“Love in Every Word” Sequel Mistakes Length for Depth and Spectacle for Substance

Leonardo Da Vinci once observed, “Poor is the pupil who does not surpass his master.”

When Omoni Oboli released Love in Every Word seven months ago, she likely didn’t anticipate it becoming a cultural phenomenon. Yet the film amassed nearly 30 million views on YouTube, sparked engagement across social media platforms, and embedded itself into the cultural lexicon with catchphrases like “Achalugo” and “Odogwu please.” Beyond its viral success, the film elevated the major actors further into the spotlight, prompting cinephiles to seek out their other works. While the film may have been modest in craft and stakes, its cultural impact is undeniable, sustaining conversations for months after its release. It’s precisely this momentum that led to the October 24 release of Love in Every Word 2. The sequel has already racked up 10 million views and reignited discussions online. 

In Love in Every Word, Obioma—the “Odogwu” played by Uzor Arukwe—pursued Chioma (Bamike Olawunmi-Adenibuyan’s “Achalugo”) with extravagant gestures, culminating in the purchase of an entire building just to obtain her phone number. Depending on your perspective, it was either a charming feel-good romance or a problematic tale steeped in stereotypes and the troubling notion that love can be bought. The film’s logic is increasingly strained when Chioma, who initially had a specific type that explicitly excluded Odogwu, falls so completely in love that she insists she’s the lucky one, not him. This shift feels particularly hollow given her stated aversion to Igbo men with accents, supposedly rooted in trauma from her father. Yet when we finally meet this father near the end of part two, he barely has an Igbo accent at all. This inconsistency might have been forgivable in the breezy first installment, but it becomes glaring across the sequel’s excruciating three-hour runtime.

Midway through the sequel, an ex-boyfriend materializes without a clear purpose. Were the filmmakers simply padding the runtime? His sole function, which reinforces that Obioma is the first wealthy man Chioma has dated, feels both redundant and unnecessary, adding little beyond bloat to an already overextended narrative.

The film reveals a deeper tension between feminism and benevolent sexism. Feminism advocates for equal opportunity and agency, challenging traditional gender roles, while benevolent sexism manifests in ostensibly protective gestures that ultimately reinforce those same roles, positioning women as inherently weaker, dependent, or naturally suited to domestic spaces. Chioma is initially presented as a self-sufficient woman who neither needs a man nor wants to be financially dependent, seemingly embodying feminist ideals.

Yet Love in Every Word undermines this characterization through its writer’s own inherent benevolent sexism. Consider how Odogwu subtly steers Chioma away from corporate employment toward entrepreneurship, a seemingly supportive move that actually serves a patriarchal agenda. In practice, this “choice” often steers women towards enterprises or endeavors with more malleable schedules that can bend around domestic responsibilities, enabling them to manage businesses from home while their husbands travel freely for work. A traditional 9-to-5 job, by contrast, provides structure and boundaries that exist independent of household demands. This dynamic plays out across Nigerian society, where countless men envision their wives running small shops—ostensibly as “business owners,” but functionally tethered to domestic proximity and flexibility. The film packages this as empowerment, never interrogating how Odogwu’s influence subtly reshapes Chioma’s autonomy to fit his convenience.

One particularly viral scene encapsulates this tension: when Chioma offers to contribute financially to the household, Obioma responds that her mere existence is contribution enough, a moment that delighted many women but raises a very important question: do women want to be independent or not?

The answer becomes murky when we consider why this film resonates so deeply. Love in Every Word succeeds precisely because it feeds our most conflicted desires. Many women fantasize about a partner who provides so completely that their only contribution is existence, no labor, no hustle, simply existing is enough. Simultaneously, many men desire women who possess independence and capability but willingly choose dependence, offering submission as a gift rather than a condition of survival.

The film profits from this contradiction. It offers a fantasy where traditional gender dynamics are repackaged as romantic destiny, where a woman’s agency is celebrated in theory but gently redirected in practice, where male control masquerades as being cherished. This is the core of its appeal and the root of its problem: it validates everyone’s fantasy while challenging no one’s comfort. We’re left with a love story that asks nothing difficult of its characters or its audience, content to mistake comfort for liberation and provision for partnership.

Ultimately, Love in Every Word 2‘s three-hour runtime amounts to little more than an elaborate reinforcement of traditional gender roles, a gilded cage presented as paradise. The film gestures toward deeper conversations, most notably through Patience Ozokwor’s (Obioma’s mother) initial rejection of Chioma, but these attempts never coalesce into meaningful commentary. Instead, they float like incompatible ingredients in an overseasoned broth, present but never blending into anything substantive.

And then there are the relentless product placements that fracture whatever narrative momentum the film manages to build, transforming scenes into thinly veiled commercials that stretch an already bloated story even further.

In the end, Da Vinci’s words ring hollow here. This pupil hasn’t merely failed to surpass its master, it has amplified its predecessor’s flaws while adding new ones, mistaking length for depth and spectacle for substance. The first film, for all its limitations, had the virtue of brevity and cultural spontaneity. The sequel has neither, leaving us with a cautionary tale: sometimes the conversation should end while people are still listening.