Kemi Adetiba’s ‘To Kill A Monkey’ is a narrative which, when deconstructed through the lens of Feminist Film Theory, becomes a powerful critique of patriarchal structures, gendered trauma, and the exploitation of women’s bodies by people who see illicit money as free-flowing water (as Oboz, acted by Bucci Franklin, piqued during one of his numerous delirious outbursts).
The movie follows Efe (William Benson), whose descent into crime is carved not merely as a personal failure but as a symptom of a broader socio-economic system that privileges male agency while simultaneously burdening it with unrealistic expectations exemplified by his maternal relations’ insistence that he give his late mother a so-called befitting burial that he cannot afford.
Yet, the true emotional weight of the movie is not in Efe’s journey, but in the women whose lives are shaped and later shattered by their associations with the three major male characters in the movie, notably Oboz, husband to Idia (Lillian Afegbai); Efe, husband to Nosa (Stella Damasus); and Teacher (Chidi Mokeme), who has Waffi girl Amanda Sparkles (Sunshine Rosman) on a leash, despite her grandstanding.
Amanda’s backstory is a brutal indictment of how poverty and patriarchy crisscross to rob young girls of the power and resources to fulfill their potential. Her sexual exploitation at 15, under the guise of familial obligation, is not just a personal tragedy but a societal failure to protect its weak and vulnerable.
Her transformation into a high-end courtesan is less a moral fall and more a radical reclaiming of power in a world that put a price on her body long before she had a say. Yet, at the end, her struggles remain futile before an unsparing, ruthless patriarchal system that takes no prisoners.
Efe’s daughter, Ivie (Teniola Aladese), embodies the widening gyre of trauma. Her relationship with Oboz, her father’s crime partner, is not just an act of rebellion but a desperate attempt to assert control in a world where she has been silenced through unending sexual exploitation by men who should protect her.
Unlike in a normal situation, there’s nothing inspiring about her pregnancy; instead, it becomes a symbol of generational pain, as also happened to her mother, leading to her (Ivie’s) birth and subsequent tumultuous life. Worse is the fact that, like an unwanted heirloom, Ivie will most likely pass the pain to her child, despite the mind-boggling amount of money that Oboz left at her disposal out of disdain.
The film also challenges the stereotype of male invincibility. Efe’s sexual exploitation by Madam Adunni (Constance Owoyomi) his restaurant boss, highlights male victimhood. Feminist Film Theory insists on dismantling binaries, and this scene does just that, showing that power and abuse are not gender-exclusive.
Efe’s wife, Nosa (Stella Damasus), is a particularly complex character, in my view. While the movie risks slandering her through the scene of infidelity, a feminist reading resists this simplistic framing. Instead, it interrogates why women are so often scapegoated for the failures of men.
Her “nagging” is not mere irritation; rather, it is the voice of a woman drowning in poverty, grief, and unmet expectations. The average female viewer can relate to her secret, bitter tears the night her stepdaughter Ivie was rescued from an abusive situation, constituting an additional mouth to feed in an already resource-challenged household.
Even Mrs. Ejiofor, the hospital worker who unknowingly launders money, is not spared. Her initial joy at the mysterious funds reflects the desperation of women who are often the hidden, unacknowledged economic backbone of their families, yet regularly forced to navigate moral grey zones for survival.
The film’s omniscient narration occasionally undermines the potential of its female characters, offering explanations where ambiguity might have empowered viewers to interpret for themselves. Yet, Adetiba’s bold storytelling, spanning eight intense episodes, succeeds in holding a mirror to a society where women are both victims and survivors, silenced and screaming, broken and unbreakable.
To ‘Kill A Monkey’ may not offer new answers, but it asks the right questions about gender, power, and the cost of survival.
I rate it 7/10 for its portrayal of the human condition, especially as it affects the women who may be caught in the web of things.
Credit: Adesola Ayo-Akerele
