With My Father’s Shadow, the Davies brothers paint a moving, bittersweet picture of hope, longing, loss, and closure, one that is deeply personal but also lends itself to universal resonance.
By Vivian Nneka Nwajiaku
The year is 1993. Chief MKO Abiola has just won the June 12 election that is supposed to return Nigeria to a democracy. And two boys are home alone playing with hand-drawn wrestlers cut from paper when their absent father unexpectedly reemerges. Unable to wait for their mother’s return home, he spontaneously decides to take them with him to Lagos, where he hopes to collect four months’ worth of unpaid salaries from the factory where he works to send money home to his family.
This is the unassuming, straightforward story of My Father’s Shadow (2025), the debut feature from Nigerian-British filmmaker, Akinola Davies Jr., which he co-wrote with his brother, Wale Davies. Yet, for all the simplicity, this is a richly layered film that accomplishes multiple feats, undeniably drawn from a strong place of interiority but approached with open and welcoming arms.
My Father’s Shadow is an intimate semi-autobiographical tale of fatherhood, brotherhood, and a nation teetering on the brink. A juxtaposition of the social contract that binds a family and that which binds a country. A modern, fictional re-enactment of a history that does not much diverge from the present. And a sometimes blissful but sometimes devastating journey through memory, bonds, and loss.
In My Father’s Shadow, Akinola Davies Jr. captures that assuredness that comes with vivid memories of events that may or may not have happened, but also their vagueness and the duplicity of dreams, blending the physical and the supernatural as it naturally occurs in Nigerian reality. And mostly through the innocent, honest, and distinct perspectives of two children who really do think and talk like the children that they are.
Played eagerly by first-timers and real-life brothers, Chibuike Marvellous Egbo and Godwin Chiemerie Egbo, with raw performances but enjoyable results, Remi is the older brother keen to stamp his authority, while Akin (the director’s namesake, no less) is the somewhat defiant younger brother. Their banter is delicious, and they’re in almost perpetual conflict, even ideologically. Each one harbours a different reaction to their father’s absence and surprising return, but they both regard him with a potent mix of reverence, curiosity and fear, at least initially.
British-Nigerian actor, Ṣọpẹ́ Dìrísù, plays their father, Folarin, a force of nature. Just before he is introduced, something shifts in the atmosphere, and the natural environment reacts. To his sons, Folarin is larger than life, and the camera never forgets it either, often framing him as an imposing presence.
There is a physicality in the way Dìrísù carries himself that grounds him as the archetypal Nigerian father. But the screenplay allows him complexities and vulnerabilities of a depth that is rare on screen, and Dìrísù comfortably explores those nuances.
When Folarin sneaks a smile, or shares an honest interaction with his sons about the sacrifices he believes he has to make to provide for them, or struggles emotionally with the fears and secrets that he tries to protect them from, those tender moments are some of the brightest spots in the film. Scenes where they have the most fun and joy are also where they are most fragile, where they express sadness, grief and regrets.
Over the course of a single day that is equal parts satisfying and disquieting, Remi and Akin discover parts of their apparently popular father’s life that they have never been privy to (including a scarring but well-contrasted and unsurprising discovery involving a woman played revealingly by Uzoamaka Power). Folarin gets to learn a few things about his sons and their preferences. And family histories get passed down, although sometimes with overindulgence or frugality.
From brief roadside stops to longer episodes at grand locations like a beach or an amusement park, lessons on brotherhood are learned, but also on loss, memory, and immortalisation (just as the director himself is named after his late father, Remi is named after Folarin’s late brother). Remi and Akin may never fully know their father, but on that single memorable day, the distance between father and sons, and between the brothers, close up significantly.
The background is Lagos, a character in its own right. My Father’s Shadow takes the audience on a tour through the inquisitive and observant eyes of two boys in a big city where tranquility can abruptly turn into chaos without notice. Audiences familiar with Lagos know the Third Mainland Bridge and the National Theatre. But the Davies brothers have their sights on a wider audience, so Folarin becomes a tour guide for his sons, and the audience by extension, guiding them through a bustling city that is both new to them and fundamentally different from the serenity of their township home.
Capturing the infrastructure of 1993 Lagos in the 2020s is no easy job, especially for a film shot on location. Here, My Father’s Shadow runs into difficulty. Landmarks are their 2020s version; so are the famous Lagos public transport buses. To the knowing eye, it’s a slightly disconcerting picture that can hinder the nostalgia that My Father’s Shadow otherwise excels at, and it does excel at nostalgia, from attentive production design to Easter eggs that may not always be time-accurate but are still from the right decade and are exciting to catch.
