“Ìfẹ́ (The Sequel)”: Film Producer Pamela Adie on Representation as Recognition and Possibility of Queer Love in Nigeria

When Ìfé, considered Nigeria’s first full-fledged lesbian film, was released in 2020, the filmmakers were systematically targeted. The then NFVCB director, Adebayo Thomas, threatened Uyaiedu Ikpe-Etim, the director, and Pamela Adie, the producer, with jail terms for promoting homosexuality in a country where same-sex relationships are forbidden and can carry a 14-year sentence. The film, despite this, was released online. 

The short film tells the story of two women who fall in love, navigating same-sex love in a country with strict laws against homosexuality. Six years later, the film has returned as a feature film with Adie as director. The film will have its world premiere at the BFI Flare from 24th to 25th March, 2026. The sequel follows Ífé (Uzoamaka Power) and Adaora (Gbubemi Ejeye) years after their separation.

In this conversation with Culture Custodian, Adie speaks about the necessity of returning to the story as a feature six years later, the contrast between queer Nigerian and African films being accepted at international circles but ostracised on the continent, queer history erasure, and cross-generational solidarity. 

This interview has been edited for brevity and clarity. 

Six years later, Ìfẹ́ is returning as a feature film and you as a director. Why was this return, if it can be framed that way, important?

When we made the first film, the responses were incredibly moving. Many people said it was the first time they had seen a Nigerian queer love story told with tenderness. Some said it gave them courage, others said it felt refreshing because it was different from the usual Nollywood storylines. Those responses reminded me that representation isn’t just about visibility, it’s also about recognition and possibility. Through representation, people can imagine what their lives could be, and suddenly their world expands beyond what they’ve been told or held on to for a long time, and they start to believe that they are deserving. So, storytelling is a really powerful tool in helping people find their place in the world.

Returning to the story felt necessary also because the story never truly ended. The first ìfé was a moment, a glimpse into love under pressure in Nigeria, but life doesn’t resolve itself that neatly, especially for queer people in Nigeria. I kept asking myself: what happens after the first act of courage, after the moment of truth? Do you get to live in that love, or does the world pull you back? This film is my attempt to sit with that question, exploring what it means to choose yourself repeatedly. 

The film is premiering at the BFI Flare. What does this mean to you and the story? And how do you contextualise this international recognition in contrast with the “unacceptance” of queer stories in Nigeria and Africa?

The journey to Flare has been really interesting. When we finished the film, we didn’t think we’d get into Flare because submissions were closed to the public. But I decided to reach out about the film anyway. I initially got an automated email saying submissions had closed, and I remember thinking, “Oh well! At least I tried.” But about three minutes later, another email came through from a programmer inviting us to submit the film for consideration.

A week after we submitted, we received the message that the film had been selected. I was so happy because something unlikely happened. That moment felt surreal and very affirming because BFI Flare is such an important space for queer cinema worldwide. I believe audiences are ready for these stories and queer African voices belong in global cinema. Having  a Nigerian queer love story  premiere at Flare feels incredibly meaningful. It means a great deal.

When you look at the political landscape of the African continent, politicians are passing harsher and harsher laws against the LGBTQIA+ community. Most recently, are Ghana and Senegal, where they are increasing prison sentences for same-sex relationships, all of which is driven mostly by extreme right-wing Christian evangelicals from the West and religion. So, it’s not looking good. But the reality is that queer Africans exist, and telling our stories is reaffirming that we are here. We must reclaim our lives and our right to exist freely like all other Africans. So, now more than ever, telling our stories is resistance; it’s a way to fight back, and to affirm that we are African and deserving of love and belonging. So I think telling our stories at this point in time is very important.

International recognition means visibility. It means the story is travelling, even when it’s restricted at home. There’s something both beautiful and painful about that. Beautiful because queer African stories deserve global audiences. Painful because the people the story is about don’t always have the freedom to see themselves reflected on the big screen. But I don’t see it as a contradiction, I see it as part of the work. We tell the stories anyway. We take them wherever they can breathe. And over time, hopefully, that visibility eventually shifts what feels possible, even at home.

From a storytelling perspective, how do you navigate the “threat” ífé and Adaora’s reunion poses without making it a story of simple infidelity? 

I was very intentional about not framing this as a simple story of cheating, because that would flatten the reality. The truth is that for many queer Nigerians, what looks like a “stable” life is often built on compromise, silence, and survival. When love re-enters the picture, it’s not just disruption, it’s truth resurfacing. The tension isn’t just about betrayal. It’s about identity, about longing, about the cost of living a life that was never fully yours to begin with. The film is asking whether what we call stability is sometimes the most fragile thing of all. I’d leave that for the audience to decide.

Do you think the film presents a utopia for queer relationships and conversation in Nigeria and Africa, especially in how accepting Adaora’s husband, Dafe, was?

