“O, mother, mother! What have you done?” – Richard III
What came first: mothers or the varying archetypes of mothers in fiction? If fiction and reality symbiotically inform each other, then which ultimately creates the other? The question shall remain unanswerable, but the many archetypes of mothers and motherhood have long fascinated storytellers and audiences alike —the forlorn Mama in Buchi Emecheta’s “The Joys of Motherhood”, the despicable albeit rational Cersei Lannister in Game of Thrones, the classic Marge Simpson who coheres her chaotic family episodically, the grief-laden Yejide in Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀’s “Stay With Me”, or even the long-suffering yet steadfast Auntie Uju in Chimamanda Adichie’s “Americanah” who stitches together diasporic chaos with maternal grace. Motherhood is inextricable from the very quintessence of fiction because despite its universality, it is beholden to culture, geography, time, politics, anthropology.
Across the world , motherhood is regarded as the zenith of a woman’s purpose, eclipsing all her personal achievements and ambitions. This conservative belief has been further reinforced by the dominance of two Abrahamic religions and cultural inertia. How then does one draw the rich elements of a character necessary for fiction from this seemingly rigid archetype?
Who is afraid of Sola Sobowale?
Everyone.
She needs no introduction. Formidable. Tempestuous. An event. She consumes every room. The signature caterwaul to instill fear or emphasise her terror, the abnormal widening of her eyes to communicate frenetic perplexity. The film need not be of great quality and you aren’t required to like the approach to the craft, but Sola Sobowale is what you call a scene stealer, a stop-and-watch kind of actress, but it’s arguably excessive. She does it with intention, with a certain tempo. However, she’s a character actor — known mostly for “the Nigerian mother” trope and has interestingly been able to evolve the trope over the years.
We begin with Tade Ogidan’s Diamond Ring (1998); Sola Sobowale’s role as Mrs. Ijeoma Dike is a classic, a mother plagued by a nightmare as a consequence of a grave-robbing son, Chidi (Teju Babyface), becoming ensnared in supernatural forces. Her performance here is the commonplace wealthy tradeswoman who descends into immense despair, inconsolable and forlorn beyond reprieve. This archetype has become a staple in Nigerian cinema — the plight of the wailing mother, near-sacred, almost conferred a saintly status.
In retrospect, the role seems belaboured and rigid; Mrs. Dike is relegated to the position of being the emotional anchor of the film, an erratic tear-fountain only on screen for the pathos and understandable piteousness. Yes, given the plot of the film it would be apposite that she were relegated to this state of anguish but across the two-part film she is given nothing but that to work it —a painful, relentless monotony meant to illustrate that the venture of motherhood is reducible to the filmed crucifixion and a christ-like wailing for the cup to passeth over one.
Her role as Tinuade Coker in Kemi Adetiba’s The Wedding Party (2016) is a different beast — a two-headed beast to be exact, a stark contrast to the rigidity of Mrs Dike. Retaining her signature boisterousness and rambunctious mien, she plays the over-enthusiastic, fiercely protective mother-of-the-bride — the kind you inevitably find at a Lagos wedding; vain yet reasonable, status-conscious, flamboyant, bejewelled, will cut with a sharp razor you if you are a tardy caterer.
Her exasperating nature is punctuated with good intentions and love for family, a depiction running parallel with a millennial deconstruction of mothers and their ignored complexity. But she still straddles the line between independence and upholding gender stereotypes/roles. A derring-do of a woman still anchored to antiquated ideals. Compared to Mrs Dike, Mrs Coker, although dealt different cards, takes the bull by the horn when things go awry, never capitulating to the urge to wallow in wailing.
The definite evolution of Sola Sobowale as the prototypical Nigerian mother is crowned with a shift from the pliant mother or the typical overbearing Lagos to the ruthlessness of a matriarch. King of Boys (2018) marks a pivotal moment in Sobowale’s career and Nollywood’s exploration of power dynamics. As Eniola Salami, Sobowale deftly portrays a complex matriarch whose maternal instincts transcend domestic boundaries. She’s a mother to an empire, a city, and a kingdom forged through blood and loyalty. Sobowale’s performance is an unparalleled tour de force, evoking Shakespearean undertones à la Lady Macbeth’s ruthless ambition. The film brazenly subverts traditional motherhood tropes, revealing a more deepened exploration of a mother’s love intertwined with her lust for power. Power. That’s the distinction across the roles.
But as seen in Ada Omo Daddy (2025) — a film which, for its thematic pensiveness about parental abandonment and filial forgiveness, is a misfire- she seems to have regressed to the mean, settling upon the morass of the wealthy, benevolent, exuberant mother. And despite the quality of the film, she is comfortable here like Harry Dean Stanton or Burt Lancaster in their element. Meryl Streep of disruption if you will.
In the Nigerian-India Netflix series Postcards (2024), Sobowale delivers one of her more subtle performances, portraying a terminally ill mother estranged from her son. The film deviates from the stock histrionics associated with her belligerent screen persona and embraces the spacing of stillness, regret, and a slow-burning sensation of grief. When mother and son cross paths in India, there’s no melodramatic crescendo, just a running disquieting tension as old wounds refuse to heal. It’s a performance that reveals how much Sobowale can do when she’s not tasked with filling a room with furore. As a substitute, she fills it with silence. Her body becomes the text — frail, yearning, resistant.
Similarly, in Battle on Buka Street (2022), Sobowale assumes the role of a matriarch within a disputatious polygamous family, but her performance here serves as a pivot point between comic bravado and a slight non-maternal vulnerability. Unlike the direct villainy that often marks Nollywood depictions of polygamous homes, her character straddles humour, rivalry, and eventual reconciliation. The film allows Sobowale to flex her full range — from the overt flamboyance of the marketplace to the hushed dignity of private disappointment. It is here that she is not just a mother of children, but a mother of community, conflict, and ultimately compromise without relinquishing the salience of her individuality.
Given these evolutions, this might beg the question: Is Sola Sobowale just a character actor changing with the notion of what a mother on screen should be? A chameleon of character?
That’s immaterial.
She has simultaneously revolutionised and flattened the role, which is no small feat for an actress in Nollywood. Though it might present as abrasive and wearisome sometimes but there’s a goldilocks zone with her. Every so often, you see her on screen, ready to bellow, ready to wail and give her all. All on the stage. You see flickers of your mother somewhere there.
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