The Performance Before the Performance
On one of those Saturdays at Freedom Park on Lagos Island, you might find yourself given an impromptu lesson in Nigerian theatre by two or more people unaware of the show they’re putting on, casting a spell on the often-unwilling audience. I was here to meet a real performer, though and dismissed my surroundings with that expectation. However, as my wait stretched on, I found myself pulled into the performance of a group around drinks and meat. There was poetry in their aggression. Two men from the group, middle-aged, out-of-shape, and chain-smoking, held my gaze the hardest—showmen who never rejected an audience, willing or not.
It seemed to me as they screamed and blustered their way through their conversation, that I was watching what some might call with some humour, typical Nigerians. But these men were actors whose only notable flaw was that their craft barely translated into any other contexts. It is unrealistic to think that this performance was the default state they occupied. There isn’t always an audience ten meters away that they had to play for. Yes, this park was their stage, but the rest of their lives when removed from flowing mead and impressed women, demanded more nuance. This is the case for them and indeed, all of us. There is always more nuance to be had.
The Unwitting Actor
In the way of all (good) things, they were ultimately interrupted by someone I hadn’t noticed until, in complete disregard to my furrowed annoyance, the interrupter strode confidently up to announce themselves. They stretched a hand, smiled, and apologised for being late. It dawned on me then that it was Brutus Richard in the flesh—animated and dissonant from every image I’d seen of him until that point, but Brutus nonetheless. I was disappointed to let my show end without the climax I’d expected from the unwitting actors, but it was great to finally meet someone whose work I admired in person. To me, we simply had to dive into conversation immediately, but…
“Brutus!” came a hearty call from the familiar table ten meters away. He muttered a quick apology in my direction and rushed over. I didn’t need the apology; his departure had only rekindled my interest in the performance he’d left behind, with his friends as my jesters. I settled back in my chair, enjoying the same show with a new factor. Brutus navigated the eruptive conversation with a practiced smile, playing off their energy—low when they went high, listening when they spoke, and interjecting when they were stuck. He was acting right there and then. As their conversation veered personal, I let my ears rest and my mind wander.
The Caricature of Acting
The truth is, acting often mirrors the exaggerated mannerisms of a people. What a society is, the actor either embodies or rejects, but never fully escapes. Take Hollywood’s portrayal of the American man throughout the 20th century—carefully crafted, calculated, yet rooted in an understanding of American emotions and aspirations, as well as the mannerisms it aspired to. This led to the image of the foolish ruffian of 1920s Chicago, portrayed as a more intriguing counterpart to the gentleman of the British House of Lords. The ruffian, with his cooler American accent and tolerance for bad tea, became a romanticized figure of contradictions. He was tough yet pliant, brave yet moderate, philanthropic yet street-smart, effortlessly flirtatious yet gloriously loveless, unabashedly horny yet saintly, well-received yet reticent. This ideal despite its obvious naivete, has arguably formed the basis of the leading man in Hollywood, genre and period regardless.
We can recognise this phenomenon for what it is: a caricature – even at its most tasteful. Now, it is not necessarily distasteful when a performance draws on caricature. Clint Eastwood’s instructive caricatures of the American West man, for instance, have made his career. However, for peak performance, nuance is essential. Now, when we turn to Nollywood, the parallels to caricature are undeniable. The industry is steeped in caricature, with the “ridiculously obvious” often passing as understated acting. Range is an actor playing themselves in a thousand movies, and an actor who doesn’t raise their voice is considered a master of introspective performance– a guru in the sacred practice of reacting.
Freedom Park’s Creative Zone
Brutus wraps up the affair and takes me on a hasty tour of the park’s spirit. He starts by establishing his expertise: “It’s been a while since I’ve been here. About six months.” Then, he delivers the scoop: “But I usually hang out here. It’s a creative zone.” Really? “Yeah, it’s Freedom Park. Almost everyone here is a creative.” I wasn’t sure how to tell him, as I surveyed the weed sellers and users scattered around, that I highly doubted any artistic gatherings were happening, so I nodded along weakly.
