There is a problem with the way Nollywood depicts its domestic staff characters.
The broader issue is the treatment of workers in Nigeria’s informal sector. Service workers, particularly domestic staff, are often denied the full dignity deserving of human beings, largely because of the value – or lack thereof – placed on these forms of labour. In online spaces and news headlines, reports of abuse meted out to domestic staff surface regularly, yet meaningful public outrage tends to emerge only when such abuse is deemed monstrous. What, then, of the smaller, more casual, and far more frequent instances of degradation? These have become normalised, and our films have come to echo, rather than interrogate, this reality. One might argue that films merely mirror real life; however, that argument would be wholly convincing only if this aspect of our storytelling had not remained stagnant for years – a repetition that could be suggestive of deliberate emphasis rather than passive reflection.
(Click to Follow the What Kept Me Up channel on WhatsApp)
This topic is interrogated through the lens of art and film as powerful tools capable of challenging norms, imagining new worlds, and creating alternate visions.
It is within this context that the 2000 Ifeanyi Ikpoenyi film Final Whistle becomes instructive. When Richard (Saint Obi) returns from London and, within the first three minutes of the film, angrily refers to the house help, Fina (Rita Nwankwo), as “just a mere slave” for watching him and his mum exchange pleasantries, one could argue that an earlier animosity provokes the rudeness. But this defence collapses when two other housemaids later report that he slapped them over a minor offence. What emerges is not a momentary lapse in character, but a worldview, one in which domestic staff are beneath him, and therefore deserving of neither restraint nor consequence. Even when his mother gently corrects him, stating that a house help is not a slave, he shrugs and replies, “What difference does it make?” The narrative offers no meaningful challenge to this stance. The matter is left unresolved.
And perhaps that silence is the most revealing choice of all. Because if our films repeatedly refuse to answer the question of “what difference does it make?”, they quietly affirm that, for people like Fina, it makes none at all.
The silence that follows Richard’s question is not unique to Final Whistle. In Ikechukwu Onyeka’s 2008 audience hit, Corporate Maid, the madam of the house (played by Oge Okoye) approaches a sleeping woman in her twenties and rouses her by striking her buttocks with a slipper, screaming about food left unattended and burning on the stove. She then calls for another domestic staff member, Tombra, who is outside at the gate playing drafts with the gateman, Kasali. When she finds them, she refers to them, breezily and repeatedly, as idiots, doing so to their faces and without consequence. Tombra and Kasali (Afeez Oyetoro aka Saka and Charles Inojie), whose typecasting marks them as comic relief, receive these insults casually, even humorously. Their reactions may invite laughter, but the scene (common in several Nollywood films) reveals something more troubling: adult men and women, by virtue of the ‘lowly’ positions they occupy, are expected to absorb humiliation and accept being spoken to disrespectfully as a normal condition of their labour.
Abuse of power is rife, casual, and even normalised, and unfortunately, it reflects us. I am reminded of a passing scene I once witnessed: in front of a tailoring shop, a young woman who appeared to be in her twenties, likely an apprentice, was kneeling on the ground, presumably as punishment for arriving late to work. No one intervened. Passers-by slowed briefly, then continued on their way, as though this were an unremarkable sight. Perhaps it was.
Abuse of power in Nigeria is most visible and tolerated within the informal working sector, where labour exists largely outside regulation, contracts, or meaningful protection. In such spaces, authority is often exercised not merely through instruction, but through humiliation, verbal violence, and the constant reminder of replaceability. Apprentices, domestic staff, and other informal workers occupy some of the most vulnerable positions within this hierarchy. They are dependent on the goodwill of those who train or employ them, and rarely afforded recourse when mistreated. When Nollywood repeatedly frames such dynamics as comedic, inconsequential, or simply “how things are,” it helps to stabilize this reality. In doing so, it neither challenges viewers nor confronts perpetrators who may recognise their own behaviours on screen, allowing abuse to remain ordinary, justified, and undeserving of scrutiny.
If normalized abuse allows humiliation to pass unchallenged, normalized stereotypes allow mockery to go unquestioned. Nollywood’s domestic staff characters have long been shaped as silly by recurring caricatures. Gatemen were often portrayed as Hausa, maids from “Calabar,” identifiable by exaggerated accents, illiteracy, and comic ineptitude – consider Ime Bishop Okon (an expected culprit) as gateman in Desmond Elliot’s Jump and Pass (2014).
