“In a country like Nigeria, the simple act of putting our lives on screen is a political statement”
IMAGE FROM ÌFÉ (THE SEQUEL)
The highly anticipated sequel to Nigeria’s first lesbian film reunites former lovers ífé and Adaora years after their separation. Pamela Adie’s film catches up with Adaora and ífé after both have moved on. Adaora settled into comfortable domesticity with her husband, while ífé found love in South Africa. But when they unexpectedly cross paths at a Lagos bookstore, old flames ignite, threatening to upend everything they’ve built.
Why was it important for you to tell this story?
When I was struggling with my identity and sexual orientation, I didn’t have an ìfẹ́ in my life to remind me that love could be freeing. I had to navigate that darkness without a mirror. As a Black queer woman living in Nigeria, who was once married to a man, I have lived the very crux of this film. I know the weight of the silence and the cost of the performance. I told this story because I know there are so many others like me, in Nigeria and across the globe, currently standing at that same crossroad. I want this film to be the reminder I never had: that your truth is valid and that love should never feel like a cage. I want them to see themselves on that big screen and feel not just seen, but deeply inspired to choose their own freedom.
Was there a specific moment or reference point which inspired your film?
The inspiration for both films came from a simple, painful reality: Black queer Nigerian women were virtually non-existent on the big screen, both at home and internationally. It was as though we didn’t exist. Years ago, I reached out to filmmaker friends and asked them to tell our stories, but no one was interested. In that moment of frustration, I realized: “If no one else will do it, I will.” I often call myself an “accidental activist”. I never originally set out to lead a movement; I just wanted to tell stories that I personally wanted to see. But in a country like Nigeria, the simple act of putting our lives on screen is a political statement. So here I am; a storyteller who became an activist because the silence was no longer an option.
Did making this film change how you understand your own queerness?
It deepened my belief that love is the ultimate freedom because fear and love cannot coexist. I know the heavy, suffocating fear that comes with living under pretense just to please family, friends, or strangers. I lived that life until I found the courage to come out. Existing within an African framework, making this film expanded my understanding of what it means to live your truth. It forced me to consider how visibility is a shifting landscape, times change, people change, and the “privilege” of being openly queer in a country like Nigeria is a fragile, hard-won thing. When you can lose your life or your family simply because of who you love, being yourself is no longer just a personal choice; it is a monumental act of defiance. Through this process, I’ve come to understand queerness as pure bravery. Whether you are queer or not, in a world that constantly tries to mold us into something we aren’t, every person who chooses to be their true self is being profoundly brave.
BFI Flare is a celebration of LGBTQIA+ storytelling. What do you hope LGBTQIA+ audiences at BFI Flare take away after watching your film?
When I produced the first ìfẹ́, I had no roadmap. The very few Nigerian films that touched on queerness were told by people who weren’t queer; we were either caricatures or tragic figures destined for “doom” unless we repented. I hope this film now serves as that roadmap for the next generation of filmmakers, a proof of concept that we can tell our own stories with dignity and high production value. I want the BFI Flare audience to walk away knowing that while living authentically in a place like Nigeria is incredibly risky and costly, it is also profoundly worth it. I want them to see that the struggle for LGBTQIA+ freedom is a global, interconnected fight. Most importantly, I want them to leave centring queer joy. In a world that often tries to erase us, archiving our joy and our resilience is our most enduring act of resistance.
BFI is celebrating its 40th anniversary this year. What LGBTQIA+ film from the last four decades has changed your life and why?
I have to look to Cheryl Dunye’s The Watermelon Woman (1996). It was a revelation in how it blended the personal with the archival. It taught me that if our history isn’t in the books, we have to film it ourselves. It permitted me to be both the filmmaker and the historian of my own community, a philosophy that sits at the very core of The Equality Hub.
Why is it so vital that we continue to support and celebrate spaces like BFI Flare for the next 40 years?
When we made the first ìfẹ́, the National Film and Video Censors Board (NFVCB) publicly threatened to come after me. It was a direct attempt to silence us and discourage the vital work of archiving queer Nigerian stories. For filmmakers like myself, who come from countries where our existence is criminalized and dangerous, spaces like BFI Flare are more than just festivals; they are sanctuaries. They provide the rare opportunity for our stories to be seen, celebrated, and protected.
Most importantly, there is a powerful ripple effect: when a film like ìfẹ́: (The Sequel) gains major international attention at a world-class institution like the BFI, it forces our local Nigerian media to highlight the work. They can no longer ignore us when the world is watching. Supporting these spaces for the next 40 years ensures that filmmakers in high-risk territories have a global megaphone that can actually shift the narrative back home.
BFI Flare has been running since 1986. What do you think queer audiences in 1986 would make of your film?
It’s a funny thought, because in 1986, queer Nigerians were living in a much deeper “underground” than we are today. A film of this nature would have been completely unheard of, let alone shot on a 6K camera with high production values. Back then, it would have been impossible to find a cast or crew willing to be associated with such a project.
I think queer audiences from 1986 would be incredibly proud to see how far our global movement has travelled. They would see ìfẹ́: (The Sequel) as a testament to the quality of our narratives and proof that we no longer have to hide. I think they would be excited and vindicated to see that the future they were dreaming of in the 80s has finally reached the big screen in Nigeria.
Why do you think LGBTQIA+ filmmaking is so important in 2026?
Just today, I read the heartbreaking news of two Ugandan women arrested simply for publicly kissing. It is a stark reminder that while we celebrate in London, our siblings in East and West Africa are still living under colonial-era legacy laws that introduced state-sponsored homophobia to our continent. Filmmaking in 2026 is our most vital tool to normalize our lives and change hearts in societies where the law is used as a weapon against us. But this isn’t just an “African” problem. Even in more “liberated” Western societies, we see a rise in crimes against our trans siblings and the growth of right-wing rhetoric that threatens to pull us back into the closet. We must weaponize film to document our resistance to dehumanization. In 2026, a movie isn’t just entertainment, it’s evidence that we are human, we are joyful, and we are not going anywhere.
What queer cinematic ancestor would you want sitting next to you at your BFI Flare screening and why?
I would want Cheryl Dunye sitting right next to me. Her work, especially The Watermelon Woman, was a revelation because it addressed the very thing I am doing with ìfẹ́: searching for and creating an archive where there was once only silence. Cheryl showed me that as Black queer women, we don’t just have to be the subjects of the film; we can be the directors, the historians, and the protagonists of our own joy. She proved that our “niche” stories have the power to become global cinematic milestones. Having her there would feel like a full-circle moment; two generations of Black lesbian directors sitting together at BFI Flare, proving that we are no longer “missing” from the narrative.
The 40th BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival takes place 18 – 29 March at BFI Southbank. ìfé: (The Sequel) premieres at BFI Flare on 22 March. You can find out more about BFI Flare here: whatson.bfi.org.uk/flare