It was now my turn to take the lead, relying on my usual trick of pointing out an obvious artistic connection. With writers and directors, this usually came easy, but here I was with Brutus—an actor full of joie de vivre and me, a writer as uninspired as a forgotten oven. So, I focused instead on our differences: his dyed-grey hair and beard—what had inspired the look? “This is Brutus na. He’s an active person. He likes changing his look,” interjected Nala, the amiable “creative stylist” that Brutus had in tow. Our protagonist smiled, clearly pleased with Nala’s summation. I wondered if his spontaneous nature affected his choice of projects. I hadn’t really considered it before. The truth was, I had watched little of his work—just a few excellent short films marking the progression of a storied career, which I deliberately kept to. I had him pegged as a vanguard of the new school of conscious Nigerian filmmakers. I assumed he carefully considered each script before saying yes. But Brutus summarily destroys that binary foolishness with a slight, self-assured laugh: “I do what comes to my table.”
A Commitment to Conscious Stories
This bit threw me off a bit. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if there was a hint of whimsy behind his answers. Was he truly that pragmatic about his work? I suppose there’s no medicine for it. Nigerian film, after all, thrives on volume, and anyone working in its halls knows the pressure to keep going—pay is never enough. Actors, especially, are keenly aware of how rapidly the industry changes, often sacrificing the ethics and talent they bring. Still, it would be unfair to reduce his project choices to mere economics—this would be unworthy of any artist. Brutus, however, provides a more sentimental foundation for his work. “For me, it’s really about what you can do with the character to elevate it. I think most importantly, I like to do conscious stories. Long before I became an actor, I used to watch a lot of films and shows on TV, and they were quite educative. I wanted to be involved in stories that impacted life.” He often refers to these formative years, describing those films as companions to his moralist ethos throughout our conversation.
Brutus Richard’s Early Years
I realized we had sped through the interview much faster than I’d intended for what was supposed to be a slow-burn conversation. But I understood that being with Brutus meant moving at his pace—quick and powerful. He elaborated when I asked, but skipped over many of the usual conventions. Perhaps I, too, had fallen into the trap of conventionality, seeking a structured rhythm where none existed. Thankfully, Brutus had provided an off-ramp by mentioning his early years.
I asked about his roots. “I’m from Akwa-Ibom. Eket, to be precise. It’s an important oil-producing area in Akwa Ibom.” Did he grow up there?
“No. I was born in the old Cross River state before Akwa Ibom was carved out. I lived in the Municipality. We only moved when Akwa Ibom was formed in 1987.”
What was it like?
“I have fond memories. It was a place where kids were always interacting with each other and the world around them. That’s when I knew I was artistic. I was a child presenter, part of the drama group, and I read a lot because my older brother did. He also watched a lot of films, and I did too because I really admired him. Guy, do you know we’d go under a staircase and make a TV out of carton?”
No, I did not.
“We’d light a candle and place it under the TV we built, using it to project images of animals, people, whatever we carved onto the wall. We just told stories.”
He delivered this last line with the nostalgia of a billion old men, and I couldn’t help but feel a touch of jealousy as I imagined kids huddled around a crude camera obscura, in the heat of any available dark place. I grew up in the twilight years of the era when little kids interacted with the material world in an almost exclusively tactile manner. You touched the world. You felt its touch. You spat and it slapped you right back.
But those streets, once full of children, have been taken over and emptied by social forces beyond our control. And it was in that moment that I thought about the decline of the sources of cinematic imagination for Nigerian children. Our film industry didn’t inspire the way Brutus’ generation had been inspired. Acting was a major part of that.
Children watching films don’t care much for angles, lenses, or colour theory—they care mostly for the story and the actors that portray the characters within it. Ergo, the actor for a child is the vehicle to the story and way, way beyond.
