colonial uniforms? And when I cast the British colonists, I actually flew to London and held proper auditions.
You cannot throw caution to the wind on details like that. As for my personal style, you cannot separate me from my work.
If you watch my films, you see me. If you look at my life, you see my films. They are the same thing.
What have you had to unlearn to keep evolving?
I used to be very hard on myself. If something was not exactly right, exactly the way I saw it in my mind, I would get agitated.
But about ten years ago, I realised: you cannot control everything. If I set the camera for a scene and it starts raining, I cannot
stop that. So now my brain says make the raining scene. Check continuity, adjust, and shoot. Because that rain is an asset.
God has just given you rain, and if you had to manufacture it, it would cost you a fortune. That shift in thinking has transformed how I work. And in life, too, I have just learned we are nothing, really. I could walk out of this building tomorrow and be gone. So I try to live by the day. To enjoy what I have built. To not hold myself hostage to a perfect vision
that the universe has other plans for.
What scares you creatively right now?
There are genres I will never touch, things built purely on what is popular today, what is trending, what will fill seats this
weekend. That sensational style of creativity has never been mine. If everyone is going one way, I am going the other. I have
been saying the same things in interviews since the day I started making films: my ideology, my dreams, my intentions, and they have not changed. That consistency is not stubbornness. It is identity. And I will protect it.
When we take away all of it, the awards, the impact, the legacy, what still drives you to tell stories?
I think it is a burden that God, or the universe, has placed on me as a responsibility. And I am going to carry it until I die.
There is no retirement in what we do. My brain does not switch off every time I turn around, it is processing something.
The KAP Film Village was not a ten-year plan. It was a Tuesday morning thought that became real. That is how my mind
works. I am not trying to outshine anyone. I am following the lead of something inside me that will not be quieted. And
beyond the filmmaker, I am an entrepreneur; I run about seven companies, I book my own flights, and I post my own content.
People are always shocked when they find out. But I live the simplest life possible. And I am enjoying it.
If someone were to make a film about Kunle Afolayan, what would you want them to get absolutely right?
I would want them to get inside my mind. On the outside, people think I am very tough. I think you probably had the same
impression. But the people who get close, my staff, the people who have worked with me for years, they will tell you: this
man is a clown. I can have drinks with you tonight and let you go tomorrow if you have been indisciplined, and those two
things are not contradictions. I hate indiscipline. I hate when someone is given opportunity and privilege and cannot read
between the lines. But I also love deeply, and I lead with generosity. So if anyone is going to tell my story, I want them to
separate the human from the visionary. I am a family man. I have personal relationships with my children despite everything
on my plate. I live simply. I do not have a social media manager. I do not have a PA, or I barely do. I just live, and I work, and
I try to do both with as much intention as I can.
