Akay Mason’s “Thinline” Dismisses Its own Male Sexual Assault Victim

Watching mainstream Nollywood films and TV series, as Nigerian film critics will attest, is a headache-inducing activity. Film critics watch Nollywood productions with painkillers closely. Ditto the audiences too. This has been the toxic relationship between Nigerian film critics and mainstream Nollywood films. The films reveal filmmakers’ disrespect for cinema and disinterest in the subject matter they explore. In certain contexts, the films’ thematic focus is scattered and confused, but craft and technical control allow for a passively enjoyable watch. In other contexts, the films’ thematic focus is connected and composed, but lacking craft and technical expertise. Akay Mason’s Thinline falls into the former. The film has an undeniable artistic and technical quality, but its empty-headed exploration of sexual assault makes for a distasteful watch. 

Written by Prisca Okeke, the film explores the story of Pastor Raymond (Uzor Arukwe), Damilola (Mercy Aigbe), his wife, and Annie (Uche Montana), a sex worker who sexually assaults him. Pastor Raymond, the archetypal new generation religious leader, leads a thriving church and hosts Instagram live sessions where he admonishes his viewers. Damilola, mostly in the background, carries the ambiance of someone who’s the architect of her husband’s financial and spiritual success. Annie is framed as a kleptomaniac, rebel, and biblical Jezebel. As a kleptomaniac, she steals Seyi (Ibrahim “Itele D Icon” Yekini) and Chief Adetola’s (Ebun Oloyede) jewelry and money. A rebel, she challenges Rukevwe (Jaiye Kuti) and the hotel’s management decision to question her legitimate access to their facility. As the biblical Jezebel, whom the film takes seriously, Annie is framed as a “home wrecker” and femme fatale. Thus, Annie’s singular purpose in the film is to use her sex appeal, which Idowu Adedapo’s camera emphasises,  to lure men into doom. And therein lies the narrative issues with Thinline. 

Annie sexually assaults Pastor Raymond and sets a chain reaction. For Raymond, it leads to a moral and spiritual dilemma that brings heaviness into his marriage. The assault allows Annie to manipulate and blackmail Raymond. At no point does the film acknowledge, either in passing or explicitly, Raymond’s sexual assault. Rather, the film, through its production and costume design, writing, and directorial choices, inconsistently gets obsessed with sketching Annie as a spiritual agent targeting Raymond. Even if Annie is one, Raymond remains a victim. This sexist framing blinded the film from acknowledging Raymond’s assault and its effect. 

Language, with its ability to legitimize and discriminate, matters. When Annie is repeatedly called a whore and any of its variants, the speakers discriminate against her and recognise a supposed moral failing of hers. When the police officers confidently describe Annie as Raymond’s girlfriend, it legitimizes their manipulative and violent relationship. The language choice explains Damilola’s violent act as being fueled by jealousy. This is another instance of the film’s dismissal of Raymond’s rape and assault. The film’s synopsis on IMDb and Netflix continues this pattern of ignoring Raymon’s assault. Pastor Raymon’s assault is infuriatingly described as a “secret” and “dangerous” affair. This narrative framing and language silence Raymond’s ability to articulate his assaults. This isn’t just a flimsy omission but an intentional erasure that continues a pattern of trivialising male sexual assault victims. 

This pattern exists in Kemi Adetiba’s To Kill A Monkey, the online conversation it motivated, and the societal response to male sexual assault victims. As Praise Okeoghene Vandeh argued in her essay about To Kill A Monkey,  “Efemini saw his assault as a means to an end; the abuse never registered.” Men are socialized to dismiss their assaults and trauma. Thus, it’s incredibly cruel that Thinline, as a film whose narrative is mostly tied around Raymond’s “cheating,” isn’t self-aware enough to recognise that he’s a victim. As Vandeh stated, “It is indeed true that men are the biggest beneficiaries of the patriarchy, but the privilege makes them oblivious to the noose it ties around their necks.”

A 2020 research by The Conversation showed that over 90% of reported rape victims in two major Nigerian newspapers were women. While not conclusive, the research is evidence of the social stigma male rape victims face in Nigerian society. Boys and men are and can be victims of sexual assault and violence. But, rather than legally confront their assaulters, like Raymond should have done, these boys and men are socialized to believe they are “lucky” to have been assaulted. When boys and men flag and report sexual assaults, their masculinity gets questioned. This is such a prevalent belief that up until 2020, the Nigerian constitution did not recognize men as victims of rape. Despite this new legislation, most male victims are still unwilling to speak out or seek justice. And films like Thinline continue the narrative that men can’t be raped or victims of unconsented sex.

For global audiences, Netflix and Amazon Prime are their entrance into Nollywood and its cinematic offerings. This makes Thinline’s existence on a global streaming platform further infuriating. It’s a shameful display of our filmmakers’ inability to think through social and cultural issues, especially one as pronounced as exploitative and violent sex. It’s 2025, and the level of moral and intellectual conversation in Nollywood production ought to have grown beyond beer parlor yarn and banger boy tweets. A level of nuance, critical engagement of moral, social, cultural, and religious issues should be aspired for in films. Cinema remains an audience-shaping medium. And Nigerian filmmakers have to bring this awareness into telling basic or grand stories with cement-solid depth and nuance.