These early creative beginnings, however, didn’t influence his immediate path. “This was a time when your whole life was already planned for you by your parents. They wanted you to pursue professions with more security.” I ask him, tongue-in-cheek, if there’s any security in film, and he retorts simply, “No.” He continues his earlier diatribe: “My mom was a nurse and my dad was an engineer, so I studied Physics at the University of Calabar.”
I mention that the university used to have one of the best theatre programs in the country and probably still does. He smiles knowingly and says, “I was always there. My course mates would always ask me what I was doing in the sciences when it was obvious the arts were my true calling.”
This was a refrain I knew well. Having studied theatre arts at a Nigerian university myself, I was familiar with the stories of students stuck in prestigious programs they absolutely hated. The only thing they gained from the drudgery was the misplaced superiority of studying something “serious,” unlike those of us in the arts.
I tell Brutus I’m happy he found his place in the theatre eventually. After all, it’s a place for everyone.
Making The Artist’s Lagos Move
If anywhere in Nigeria is emblematic of the theatre, it is Lagos—the hedonistic, cosmopolitan slice of sand and lagoon that Brutus had to move to for access to the arts on his own terms. “I’ve always been a bit of a rebel. I would come for holidays in Lagos to spend time with extended family. That opened my world. Here, the consciousness was much more liberal. It was cagey, though, because you were aware of the consequences. I was coming from Akwa Ibom, where there was no judgment but a lot more direction. This is where I started to get really interested in film.”
I imagine the Lagos Brutus saw in those early days. For all its warts today, Lagos was even more hellish then, if we consider its modern history in segments. The 80s and 90s were the wild west of Nigeria’s struggle with austerity, military dictatorship, and a decaying political system. Nowhere was this rot more evident than in Lagos, which wasn’t just the most populous state and its commercial nerve center, but also its political capital for much of that time. Everyone and their mothers, like Brutus in the 90s, came to have a savage grab at Lagos’ essence. As can be expected, the Lagos dream is like many dreams—unattainable, ever-changing, and always just out of reach.
Brutus Richard: The Pimp
Brutus’ first short film, Bariga Sugar, explores this dream and its destruction. Directed by 2024 AFRIFF Best Director winner Ifeoma Chukwuogo (Phoenix Fury), the story focuses on the relationship between two children who find love in the purity of their friendship, while their mothers work in one of the brothel communes scattered throughout Lagos. Brutus plays a pimp. “Ifeoma is an artist’s director. She takes her time guiding you to the story. I never hesitate when it’s a project of hers.”
And I can see why. Apart from the young boy who plays one-half of the protagonists, Brutus’ was the only male character of any significance, and he made a memorable impact with his brief screen time. He added variance to a role that is often reduced to melodrama—an archetype seen everywhere from Nigeria to beyond. His character’s genial laughter, as he navigated the niceties that precede his dirty business, is a sharp reminder of what Lagos has been—and for many people, still is.
Brutus Richard: The Father
I pivoted to his work on Tì ẹ Ńbọ̀, where he played the father of the main character—a boy struggling with the everyday challenges of being different. Ergo, another visual exploration of inclusivity. Directed by Chinazaekpere Chukwu, the film tells the story of a queer youth’s search for familial acceptance, contributing meaningfully to the conversation about conscience in contemporary Nigerian society, particularly regarding the treatment of sexual minorities.
“We always knew of these things when we were growing up. We knew about them through whispers because older people thought they needed to protect us, but we knew. Sometimes, you stumbled on a family secret and had to confront it. Tì ẹ Ńbọ̀ does that. It confronts them.” While he didn’t say it outright, there was an implication that the story resonated with him personally. He had always known about people in that community and understood the cruelty of the taboo surrounding them.
“I haven’t experienced what it means to walk in a queer person’s shoes, but actors have to be empathetic,” Brutus continued. “I thought to myself while preparing for the project, ‘Why would anybody choose to be queer?’” I nodded in understanding, and we moved on, but I sensed Brutus shared my conviction that being queer isn’t a choice, nor does it matter. What mattered was that these conversations needed to happen.
