Ibrahim Yekini (Itele d icon) produced and, with Tope Adebayo, co-directed Késárí the King, the latest addition to the filmmaker’s Késárí franchise whose previous installments, Késárí 1&2, released in 2018, are available on YouTube. Following its release Késárí the King had a run in the Nigerian cinemas before its recent debut on Netflix. In the film, the titular character, Késárí, played by Itele himself, is a humanoid deity reincarnated as Ifadola, the son of an Ifa priest. He becomes known for his fiery temper, finds love with Amoke and matures into a fearsome gang leader that robs from the rich.
Early on, the film reveals a fictional society, Ira, that the bard-like narrator claims is suspended between heaven and earth. Ira is under the siege of notorious local champions, the Aronimoja duo played by Odunlade Adekola and Deyemi Okanlawon, seen exercising their oppressive authority in the compound of Aribidesi. But there’s nothing really transcendental about Ira. The people are mortals, like citizens of earth, and their other actions and emotions betray a similitude with humanity. Everything in sight, props and costume, rather points to a pre-modern Yoruba setting: warriors dressed in their local, charm-nourished regalias and armed with dane guns; use of horses for transportation; thatched huts as homes; townspeople dressed in aso oke and adire; conversations held in undiluted Yoruba.
With the invocation of Késárí and the narrator’s announcement of the human-deity’s sojourn among humans, the identity of Ira remains ambivalent. What, then, feels like a sustainable traditional background abruptly caves into a contemporary Nigerian setting where institutions like the police and the media are evident and both English and Yoruba are available as linguistic options for the manipulation of characters’ thoughts. Késárí, timeless and transmorphic, gets a taste of both worlds.
As much as it forms the crux of the narration, the filmmaker’s attempt at mixing myth and reality often holds back the story. The veracity of the police institution is questioned when they have official conversations that seem to validate their belief in the villagers’ account of the appearance of raw gold in Ifadowo’s (father to Ifadola) home and sudden disappearance of father and son. It becomes worse when the police boss, Folawiyo, in the company of junior colleagues, allowing personal belief in the supernatural trump professionalism, consults a medium to solve the Késárí menace. Shouldn’t the spiritual consultation have been done clandestinely, with the officers unofficially dressed? Then, there’s the scene where one of the police officers, having unknowingly exhausted the bullets in his rifle, is easily outsmarted by Sky (a member of Kesari’s gang). If art, at all times, is a mirror of the society from which it emanates, the conduct of the police in the film is, arguably, a miniature of the unprofessionalism of some officers of the Nigerian Police Force.
Késárí’s human-deity status poses a complex identity and moral conundrum. He is first established as a defender of the oppressed and a justice-seeking deity that can be summoned. Aribidesi calls on him to avenge the death of his daughter. After he becomes leader of the gang, which has Sky, Internet, Coaster and Water, he establishes his Robin Hood-esque authority. This reminds one of Lawrence Anini, a notable robber in Nigeria’s history who was believed to have often engaged in acts of philanthropy, distributing money taken from the rich to the poor, after successful robbery operations. However, in Késárí, there aren’t enough scenes to substantiate the acclaimed philanthropy of Késárí. It’s also not clear enough what motivates him to join the already notorious criminal group. His commitment to facilitating mischief and crime detracts from his reputation as a succor-providing deity. Two wrongs don’t make a right.
There are other disjointed and sparsely developed parts of the story, which leaves behind a trail of concerns. The love story of Ifadola and Amoke seems rushed, so it lacks chemistry and fails to excite. Amope’s first reunion with Ifadola, following her rise in social status, is implausible if one considers the tendency of women to be hypergamous. Also, Ifadowo’s disappearance, which follows a heated father-son argument, is problematic. Where does Ifadowo’s body go after disappearing? In the buildup to the resolution, too, there is cause for worry. If Késárí could expose Amope as an undercover, shouldn’t he have the spiritual foresight to prevent the downfall of his gang? Shouldn’t the body he inhabits have remained when Késárí is eventually expelled from earth?
Itele’s Késárí the King contributes to the standing of the actor as one who can be relied on to embody belligerent, quasi-heroic characters—a reputation that has been recently overemphasized in his roles as Ageshinkole in King of Thieves and Gbogunmi in Jagun Jagun, both epic films produced by Femi Adebayo. But as a filmmaker acclimatizing to the modern streaming and cinema era, Itele still has to prove himself as an icon. In his latest project, which is written by Olamide Olaoye, the storyline is weak, with many of its characters dispensable. An instance is the character of Coaster, played by Big Brother Naija ex-housemate Boma Akpore, a relatively new entrant in the Nigerian film industry. Ultimately, Késárí the King, which sets off as an epic, with a powerful lead, fails to materialize as one, as the unfolding events drift away from the appreciable exposition.
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