Dafe was written intentionally as a character who chooses empathy over anger. In many stories, male characters who feel hurt or betrayed respond with rage or violence. But I was interested in exploring a different possibility, someone who processes pain with reflection rather than aggression. His quietness doesn’t mean he isn’t feeling deeply. In fact, it’s the opposite. It shows someone who is trying to understand a difficult emotional situation rather than reacting impulsively. I believe restraint is a form of strength.

I wouldn’t call it a utopia. I think it’s more of a possibility. We often see only one kind of reaction: rejection, violence, and erasure. And while that is very real, it’s not the only human response available to us. I was interested in what it looks like when someone chooses empathy over ego. It doesn’t make the situation easy or perfect, but it does open a different emotional space, one where dignity is still possible.

And sometimes, imagining that possibility is its own form of resistance.

Cinema is entertaining but political in the stories filmmakers center. Do you feel this dual pressure when making the short and the feature? And how do you balance the film’s political look with the desire to show authentic queer joy as a form of resistance?

Storytelling is about our collective humanity. If some experiences are absent from our stories, people feel invisible, almost to the point of erasure. I don’t separate politics from cinema/entertainment. For me, showing queer joy is political. Showing tenderness, intimacy, softness, especially in a context where those things are denied or erased, is already a form of resistance. Yes, there’s always an awareness of the story’s political weight. But I try not to let that overshadow the characters’ humanity. They are not symbols, they are people.

Telling these stories becomes important. It  gives people hope and helps expand what they believe is possible. But at the end of the day, my goal is simply to tell honest, human stories. If those stories also challenge assumptions or create empathy, then that’s a beautiful outcome.

If we can see the characters as fully human, then politics will take care of itself.

Najite Dede’s character acts as a shield during one of Adaora’s confrontations with her parents. The writing and directing of the scene was presented as a moment of vulnerability and solidarity. Why was this representation important to the story, and does Najite Dede’s character represent a future where there’s cross-generational solidarity and protection?

That moment was very intentional, and Kainene’s character carries a lot of weight in that scene.

Aunty Kainene isn’t just an ally, she is queer herself. She has lived that reality, made the difficult choice to reject expectations, and built a life with the woman she loves, even when her family refused to see it for what it was. When she stands up for Adaora, it’s not abstract support, it’s deeply personal. In that moment, she’s doing two things at once: protecting Adaora and also stepping into her truth more openly by naming it in front of her brother’s wife. There’s a quiet courage in that.

Kainene also represents something we don’t often see: an older generation of queer women within the family, and in Nigeria. Her presence quietly reaffirms that queerness has always been part of our culture. She has always been there, even if people chose not to see her. For Adaora, Kainene represents what is possible: a life that is honest, even if it comes with consequences. And I think that’s what makes the moment powerful. It’s not just about defense; it’s about visibility, recognition, and the possibility of not being alone.

It was important for me to show that kind of cross-generational solidarity, not as something idealistic, but as something that can exist when people choose truth over silence. And yes, I do think she gestures towards a future where there is more understanding across generations, where love shows up not just as acceptance, but as active support.

Pamela Adie

Nigerian and African history and archives often erase queer history. This has led to the misinformed assumption that queer identity is un-African. As the director, who does this character to you, and was she also a counter-narrative to the deliberate erasure of queer history?

Absolutely.

Queerness has always been part of African culture. The unfortunate thing that has gone unchallenged for so many years is that so much of our history has been deliberately erased or silenced. For me, every character in this film is, in some way, a response to that erasure. They are living, breathing evidence that we have always been here. I’m not trying to make a historical argument in a didactic way, but I am insisting, through story, that we are here and will continue to be.

In 2020, the film and its filmmakers were systemically targeted. What will be different in 2026? What’s the distribution model that will be employed since this is a feature film?

Oh yes, we were publicly targeted. In 2020, when we made the first Ife, the NFVCB ‘s director went on CNN and threatened to arrest my team and me. But I don’t care about threats and that kind of thing because the work must be done. Nigeria is a place where conversations about sexuality can be very sensitive, and that affects how stories like this are received. But at the same time, queer Nigerians exist, our lives are rich and complex, and our stories deserve to be told just like anyone else’s. For me, the motivation wasn’t to make something controversial. It was simply to tell a human story about love, identity, and the choices people make in pursuit of happiness.

In many ways, the environment hasn’t changed as much as we would hope. But what has changed is our preparedness. We are more intentional now about how the film moves, where it screens, who it reaches, and how it is protected. The distribution will reflect that reality. It will be a mix of international festivals, curated screenings, and carefully considered access points that prioritise visibility.

What I’ve learned is that you don’t wait for perfect conditions to tell your story. You build pathways around the barriers. And that’s what we’re doing with this film.