We begin discussing acting and its nature in Nigeria, and a small part of me, having come into this interview with the hope of seeing some edge from Brutus, angles the conversation deliberately beyond industry niceties. This topic was my best chance to push for something more raw. I figured at some point, he had to break character and give me something headline-worthy. We start slowly, talking about the more untamable inanities of craft and its place in Nigeria. He was very clear on what an actor ultimately is. “An actor is someone who is committed to change.”
This takes me aback—not just because it’s brief and incisive, but because of how much weight it carries. In essence, acting is for those willing to shapeshift again and again to tell a story. Acting is for those who will obsessively bend mind, matter and sinew to conform to new realities. This is the opposite of acting in Nigeria, where for decades, a lack of resources and opportunities meant actors often went entire careers playing one character without realizing it.
I ask him who exemplifies this ability to change, and he rattles off a list: “Denzel. Damon. Mofe-Damijo. Edochie. I love these guys for their range.” As he delivers this mini-lecture on versatility in acting, it strikes me how much esteem he holds for the craft. For someone so technically sound, why was he still so unheralded? Why hadn’t the big money come to slap his face on a haymaker? Why do good actors have to wait outside the door for that one actor (and there are many such) to stink up their tenth streamer’s money-waster of the month?
I suspect it’s the lack of imagination and incompetence on the part of Nigerian producers and production houses. Brutus agrees but he curiously has more flak for the scripts: “The scripts are not diverse. Nigerian actors are typecast or expected to play stereotypical roles, but there’s a growing movement toward more nuanced, complex character embodiment now.” Just as I’m about to tell him that the type of scripts that get made largely depends on producers, he cuts me off, his even-keeled tone shifting slightly: “I’m sorry to say, but Nigerian producers are sleeping on my range.” I promptly agree.
In many ways, Nollywood is an industry of the asleep. There’s always something we play dead to. Some talent we’re ignoring. Some wave we should be on that we invariably scorn.
Brutus Richard: The Muse
We shift to Kagho Idhebor and his AMVCA-winning short film Broken Mask. I offer my congratulations before allowing Brutus to dive into the work and its director. “Idhebor is my guy. I call him my own Scorsese. He’s one of those directors who tries to break me out of stereotypes. He’s always experimenting with me, and Broken Mask was one of those experiments. He’s willing to try crazy things with me, and I’m willing to go the length with him.”
Throughout our conversation, I deliberately avoided putting the burden of explanation or defense of a film on Brutus. Instead, I wanted to focus on how working on that set, and going to bat for a director like Idhebor, made Brutus feel as an individual. In my view, that would offer the clearest picture of the kind of great people involved in Nollywood. And if you listened to Brutus, Nollywood needed more great people like Idhebor. Broken Mask itself carries significant artistic merit—a surrealist piece about a sculptor and father whose view introduces us to the dynamics of child sexual abuse and its effects on families. It shows how adults, too immersed in their own lives, fail to notice the patterns of abuse, ultimately failing to protect their children.
“In Broken Mask, I played the role of a father. Before landing the role, there was some skepticism from mutual friends and production crew members about whether I could play it, considering what I’d been doing at the time in 2021, when the film was shot. But Kagho insisted on me playing the role,” Brutus revealed.
I imagine it must have been affirming to be seen, appreciated, and believed in so strongly. Oftentimes, in Nigerian film and everywhere else, actors have to embody so many roles on set that it’s difficult to truly be seen when the camera isn’t rolling. To be chosen as a human, not just a piece of flesh to be molded with makeup, must feel gratifying.
“I’m happy that all the work has paid off, but I have to say it’s the toughest project I’ve ever done in my career.” Peculiar. Was it the tough subject matter?
“It was a lot of things, actually. From the pre-production phase. There was a time we were supposed to shoot, and the shoot was moved multiple times, but I had to keep the look. I ultimately had to reject some projects because of that.” I thought back to the work I’d seen Brutus in and Broken Mask, and I must admit I didn’t quite grasp the “look” Brutus referred to. To me, there wasn’t much variance between his look in that film and the other stuff I’d seen him in, but I must admit to being completely ignorant as to how Brutus sees himself, and even more so, Kagho’s exact vision.