While tribal jibes have faded, ridicule remains. In some scenes, domestic staff are depicted as unable to understand colloquial expressions, like the viral “Can you give me some ice?” moment from Unexpected Love (2023). These portrayals invite condescension from their employers for the audience’s amusement rather than meaningful laughter. One might argue that, because such condescension mirrors real-life experiences, it is acceptable but this only holds if films frame it as commentary rather than reinforcing the status quo.
In Namaste Wahala (2021), Samuel Animashaun Perry plays a driver caught in a noisy exchange with the male lead’s mother. His comic persona, Broda Shaggi, amplifies the humour, relying on prior knowledge of his skits; to unfamiliar viewers, he simply appears foolish. And in Meeting Funmi’s Parents (2022), Perry again plays a driver, entertaining himself during a short airport drive with absurd remarks, like suggesting Funmi is with her lover for a green card. The couple laughs, and Funmi dismisses him as characteristically foolish.
Even veteran actors are not spared this treatment. In Chief Daddy, Nkem Owoh and Patience Ozokwor, both comedic powerhouses in their own right, played domestic staff. Their presence brought weight and skill, yet their fixture as staff seemingly constrained how they delivered. I assumed that casting such highly regarded actors in staff roles would lend those characters a certain dignity, instead, the writing defaulted to the usual silliness. The characters’ low-status roles appeared to dictate performance, highlighting how scripting and framing can subtly shape or even limit how actors inhabit these roles.
If Nollywood frequently scripts domestic staff as foolish or comic relief, it obscures the realities of their daily lives. In truth, these workers often run entire households – cooking, washing, driving, and caring for children, and make up a significant portion of the informal job market. Some are teenagers brought in from rural areas to live with families in the city, receiving little or no wages, with food, shelter, and clothing considered sufficient compensation. Older adults may earn small salaries, though these are often arbitrary, inconsistent, or entirely absent, leaving workers reliant on the goodwill of their employers. Yet, they all have hopes and ambitions: younger ones long for school, older ones for further education or better work. Rarely will anyone in this position behave foolishly for amusement, since maintaining respectability and avoiding conflict is often essential to their livelihood.
Class distinctions compound this vulnerability. In a society stratified into multiple rungs, those near the top can exercise power with little accountability, while those at the bottom navigate daily indignities. Nollywood’s portrayals reinforce this hierarchy. Every time a househelp or domestic staff is scripted as unserious or comic, it validates the lack of respect they already endure. Comedy becomes a shield for condescension, making humiliation appear ordinary and unremarkable.
But film does not have to remain this way. Nollywood is capable of portraying domestic staff as fully realised people, not caricatures. In Shanty Town (2023), though not focused on househelps, the labour of women on the margins is treated with gravity and empathy, showing that stories can recognise competence and dignity without sacrificing engagement. Domestic staff characters can still be funny, of course, but humour does not have to be cruel. The question is whether the joke uplifts or humiliates, whether it reveals personality or simply reinforces hierarchy. Film shapes taste and culture, and Nollywood has the power to choose which it reinforces.
Across the globe, storytellers have shown that domestic work can be portrayed with dignity while still engaging audiences. In S02E09 of the Prime Video series The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, Zelda (Matilda Szydagis), the housekeeper, scolds a table of people that includes her employers, who have spent the entire time arguing, causing the food she prepared to go cold. No belittling remarks like “Who do you think you’re speaking to?” is uttered. She is simply right, and the scene highlights the pride she takes in her work and the respect owed to those performing honest labour.
Having reimagined love and ambition, Nollywood can also reimagine labour. Storytellers have a responsibility to show domestic staff as more than punchlines; people whose work has value, whose dignity is non-negotiable, and whose social status or lack of wealth does not make them fair game for ridicule. How we portray them matters: when younger viewers see these characters belittled, it teaches them that some work, and the people who do it, are less worthy of respect.
Films can give these characters fair treatment within their worlds: respecting their work, acknowledging the labour they perform, and showing that competence and pride are part of who they are. This will reshape how we see, respect, and value the people whose labour quietly sustains our homes and communities every day, reminding us that dignity is owed, no matter the job.
Become a patron: To support our in-depth and critical coverage—become a Patron today!
Stay updated: Track your favourite movies and TV shows directly on your phone calendar.
