Release Date: UK/International theatrical rollout: February 2026
Runtime: 93 minutes (1h 33min)
Rated: 12A (UK classification)
Production Companies: Element Pictures, Fatherland Productions, BBC Film, BFI, Crybaby
Producers: Rachel Dargavel & Funmbi Ogunbanwo
Cinematography: Jermaine Canute Bradley Edwards
Editing: Omar Guzmán Castro
Music/Composer: Duval Timothy & CJ Mirra
My Father’s Shadow (2025)
Director: Akinola Davies Jr.
Writer: Akinola Davies Jr. & Wale Davies
Cast: Ṣọpẹ́ Dìrísù, Chibuike Marvellous Egbo, Godwin Chiemerie Egbo, Efòn Wini
The first Nigerian film selected for Cannes in 2025, Akinola Davies Jr.’s directorial debut My Father’s Shadow presents a coming-of-age story centered on two young brothers, Remi (Chibuike Marvellous Egbo) and Aki (Godwin Chiemerie Egbo), living in Nigeria in 1993 during a presidential election crisis. The film places the boys at the forefront from the very beginning, establishing the perspective that guides us throughout its runtime. It isn’t until they unexpectedly reunite with their father, Folarin (Ṣọpẹ́ Dìrísù), that the narrative shifts into a direction that feels more emotionally complex and layered than initially anticipated.
Rather than foregrounding the political turmoil of the period outright, Davies Jr. chooses a more intimate approach, placing the audience in the passenger seat alongside the boys and their father, allowing the politics of the moment to seep organically into everyday life. Because the point of view is largely shaped by Remi and Aki, the film unfolds as a deeply sensory experience—one built on fragments of emotional memory rather than explicit political commentary.
As the story begins, the brothers essentially force their way back into their father’s life after what appears to be a prolonged absence. Their desperation to spend time with him oozes through the screen, until Folarin eventually relents and agrees to take them along on a day trip to Lagos, where he works. What follows is a deceptively simple journey that gradually reveals much deeper emotional and societal undercurrents.
Davies Jr. carefully constructs a world around this trio, inserting moments of adversity and fleeting glimpses of military presence and political tension, while choosing to focus more closely on Folarin’s role in his children’s lives during a period of national uncertainty. The film resists spectacle, opting instead to examine how large-scale political forces quietly shape personal relationships.
Because so much of what we see is filtered through a child’s perspective, there is a sense of curiosity and wonder that permeates the film. From a broken-down bus forcing them to continue on foot, to swimming at the beach and sharing street food together, these moments carry a lightness that feels fleeting. Yet Davies Jr. is careful to reveal how the weight of the outside world presses down on Folarin, illustrating how masculinity and fatherhood are inseparable from the political and economic realities surrounding them.
While the film builds toward a climactic and unsettling conclusion, it is filled with moments of familial intimacy between Folarin and his sons. Though it is clear the boys maintain an emotional connection to their father, much of their dialogue during this single day is shaped by his absence. Conversations drift toward brotherhood, their mother, and the financial strain that looms over the family—a strain inseparable from the state of the country itself.
One of the most pressing tensions throughout the film is financial instability. Folarin’s initial hesitation to bring his sons along stems not from disinterest, but from the burden he carries as a provider. Once they arrive at his workplace, it is revealed that he has come to collect six months’ worth of unpaid wages. The person responsible is not expected back until the evening, leaving the issue unresolved and hanging heavily over the day. This delay becomes the catalyst for their wanderings through Lagos. Even as Folarin finds joy in spending time with his children, the financial weight never fully lifts from his shoulders.
To situate this more clearly, Nigeria in the early 1990s had endured decades of alternating military regimes. By 1993, the military functioned as a central political authority, governing through control rather than democratic legitimacy. Civil liberties such as free speech, political organization, and freedom of the press were frequently restricted, and dissent was often met with suppression.
Set against this backdrop, the 1993 presidential election was widely seen as a potential turning point—an opportunity for democratic renewal. Within the film, the optimism and innocence of the children quietly reflect that hope. At various moments, Folarin speaks of a better future for his sons and for the youth who would inherit a more just society than the one he was raised in.
Yet the film exists in a kind of limbo, mirroring the uncertainty of the nation itself. While family dynamics are explored with warmth and nostalgia, the direction of the country—and of Folarin’s life—remains elusive. By the film’s conclusion, personal and political pressures collapse inward. Secrets come to light, tensions erupt, and the ending lands as both catastrophic and painfully grounded in reality.
Part of what makes this period so fraught is Nigeria’s economic contradiction at the time. Though the country was rich in oil resources, it was economically strained due to corruption, debt, and policy mismanagement under successive military governments. These conditions filtered down to everyday life, resulting in rising unemployment, inflation, shortages, limited public services, and a stark divide between political elites and civilians struggling to get by.
Nigeria gained independence from Britain in 1960, and by the time Folarin is attempting to raise his family, colonial rule had formally ended—though not cleanly. The systems, borders, and power structures left behind persisted, leaving civilians to grapple with their consequences. Davies Jr. confronts this legacy head-on, translating it into something intimate and accessible by filtering it through the eyes of children, while never losing sight of the heavy toll placed on adults trying to keep their families afloat.
We rarely witness political unrest directly; instead, we feel it in fragments—the pressure on Folarin to provide amid instability, the emotional distance created by economic stress and fear, and the generational trauma he tries desperately to shield his children from. These are not isolated struggles but symptoms of broader systems failing the families they were never designed to protect.
The world of My Father’s Shadow—rooted in the tumult of Nigeria’s 1993 democratic crisis—still feels strikingly familiar in the country today, where democratic fragility, economic strain, and ongoing security challenges continue to shape the rhythms of everyday life. Decades after military rule formally ended, many communities still navigate the long shadow of political instability, uneven economic growth, and institutions that struggle to earn public trust. The film’s historical setting therefore does not function as a distant backdrop, but as part of a lived continuum—one in which families carry the emotional and generational weight of national uncertainty, passing down memories of survival, resilience, and unfinished democratic promise.
Akinola Davies Jr.’s debut tackles an ongoing national wound, one that hits close to home for both him and his co-writer brother, Wale Davies. Framed through the eyes of siblings, the film captures not only the struggle of a nation, but the quiet desperation of a father trying to hold his family together amid forces far beyond his control. The portal into this world is infused with charm and nostalgia, yet never shies away from critique, revealing cracks of intimidation and authority enforced by military power.
Films like My Father’s Shadow reaffirm the inseparability of politics and art. They remind us that even in moments defined by hardship and fear, beauty persists—often in the smallest, most intimate exchanges. Being the first Nigerian film selected for Cannes is an achievement in itself, but the film also stands as a powerful example of transnational Nollywood filmmaking, blending Nigerian storytelling with UK production backing and signaling the growing visibility of African cinema beyond commercial genres and into global arthouse spaces. Ultimately, Davies Jr. and his brother craft a deeply personal reflection on childhood and memory, while confronting the enduring complications Nigerians continue to face today. It is both a tender portrait of a father and his sons, and a quietly urgent meditation on a homeland still reckoning with its past.