Broken Hallelujah, Broken System: Why Piracy Still Thrives

It started with a celebration. On April 18, 2025, beloved Nigerian actress Bimbo Ademoye premiered her latest film, Broken Hallelujah, on YouTube, greeted with applause, praise, and, within days, pirated copies. The film popped up on Ghanaian TV stations almost as quickly as it went live online. Furious, Ademoye took to social media, calling it what it was; theft. Her intellectual property was being aired without clearance let alone a licensing agreement. Then came the twist, in response,  a Ghanaian content creator defended the piracy, insisting the stations were simply offering “free publicity.” “They’re doing adverts for Nigeria,” she claimed.

Ademoye’s experience is only the latest example in a long, painful history. In fact, film piracy has shadowed Nollywood since its inception. As far back as 1992, Living in Bondage, a landmark Nollywood film, faced widespread piracy through unauthorized VHS copies. Even filmmaker Tunde Kelani suffered major losses to piracy, leading him to stage a symbolic protest walk to Alausa, Lagos, in 2015. Now, in 2025, one might expect that the culture of piracy would have declined, or at least slowed. Instead, it has evolved with time. Pirates no longer sell CDs in traffic anymore, they now run Telegram groups, torrent sites, and bootleg streaming platforms. Despite numerous articles, academic papers, and industry efforts concerted on combating piracy, the problem remains deeply embedded in creative industries. Still, the conversation must continue, at the very least, we owe filmmakers that much. And Bimbo Ademoye’s recent experience offers a timely opportunity to reignite this crucial discussion.

Piracy, as defined by The Economic Times, is the “unauthorized duplication of copyrighted content that is then sold at substantially lower prices in the grey market.” Ghanaian filmmaker Juliet Ibrahim calls it what it is; exploitation of creative labor. Piracy takes many forms, beyond illegal television broadcasts. It includes individuals recording films in cinemas and uploading them to free streaming sites, reducing revenue opportunities for filmmakers. Another common practice is the sharing of single streaming subscriptions among multiple users, diluting the paying subscriber base that platforms rely on. 

Until its shutdown two years ago, websites like NetNaija embodied perhaps the most damaging model of piracy, offering free downloads of premium content without any compensation to creators or distributors. These digital platforms could spread pirated films globally within hours of release, crippling a project’s vital early earnings. Each of these piracy methods imposes a steep economic cost on filmmakers, who invest resources into their projects, only to see their returns siphoned away through unauthorized distribution.

It’s no surprise that Ademoye initially sought a diplomatic resolution before considering legal action against the Ghanaian stations. Nigeria’s legal history offers little reassurance. In 2019, during a copyright dispute between Omoni Oboli and Jude Idada, the court ruled against Idada’s claim, missing a key opportunity to set a precedent for intellectual property protection in Nollywood. Ademoye’s situation could have been a turning point, another chance to challenge the system and demand accountability. But even if she had chosen to sue, would the law have held up? 

According to Section 15 of Nigeria’s Copyright Act, copyright is infringed when a person, without the permission of the copyright owner, performs any act reserved exclusively for the owner. This includes the unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or public performance of a work, as well as the importation of pirated copies into Nigeria, even if those copies were produced abroad. The framework exists. The problem, as with many Nigerian laws, isn’t the absence of legislation but a systemic lack of will to enforce it. And yet, letting public sentiment override the rule of law is a dangerous path. If the future of Nigeria’s creative industries is to be protected, the law must not only exist on paper, it must be tested, challenged, and upheld in court.

So why does piracy persist? It’s not simply a matter of people avoiding payment, more often, it’s about access. The phrase “content is king” doesn’t just speak to the power of creators; it also reflects the consistent demand from audiences. But when that demand meets limited distribution, piracy becomes less a moral failing and more a practical solution. Take Big Brother Naija, for example. Despite its massive diaspora following, the show streams exclusively on Showmax, a platform available only in Africa. This means fans in much of Europe are unable to access it legally. 

Even within Nigeria, audiences face similar barriers. Iwaju, Walt Disney’s first collaboration with an external animation studio streamed on Disney Plus, a platform not available in Nigeria. This left local fans with little choice but to turn to unauthorized sources. The irony shows when you consider that the animation is set in Lagos, Nigeria’s most dynamic and fast-paced city. Yet, this isn’t a case of viewers unwilling to pay. Many Nigerians already subscribe to platforms like Showmax, Netflix, and Prime Video. The problem lies in the disconnect between content creation and fragmented distribution rights, a system that often leaves audiences with no legitimate way to access the content they care about. In such cases, piracy becomes the only available path to culturally relevant entertainment.

Perhaps the most damaging form of film piracy stems from the mindset revealed in the Ghanaian content creator’s comment, where many remain willfully ignorant of the harm piracy causes. Pirated films—and even books—still circulate freely on various websites. There’s also a group that, unable to afford streaming services, resort to piracy out of necessity. While it’s easy to blame the worsening economy, piracy has long existed alongside creative industries, in good and bad times. The persistence of piracy likely lies at the intersection of limited accessibility, economic hardship, weak enforcement, and, perhaps most critically, a disconnect about the true value of creative work.

As Eric Taub aptly puts it, “No one expects to eliminate piracy.” Indeed, the piracy culture is a complex challenge that cannot be eradicated overnight. At best, it can be regulated, requiring stronger enforcement and government cooperation. However, real progress goes beyond regulations. It demands a shift in public perception. By reframing unauthorized distribution not as harmless “advertising” but as the theft of creative labor, we can foster a more supportive environment for filmmakers.

This shift hinges on continuous education about the impact piracy has on creators’ livelihoods, the quality of future productions, and the health of local creative industries. While consumers may be aware that each pirated view denies income to writers, directors, actors, and production teams, the ethical implications of their choices often remain secondary to convenience or access. However, by fostering respect for intellectual property and encouraging a deeper understanding of its value, the industry can pave the way for a more sustainable future. Total eradication of film piracy may remain elusive, but respect for creators’ work offers the most realistic path forward. This is what will ensure creators like Bimbo Ademoye can continue sharing their stories with audiences who truly value and protect their work.