If anyone has truly lived in Nigerian television’s engine room, it is Fatimah Binta Gimsay. She has moved through nearly every layer of the industry: from her early days of carrying out production tasks behind the scenes to becoming one of the more distinctive voices today. She started out as a writer’s assistant, learning the rhythms of storytelling in real time and absorbing the pressures and pace of daily TV from up close.
Over the years, she transitioned into writing full-time, contributing to some of the country’s most widely watched telenovelas and dramas. Yet, Gimsay didn’t settle into the comfort of network television. She built her own production avenue through Hello July Films, a space where she could experiment on her own terms. Whether she’s exploring tenderness or the insecurities that sit beneath everyday decisions, her work shows a desire to treat small stories with the same seriousness.
Gimsay represents a generation of filmmakers who understand the commercial and personal sides of storytelling. Her latest project, Laraba and Balarabe, continues in that direction. A young-adult short film about heartbreak and the complicated ways people try to mend themselves. Culture Custodian spoke to Gimsay, about her new film, and the realities of being a young Nigerian filmmaker.
What was the seed of Laraba and Balarabe? Was there a specific moment or observation that made you feel you had to tell this story?
I always like to put a disclaimer out there: Laraba and Balarabe are not a personal story. People keep assuming it is because so many viewers see themselves in Laraba, but it didn’t come from my life. It actually started as one random idea: What would happen if two exes had to spend a day together? That was it. I told my creative partner, Susan, and we both liked the angle, especially because we had just finished Lowkey Adults and were looking to do more young-adult stories. Exes are such a sensitive topic for young people, especially in Lagos. Still, after that first conversation, I dropped the idea for a while.
Then one day, Susan brought it up again. So I sat down to think about it properly. Then it slowly became this very deep, hurtful story of someone who had to realize that she had been in a relationship or on her own.
Can you talk to me about how you got into screenwriting, directing, and producing all at once?
So for Lowkey Adults, I actually co-directed because there was no way I could handle everything myself. I always say one person can’t wear all the hats, even if the story comes from you. With Laraba and Balarabe, it was smaller than Lowkey Adults, so I could take on more, but it still wasn’t “easy.” This was my first time getting a full producer credit, and combining that with directing was a lot. I don’t honestly recommend it for everyone.
There’s this internal clash you have when you’re both producer and director. The producer in you is watching the clock; the crew has to go, daylight is fading, and time is money. But the director in you is like, “No, we need to get this scene right.” Normally, that tension happens between two different people, but I was arguing with myself. It’s funny but also stressful. It was hectic, absolutely, but we pulled through. And honestly, thank God it was a short project. If it were any longer, I don’t know how many versions of myself I’d have fought with.
There’s a repertory quality to your work, familiar faces across your films. How do those sustained collaborations shape the work differently from starting fresh each time?
It’s really a healthy mix of both. I love working with people I already know. But at the same time, I don’t close myself off to new people. For example, Lowkey Adults was my first time working with Susan, so that was a completely new dynamic. But by the time we got to Laraba and Balarabe, that relationship wasn’t new anymore. So even when it’s the same faces, the energy is still evolving. I think that’s the balance: I hold on to my community, the people who understand my rhythm, but I also stay open to fresh collaborators and new possibilities. It keeps the work rooted, but never stagnant.
What conversations or reactions to this film have revealed something about your work that you didn’t fully realize you were saying?
I think what surprised me the most is realizing just how much my work annoys people in a good way. I didn’t quite understand that until the reactions to Laraba and Balarabe started rolling in.
People aren’t saying, “Oh, the film is bad.” It’s more like, “This character is driving me crazy,” or “I can’t believe I relate to something this frustrating.” A lot of viewers think Laraba is stupid or naive, and they get genuinely upset with her choices. I didn’t realize I was tapping into something that personal for people, that part of themselves they don’t like to admit. So when they react strongly, it’s because they’re seeing something uncomfortably familiar.
You’ve navigated the realities of filmmaking in Nigeria, from funding to distribution to just getting things made. What’s one truth about that process that outsiders wouldn’t understand, and how has it shaped the actual stories you choose to tell?
I think the biggest truth outsiders don’t understand is just how expensive and difficult it is to make films here. People see channels dropping a new film every ten days and assume that’s normal. It’s not. Those people clearly have funding, and that’s great for them, but not everyone does. Most people don’t realize how hard it is to raise money, how many “no’s” you hear, or how much convincing it takes for someone to invest when they’re not even sure how they’ll get their returns.
With Lowkey Adults, for example, people kept asking when “part two” was coming, as if we could just wake up and shoot it immediately. Before, I used to get defensive because I’d think, “Do they think we don’t want to make it?” But now I understand, it’s not their job to know. Their job is to watch the film and move on. They don’t see the back-end: the budgets, the logistics, the fear, the waiting.
And it’s not just a Nigerian filmmaker’s problem. Even Park Chan-wook—one of the biggest Korean directors—recently talked about still looking for funding after a successful festival run. If someone like that is hustling for money, who am I?
All of this has shaped the stories I tell. I’ve learned to work within the reality of what’s possible while still saying something honest. It’s why I lean into intimate, grounded stories, because I know I can make them well without waiting five years for a miracle budget. It forces you to focus on the things money can’t buy.
When you look at Nigerian cinema: Nollywood, the indie scene, the emerging voices, where do you see yourself fitting in?
I don’t want to put myself in a box. I’m interested in telling all kinds of stories, but right now my focus is on young-adult stories that are relatable, fun, and entertaining. At the same time, I want to establish a clear voice for myself.
It’s really about growing in that space: telling stories about everyday people in a way that’s colorful, engaging, and honest. And I say “we” because I work closely with my creative partner. We’re committed to capturing the lives and small dramas that feel real but are also enjoyable to watch. It’s that balance that defines how we fit into Nigerian cinema right now.
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