I wrote Africa's first Kava Original, now I’m ready to talk about it — screenwriter behind A Mama Deola Wedding Story

Brooks Eti-Inyene spent months turning Mama Deola, a character familiar to many of us from the 60-second skits we watch online, into someone who could carry a feature film.

Working alone on a story packed with characters, family and comedy, the screenwriter took on what she describes as one of the biggest projects of her career so far. Somewhere along the way, she also learned the film would become Africa's first Kava Original.

In this interview, she talks about the dual love story she fought to keep in the script, what she actually knew about the project while she was writing it, and why she believes Nigerian screenwriters, herself included, are long overdue for their flowers.

It has a special place in my heart because it's the first time I've written something with this many characters; the film is packed with bubbly personalities, and unlike a TV series, which is usually written by a team, I wrote this one alone.

I've been writing consistently for two years, but nothing this huge. It's also huge because I'm the first person to ever write a Kava Original; the very first one released was written by me. That's a big step in my career, and it makes me feel like I'm finally headed in the right direction.

Beneath the comedy, Mama Deola's story is really a story about love, and everybody loves love. I tried to present the realities of love rather than the fantasy of it, even though love always has a little delusion in it. The theme of forgiveness (estranged people finding their way back to each other), I treated those with a lot of tenderness because I care about it.

If you look closely, the two lead characters' love mattered more than the drama around them, and there's actually a second love story happening with the parents too. I hope people noticed that. I don't think love stories will ever go out of style.

Banjo and his wife. Originally, the film was only supposed to be about the young lovers, the son and his fiancée. But I asked myself: can these two find a way to bring their parents back together too?

The intention was to tell a dual love story, because when you're at a wedding, preparing for a marriage ceremony, you unconsciously reflect on your own love life. So the parents sit back and think about their own mistakes, how they rushed things, how they projected onto each other. That's something I really fought to keep in the film, and I hope people saw it.

To be honest, I didn't know. I think I found out after I had written that it was going to be a Kava Original. I don't think it was ever part of the initial conversations. The conversation I had was 'we want to do something great.' I was clear that it wasn't for YouTube after the first conversation; there were just hints here and there that it was for a bigger platform.

I didn't know until much later, as I started giving more and more drafts. When I found out, I didn't know how to react, honestly. I sit on my blessings long before I share them.

I've been in this industry long enough to know you can't let people's opinions of your work stop you from making the next thing. You take the criticism, do better, simple. Honestly, no, I don't read the comments, and it's not even a deliberate boycott; I'm just not inclined to.

I finished writing this in June; it was released in September. By then, I had already moved on to the next three. My first lecture in film school was that you have to release a story from your hands once it's done. Since Mama Deola, I've written three feature films and two TV shows. The reception, while appreciated, doesn't define what kind of writer I am.

That same detachment doesn’t extend to how she feels about the industry itself. When asked about the day-to-day reality of screenwriting in Nigeria, she says, "The reality is not getting paid enough. Screenwriters deserve a lot more money and a lot more recognition; we're central to every film but somehow always take the back seat." 

Part of the fix, she argues, has to come from writers themselves, as she urges her colleagues not to wait to be celebrated and to ask for what they’re worth. "I would never make peace with invisibility," she says. "You will not have a film without a writer... I'm a proud screenwriter whether people recognise me or not.”

But for Eti-Inyene, the question of who gets recognised in Nollywood is tied to a bigger question about where power in the industry is shifting. She believes that shift is already underway, and skit makers could be among the people best positioned to benefit from it.

Honestly, the future of Nollywood is in the hands of whoever has the money, and as we have seen, that gives skit makers a chance to play a bigger role in the industry. They already have the following, the star power, and their audiences are comfortable with simple, digestible stories, which makes it easy to convert that audience into a film audience.

We're already seeing our OGs act in skits, and skit makers become executive producers with their own channels; the two worlds are slowly merging. Is that a good thing? Maybe. It could employ a lot of people and level the playing field. But that's a whole other conversation.

The growing influence of skit makers is already evident in Nollywood, with several digital creators moving into acting, producing and mainstream entertainment. Broda Shaggi has appeared in Chief Daddy and Netflix's The Griot. Mr Macaroni starred in both Ayinla and Aníkúlápó. KieKie has featured in A Simple Lie and hosted major award shows. 

For Eti-Inyene, these developments point to an increasingly fluid relationship between online comedy and the film industry. Skit makers already have established audiences, while some have begun taking on roles behind the scenes as executive producers and channel owners.

Yes, there are. I'm scripting Akwa Ibom's state anniversary programme, co-writing on the upcoming Fragments for Africa Magic, and developing a short film of my own before the year runs out. There are so many things in the works.

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