“I remember on set, I’d try to socialize with the other actors and the crew between takes, but Kagho wouldn’t have it. He’d come to me and insist I stay in character because my character was a man who had just discovered his daughter had been sexually abused. He did this every single time, and I just had to abide by it.”
Ultimately, this was an uplifting anecdote about how one friend fueled the creative fire in another, but it also led me to discuss the problems with how actors are treated in the industry.
Industry Musings
“We need to have honest conversations about the state of the industry,” Brutus said. “I believe my colleagues would want to do one or two projects for the year and just travel for the rest of it. It’d be nice to not worry about the rest of the year because royalties accrued to you. Unfortunately, the gatekeepers are very greedy.” I empathized with his frustration. Was I not, too, a lowly worker in the industry?
This wasn’t just a rant about remuneration—it was about dignity in the workplace. “First and foremost, let’s forget that I’m an actor. Humanity should always come first. Actors can’t thrive in an environment that doesn’t even provide the basic necessities. Where I’m kept, how much you’re concerned about my welfare, and the quality of that welfare. Some producers act like infallible gods, and that just turns you off.”
He paused, catching himself. “You know, it’s hard to leave your family for weeks or months for something that isn’t even fun sometimes. And the money is never enough. You’re not treated fairly. You don’t have royalties. It’s not fun.”
I was moved. Family time is hard to sacrifice, yet many in this industry do it day in and day out—for what? At the risk of sounding like a broken record, Nigerian producers simply need to be better at ensuring that everyone goes home dignified and satisfied with the day’s work.
I ask him how an unappreciated actor like him has managed to hold fast in this industry. His secret? Simply doing the work and waiting for what’s rightfully his. “I think my path is divinely orchestrated. I just have this belief in myself and in my journey. There’s a higher being ordering my steps.”
I ask for an example of this divine guidance. “I’ll give you two.” Generous man, this Brutus. I encourage him to continue.
“When they started AMBO (Amstel Malta Box Office) in 2005, I auditioned for the first season, but I wasn’t picked. That really hurt, but I tried again and again until I was selected. That was what really changed my career.” I shake my head ruefully at another gem lost in the Amstel Malta Box Office. Whatever happened to it? Where did it go?
He continues with the second instance. “I did Rattlesnake! I remember watching it as a teenager and telling myself that if the film was ever remade, I would love to be a part of it. Fast forward to 2020, and I auditioned for it. I got a rejection email. That period, along with the disappointment from AMBO, was one of the toughest of my career. I wasn’t myself for a long time and I became depressed. But as fate would have it, they called me for a meeting with the director for a character I hadn’t even auditioned for, and the rest is history.”
He tells this story with the sense that it wasn’t ordinary, but to me, it felt like the culmination of years of hard work—the dreams of a young boy coming to fruition as a man. That was incredibly touching.
Brutus Richard: The Pastor
For Brutus, there’s a spiritual dimension to every step of his career, and it seemed fitting to discuss what I consider his magnum opus: Michael Omonua’s Rehearsal, a short film that centres, mocks and tugs at religion in Nigeria. I ask him about the film’s process.
“The story of Rehearsal is about some people staging a miracle. I played the role of the healer—just embodied the character of most pastors or would-be men of God as we see them in real life.”
This is where I get my only disappointment of the day. It’s clear that Brutus doesn’t remember much about the film despite the beautiful work he did. He ultimately says very little. Granted, it was shot in 2021, and time has a way of making even recent memories feel distant. Omonua, too, wasn’t the most animated director. He wasn’t the type to bark or snark, nor did he work himself into a frenzy. “Mike doesn’t speak much, but he has a clear vision of what he wants. It was eye-opening working with him. He wasn’t like any other director I’ve worked with. He was cold and detached—almost like an observer on set.”