Conveying the soul of Lagos is more perfectly achieved. Lagos is restless, even at its most serene. Lagos is full of life and entertainment, even in times of dread. Lagos is classed, diverse, and loudly religious. My Father’s Shadow mirrors all of that. The roads are so busy that the boys have to ask their father, “Where are they all going?” Bukas and bars are full.
Polo horses for the wealthy strut by on one road while a disabled person begs on another. Prayers are a public affair. And on a bridge, a preacher (a delightful cameo by Wale Davies) warns that there are only seven years left till the coming of the lord.
That religion would feature so strongly in a time of political strife is right on track for Nigeria, and My Father’s Shadow milks that fact in establishing its socio-political environment. Lagos was the country’s capital until less than two years earlier, and in My Father’s Shadow, the political pulse of the country is still so thickly felt in the mood of the city. As citizens discuss and debate amidst news reports of unrest, they wonder whether General Ibrahim Babangida (“IBB”), the military head of state, will actually cede power.
My Father’s Shadow is inspired by the true events of the annulment of the June 12, 1993 elections, so the audience knows that the election will be annulled. But Folarin has a uniquely heartrending reason to hope, and like many Lagosians of the time, he is confident that the transition to democracy will indeed happen.
“Change will come”, “Nigeria go better” become recurring mantras, repeated like prophecies, but for the audience, they serve as an unsettling reminder that the more things change, the more they remain the same.
Early in the film, Folarin and his sons board a bus to Lagos. En route, the passengers argue about politics and the Nigerian condition, as passengers on Nigerian buses are wont to do in such times, and the conversations might as well be from the 2020s. Is there merit to be found in military rule? How can the government deny that protesters were killed?
When the bus grinds to a halt midway into the journey because fuel has run out, a passenger declares that the problem with Nigeria is discipline. But when Folarin and his sons encounter a horde of Lagosians hustling for scarce fuel, the initial diagnosis begs reconsideration. Is discipline the only problem?
A Nigerian viewer need not go far from the cinema hall to have this message reiterated. During one viewing of My Father’s Shadow, the power went off twice. Is that simply a problem of indiscipline on the part of the cinema operators, or is it a failure of a government—a national father, so to speak—that is neither present nor able to provide necessities as basic as stable electricity thirty-two years after the events of My Father’s Shadow?
Beyond the looming chaos and despair, though, there is a perpetual shadow that hovers over the scenes. Between the birds circling in the sky (presumably vultures), Folarin’s mysterious nosebleeds that coincide with references to a tragedy, hazy flashbacks, and the suspicious reactions to Folarin’s presence from loved ones and even soldiers, there is always a sense of impending calamity, something even more fraught than the expected dangerous aftermath of the annulment.
Strategic scenes excellently foreshadow what is to come, including one definitive scene where the wisdom of an elderly man (Ayo Lijadu) with a stirring song makes it practically impossible to miss. And yet, when the other shoe finally drops—just as the political turmoil reaches a climax—it lands with a quiet force, effective but without fluff.
Those incredible, appropriately abrupt final moments (finality does tend to come in haste) might be fantastical for the uninitiated, but for audiences familiar with how casually the supernatural merges with the ordinary in cultural societies like Nigeria, including the Yoruba culture, which the film’s characters represent, it is even more poignant, without losing its air of wonder.
It is best to go into My Father’s Shadow curious and spoiler-free, so suffice to say that the third act encapsulates numerous stories that form part of the memories of very many Nigerians (and possibly even other Africans) but live outside the realms of the ordinary. Strange as it may seem to some, it is instantly recognisable, even triggering, to the culturally aware. And it is remarkable how much respect the Davies brothers have for their audience that they confidently avoid spoon-feeding without collapsing into incoherence or diminishing the story’s relevance to its wider audience.
With My Father’s Shadow, the Davies brothers paint a moving, bittersweet picture of hope, longing, loss, and closure, one that is deeply personal but also lends itself to universal resonance. It invites you to revisit, reconsider, and reimagine.
There are more questions than answers, especially with the more political elements. But that aligns with the film’s vision and its interrogation of memory, and it makes sense in light of the “child’s eye” view.
One lingering question is that of the value and cost of sacrifice. A father’s sacrifice for his family. A boy’s sacrifice (or refusal to sacrifice) for his brother. A man’s sacrifice for his country. As Folarin tells his older son, “Everything is sacrifice. You just have to pray you don’t sacrifice the wrong thing”.
Rating: 4.5/5
*My Father’s Shadow premiered in the Un Certain Regard section at Cannes Film Festival 2025 where it received the Caméra d’Or Special Mention for Best First Feature, subsequently screened at the Centrepiece Section of the Toronto International Film Festival in the same year, and had its global theatrical premiere in Nigeria on 19th September 2025. Also set to screen at the 2025 BFI London Film Festival.
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 watching, 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 X @Nneka_Viv