The best that Ada Ọmọ Daddy evokes is anger—anger at the film’s politics, its easy forgiveness of fatherly absence, its investment in a deadbeat’s unearned redemption, and its eagerness to blame, punish, and disregard the mother who was present.
By Vivian Nneka Nwajiaku
Must a film convey a message? As easy as it may seem to answer this question, it has been a source of disagreement for the longest time. For instance, in response to a statement by Hollywood filmmaker, Lee Isaac Chung, to the effect that films are not meant to be message-oriented, Nina Metz, writing for the Chicago Tribune, took the position that “Nobody falls in love with storytelling that is only ‘this happened, then that happened’ with no larger arc somewhere about the human experience”.
That makes perfect sense, but also, people can enjoy a film without a message even if they do not fall in love with it. It may be a forgettable flick, but entertaining nonetheless. I do think that a film does not become valueless simply because it is not message-oriented.
But where a film sets out to convey a message, it must be responsible about the message, because there are very few society-shaping tools that are as powerful as film.
Enter Nollywood, or more specifically, Ada Ọmọ Daddy (2023), which does set out to pass a message about the human experience. It could have been mere entertainment, valuable only for that. It is a pretty, expensive-looking film with a pleasant colour palette, beautifully decorated sets, and efficient cinematography, its technical efforts stunted primarily by poor sound design and unimpressive makeup.
There is a big wedding in sight and a new job position kicking off the protagonist’s story. That is enough material for fun and games with no real stakes. But then, it takes on the important task of tackling social issues: parental abandonment, father absence, paternity deception. This is where responsibility comes in.
Directed by Akay Mason (Elevator Baby (2019); Superstar (2021)) and Adebayo Tijani (King of Thieves (2022); Farmer’s Bride (2024)) from a screenplay written by Moshood Yakubu Olawale (Nimbe (2019); Ìgè (2023)) based on a story by producer Mercy Aigbe (Thinline (2024)), the gist of Ada Ọmọ Daddy is familiar terrain.
Perosola “Pero” Balogun (Omowunmi Dada), is the oldest child of the wealthy Chief Balogun (Dele Odule) and Mrs Ireti Balogun (Sola Sobowale), in whom they are well pleased. She has only just taken over running the family business empire from the retiring Chief, and gotten engaged to the love of her life, Victor (Tayo Faniran), whose parents (played by Fred Amata and Carol King) happen to be very well-connected. She is quite literally living the dream.
But then, she encounters a man named Ifeanyi (Charles Okafor) who calls her Ada and calls himself her father. Suddenly, Pero has to confront her family’s best kept secret and, apparently, decide which of her fathers will enjoy the benefits of fatherhood at her wedding.
In a perfect world, Ada Ọmọ Daddy would be a nuanced take on family and identity, especially in light of the cultural implications of having an Igbo birth father and a Yoruba adoptive father.
It might even be a well-considered dive into the essence of reconciliation, seeing as the film’s conflict is grounded in what is possibly the worst form of parental abandonment. But Nollywood is no perfect world, and what could be sincere conversations with emotional depth become blame games and shouting matches. Instead of complexity, Ada Ọmọ Daddy chooses spectacle.
It does not help that the performances are never particularly strong, even with the veterans and the ordinarily decent younger cast. The acting is at its weakest when it matters the most, either tepid and non-committal or over-exaggerated, uncontrolled and heavily distracting. And so, at no point do the emotional bits hit as they are intended to, not during a marriage proposal and certainly not during a confrontation about paternity deception.
The best that Ada Ọmọ Daddy evokes is anger—anger at the film’s politics, its easy forgiveness of fatherly absence, its investment in a deadbeat’s unearned redemption, and its eagerness to blame, punish, and disregard the mother who was present.
But, of course, who can fault a film’s noble ideal of forgiveness, even where thoroughly undeserved? That is not where the problem lies. The issue is that the film volunteers no real justification for its message of forgiveness. The point really does seem to be that a deadbeat father’s existence and reappearance is enough effort, even if he always presents as more entitled than apologetic.
In fact, Ada Ọmọ Daddy is much more committed to its compassion for a thoroughly unsympathetic patriarch than it is to any actual character arc, so much so that it cooks up a sob story that is painful and unfortunate but is nothing more than a device employed to avoid or diminish the real issues.
No doubt, Ada Ọmọ Daddy has a lot of talk about reaping where one does not sow. Ifeanyi is reprimanded by both sides of the divide for shirking his parental responsibilities, missing his daughter’s firsts, and being intentionally unavailable when most needed.
Accusations are even levied: would he have shown up if the daughter he now wants had turned out to be a nuisance to society? But that is all it is: Talk. Talk that is supposed to convince the audience that the film is not picking a side, especially not the side of the deadbeat father.
And to appear to support that talk with action, Ada Ọmọ Daddy makes it about Pero’s choice. Pero wants to know her origin; she wants to get to the truth. Except, it is a painfully obvious sham, with Pero being consistently nudged towards her deadbeat birth father by the men who have been present in her life.
It is her fiancé who first suggests forgiveness and encourages her to give him a chance: “After all, you need to know a person before you can forgive him”. And her adoptive father adds his voice: “Everyone deserves a second chance”.
But Pero gives no regard to the advice of the mother who was personally involved in the darkest days of both their lives, or the aunt (played by Aigbe) who bore witness to those dark days―both of whom the film constantly attempts to villainise―because they kept such a secret from her all these years. As if her adoptive father is not guilty of the same sin.
It is tempting to interpret Ada Ọmọ Daddy as a dramatic critique of deadbeat culture, but its tone does not support such interpretation. At best, the film is purely a reflection of society, saying it as it is and not as some may prefer it to be. Yet, the way I see it, Ada Ọmọ Daddy reduces a societal plague to theatrics and plays out like a deadbeat’s fantasy.
In the days of Old and 2000s Nollywood, we might have excused this approach to gender politics in family values as a product of its time. But it has been the 2020s for some time now. Nollywood needs to be more aware of the part it plays in shaping society.
Rating: 2/5
(Ada Ọmọ Daddy premiered in Nigerian cinemas in December 2023. It is now streaming on Netflix and Circuits.)
Vivian Nneka Nwajiaku is a writer, film critic, TV lover, and occasional storyteller writing from Lagos. She has a master’s degree in law but spends most of her time reading about and discussing films and TV shows. She’s particularly concerned about what art has to say about society’s relationship with women. Connect with her on Twitter @Nneka_Viv