This meant that it was a fuss-less and brisk affair that while memorable, had no infamous altercations or mishaps to mark it as a core memory in the mind. Brutus was used to being part of notable auteur projects—from C.J. ‘Fiery’ Obasi’s early works to Oriahi’s The Weekend—so perhaps Rehearsal didn’t leave the same impression on him as it did on me.
But I had a bigger theory. He doesn’t remember much about Rehearsal because he simply can’t. The memory, no matter how seminal, is buried in thousands of hours spent on sets, moving between them, negotiating with multiple sets, and recuperating from the fatigue of countless projects. I don’t think it’s a healthy industry for the arts when professionals work so much that they lose the joy of memory.
I was bringing it home now, so I tell him about his impact on the industry today. I mention that kids in film school pass clips of his work in Rehearsal to each other as a lesson in understated performance. I tell him that his style, which makes things appear so natural, seemed antithetical to the Nigerian acting spirit before him and others like him. He immediately falls into a shyness I hadn’t expected at all.
“Come off it, guy. When I hear people talk about understudying me, I don’t know what to say. What have I done to make you understudy me? I’m not trying to be modest, but I don’t think I’ve done anything extra. I haven’t done anything that wows me. As a broader point, I tell myself and I tell others: ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’”
I won’t begrudge a man for the lofty standards he’s set for himself. Wouldn’t many argue, with some merit, that one of the biggest pitfalls in Nigeria’s industry is the sycophancy that reigns? The constant praise that lulls artists—actors, in particular—into a false sense of arrival. They get there, reach a stagnant place, and never grow past the comfort of it. But Brutus, at least in appearance, was determined to buck that trend. Maybe it wasn’t just appearances.
“I remember reaching out to Mike to play the lead in Rehearsal, and he requested a tape. I didn’t like that, but I had to remind myself this was the bread and butter of an actor’s work. This was our audition. I called myself to order. Can’t ever feel too big.” He walked the talk, sent the tape, and got the role.
“I’m still experimenting. I’m open to learning. Still growing.” And again, he says it: “You guys haven’t seen anything.”
The darkening sky reminds me, with some rudeness, that I came here by public transport and need to get a move on. But I felt I’d asked enough and heard enough. I wrapped up the affair with a grateful smile to Nala and a firm handshake to Brutus.
The Road Ahead
As I return to base, I carve out a spot in the corner of the crowded bus, deep in thought about what acting has become today and where it might go, sooner or later. For me, the issue goes beyond just a reflection on the lost spiritual essence of our acting—it’s much clearer than that. Acting in Nigeria suffers from overwork and an overwhelming strain on both the mental and physical capacities of an actor. This is first and foremost an economic problem, and a spiritual problem last. There are no easy answers to economic challenges, so I will focus on the spiritual aspect.
Where do we go from here—those of us who seek an alternative in the age of the YouTube filmmaker? Those of us who long for the nuance of action and the deep contextualization of a character’s place in space? The more condescending might suggest we look to the West, where Strasberg’s naturalistic acting has been distorted into a display of the lifeless and emotionless actor. The more obnoxious Letterboxd elitist might prefer we turn to the East, but don’t be deceived: such a person has only seen old Hong Kong love films, where lovers are also cuckolds—and little else.
Naturally, in these broad film cultures, there are plenty of exceptions to the prevailing acting creed. Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall bears witness, and Boon Jong Ho’s low-kinetic wonders keep the fires burning, but they are inadequate in the Nigerian context because, well, they are not—and never will be—Nigerian.
I’m skeptical that foreign solutions will lead us back to a chase for authenticity. Perhaps Brutus has provided the best variation of the “Nigerian solution” for now. “I want us to do more nuanced pieces. Write more interesting characters. Villains with romance. Action with soft sides. Explore every aspect. We need more horror. Nigerian horror. More biopics. We need to talk about our own history. I’m so sold on our own history. Dick Tiger. Innocent Egbunike. Herbert Macaulay. Our own heroes.”
I suspected at the time that he was really just listing characters he’d love to play. I told him as much. In response, he smiled that familiar smile, and I hope you, too, smile at the confidence of this brave man.
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