Laraba and Balarabe Prove Some Lovers Don't Deserve a Second Chance

There’s a type of danger that doesn’t announce itself with red flags or raised voices. It knocks politely. It smiles softly. It reminds you of who you used to be before things went wrong. Laraba and Balarabe understands this danger intimately. 

In just 30 minutes, the film gently walks viewers back into a familiar emotional trap, and then asks, calmly: “So, what did we learn?”  What happens when the past returns not to apologise, but to renegotiate its relevance?

Beneath its restrained pacing and gentle visual language lies something far more unsettling: a study of emotional evasion, gendered patience, and the slow erosion of self-trust when someone who once broke you asks for another chance without accountability.

ALSO READ: 'Lace Relations' Is Changing Everything We Thought We Knew About Lace

A Love Rekindled, Or a Lesson Repeated

Laraba and Balarabe is a 30-minute emotional ambush disguised as a love story. A soft, quiet film that walks in gently, sits beside you, and then starts unpacking emotional baggage you didn’t agree to revisit. 

It is a story about rekindled love, or rather, the illusion of it and the unbearable familiarity of letting someone back into your life simply because they once belonged there.

At the centre of the film is Laraba, a young woman still nursing the bruises of a sudden breakup. There is unfinished business in her heart, unresolved questions, and that dangerous thing called hope. 

Enter Balarabe, the ex-boyfriend who disappears dramatically only to return unannounced, unrepentant, and fully convinced that time alone qualifies as an apology. 

He walks back into Laraba’s life with the confidence of a man who believes absence is character development.

The film captures that specific, almost universal moment where logic taps you on the shoulder, and you politely shove it aside because your heart says, “Just one more conversation.” 

What follows is the slow unravelling of why some people are better loved from a distance. The audience watches Laraba wrestle with herself, asking the questions many have asked before: Why did I open this door again? Why did I believe him? Why am I back here?

There’s an unspoken truth simmering beneath the story: keeping your ex “far, far away” is not immaturity. It is wisdom earned the hard way. Some people remain exactly where they were left, no matter how many chances you give them to evolve.

Meet Balarabe, CEO of Avoiding Accountability

Balarabe, unfortunately, is not interested in answers. If dodging accountability were a person, he would be wearing Balarabe’s face. He speaks fluent toxic-man lingo, delivering lines that feel painfully familiar:

“That’s not a fair question.”
“You’re trying to get me to say things that’ll validate your anger.”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re yelling.”

Smoke bombs. The film brilliantly exposes how calmness, when weaponised, becomes a tool for manipulation, how focusing on delivery instead of damage can force the bruised party into apologising for their pain rather than addressing the wound itself. 

Balarabe is that man: composed, evasive, emotionally slippery. A bloody piece of work.

ALSO READ: Reviewed: 'The Herd' Makes Insecurity Feels Uncomfortably Real

Technically Speaking…

Laraba and Balarabe is just as assured as its storytelling. The sound design and music are subtle and smooth, never intrusive, always supportive of the emotional beats. 

The transitions are thoughtful, the pacing intentional. Nothing feels rushed; nothing overstays its welcome.

The production design is quietly impressive, and spaces feel lived-in, intimate, and believable. The cinematography is soothing, with intentional colour choices and composed frames that allow the emotions to breathe. It is an easy film to watch, even when the subject matter is deeply uncomfortable. 

Why Should You Watch It?

Produced by Susan Pwajok and written and directed by Fatimah Gimsay, the film understands its assignment. It does not glamorise the past, nor does it demonise vulnerability. Instead, it holds a mirror up to that moment when love becomes a lesson and asks the audience to look honestly at what they see.

Above all, Laraba and Balarabe is less about romance and more about recognition. Recognition of patterns. Recognition of manipulation disguised as maturity.

Recognition that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is not ‘fall in love’ again, but walk away when history knocks like it never hurt you the first time.

Now, if you’re single, rise sister, place one hand on your chest, lift the other, and quietly repeat: I will learn how to leave men alone. Do that three times. 

Now, welcome to a new dispensation!

RECOMMENDED: 'The Herd' Didn’t Invent Insecurity, Why Are We Upset About It?