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Efe and the word “good” should not appear in the same sentence. He lacked options, morals, and sense. I’m sorry.🥲
– Cynthia Orji
That’s where we’ll start this non-review of the latest Kemi Adetiba’s series that’s taken over Nigerian Twitter and many a confused group chat. And while Cynthia tries to make sense of it, I’m here to talk about it. Not in a serious Rotten Tomatoes way, of course. More in the we-paid-for-Netflix-so-we-might-as-well-join-the-chaos kind of way.
Before we get into it, first off, spoiler alert, and second, I hope you’ve gotten your Geegpay virtual USD card to help you subscribe to Netflix. Because To Kill a Monkey is not the kind of show you want to hear about in passing. You need to watch it with your own two eyes, rewind at least twice, and still, end up texting someone to explain what just happened.
To Kill a Monkey hands you a feeling—betrayal soaked in innocence—and leaves you to stew in it. Watching it feels like walking in on something private. Like catching your childhood friend hiding a knife behind their back, unsure whether it’s for protection… or you. It's not a crime thriller in the way we expect; instead, it lingers in the ache of choices made under pressure. The kind of story where everyone’s trying to survive, but survival costs more than anyone can afford.
There’s a lot of pain in this series. A slow, crawling kind of pain that wraps itself around shame and calls it necessity. At some point, you stop expecting a turning point. You start wondering how far down someone can go before rock bottom gets tired of waiting.
It’s sorrow dressed in a suit. Tension dressed like brotherhood. Greed and lust lit like a fever dream. And through it all, a question sits with you quietly: what happens when poverty, pride, and betrayal meet in the same room and no one flinches?
It begins with a cut and a promise. Not metaphorically—a literal cut, a literal promise. Teenage boys kneel in a dimly lit shrine in a coastal Nigerian village, pledging loyalty, pledging silence. One of them doesn’t speak. He’s already becoming someone else.
This isn’t a film. It’s a slow disrobing. To Kill a Monkey, created and directed by Kemi Adetiba, is an eight-part limited series on Netflix that opens with the aesthetics of a thriller and slowly reveals itself as a tribute to survival. Not the triumphant kind, where the underdog learns to soar, but the other kind—the gritted teeth, the small betrayals, the many ghosts that don’t wear white sheets.
The story follows Efemini, or Efe for short (William Benson), a young man in Lagos trying to keep his head above the rising waters. His day job as a waiter is a stage for indignities. His side hustle—well, let’s just say not all seeds germinate. When Oboz (Bucci Franklin) re-enters his life, Efe is pulled into a world of loyalty and language that eventually leads to the death of one.
What gives the series its power is not the plot, though the plot is strong. It’s the way the story sits with grief like an old friend. The trauma here is very personal, and it’s folded into the fabric of the story.
This is a series about many things, and none of them sit still. It’s about men and what happens when they don’t get to cry. It’s about how pain calcifies into silence. It’s about corruption. Most strikingly, it’s about initiation—what it means to belong, and what it costs to keep belonging.
Kemi Adetiba, with the patience of a novelist, refuses to offer clean answers. Instead, she sketches out how a single act can ripple into a life’s ruin. In To Kill a Monkey, loyalty is never neutral. When someone swears allegiance in this world, they also swear off softness. Whether it’s Oboz, hardened and unreadable, or Efe, whose eyes are always five seconds behind his body, you can see the price paid for every ounce of masculinity.
And then there's the title. To Kill a Monkey is not a metaphor that announces itself. It lurks. Who is the monkey? What does it mean to kill it? Is it about shedding one’s past? Is it about survival in a place that never forgets what you were made into? The title becomes a question you ask yourself as the story unfolds, and by the end, you’re not sure if the monkey is dead or just waiting in the shadows.
The series is also interested in intergenerational violence, but it doesn't exploit it. It makes you sit with it. Children become men who become weapons. Love, in this world, is dangerous. Memory is dangerous. Even silence is loaded. It is a universe built on codes—cultural, spiritual, and emotional.
William Benson’s portrayal of Efemini is the kind of performance that will probably be overlooked during awards season—and that would be a shame. He plays Efe not as a protagonist, but as a question. Efe isn’t here to win anyone over. He moves through the story with a kind of rough patience, always calculating his next step. Every glance, every silence is a decision. He’s gritty, not in a way that begs for admiration, but like a man who knows sentiment is a luxury he can’t afford. He’s resilient because he has to be. And when survival is on the line, his selfishness shows.
Unlike the slimy Efe, Bucci Franklin’s Oboz doesn’t lurk in the background. He walks in like he belongs, speaks like every word is a favour, and makes himself at home in places he should’ve been kicked out of. You can never quite tell if he’s here to lift Efe up or drag him under. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
The supporting cast also added weight to every scene. Nosa, played by Stella Damasus, holds the screen with a quiet tension, her emotions simmering beneath carefully measured gestures. Bimbo Akintola’s Inspector Ogunlesi moves through the story with a sharp, deliberate presence, every word carrying the weight of personal loss and duty. Chidi Mokeme’s Teacher controls his world with minimal effort, a man whose silence feels louder than most people’s threats. Idia, portrayed by Lilian Afegbai, navigates the shifting power dynamics with a steady gaze, never in a hurry, always aware. Sparkles, brought to life by Sunshine Rosman, uses charm like a blade, knowing exactly when to smile and when to let the mask slip. Each character adds a layer to the atmosphere, creating a world where every interaction feels like a move in a larger, invisible game.
Adetiba has always had a flair for drama, case in point: King of Boys, but here she pulls back. She directs like someone tiptoeing through a haunted house she knows well. The result is a storytelling style that feels more patient, more shadowed.
The pacing is intentional. Some viewers might call it slow. They’re wrong, but understandably so. But I like to think of it as careful instead of slow, designed to keep you guessing what the character will do next. Scenes don’t rush to deliver. Conversations trail off. A character might walk through a corridor in real time, and it’s only later that you realise that corridor was a metaphor for his life. Okay, okay, maybe not that deep, but you get it. But one thing is for sure, the pain and suffering were front and centre, and if you don’t have the stomach for it, prepare to bawl tears.
The cinematography of To Kill a Monkey, directed by Kemi Adetiba and shot by Kabelo Thathe, is deliberately crafted to serve the story’s psychological tension. The series employs a mix of wide aerial shots and close, handheld sequences, balancing Lagos's expansive cityscape with the claustrophobia of its underbelly. Establishing shots of the Ikoyi Link Bridge and the Atlantic Ocean provide spatial context, but the camera never lingers on these visuals for spectacle. Instead, the focus quickly shifts to the environments that shape the characters' lives—crowded streets, dimly lit apartments, and tightly framed interiors that reflect emotional pressure.
Lighting plays a significant role in maintaining the show’s grounded tone. Natural lighting dominates, with shadows and low exposure used to enhance scenes of tension and moral ambiguity. The shrine and ritual sequences are visually distinct, with ochre tones and candlelit warmth creating a textured, reverent atmosphere. These scenes are shot with a deliberate stillness, allowing ceremonial details to take centre stage without over-stylisation.
Oscar Heman-Ackah’s score is minimalistic and atmospheric, designed to blend into the narrative rather than overpower it. The music often sits in the background as a low-frequency hum, building subtle tension across scenes. When the score swells, it does so with restraint, complementing the emotional tone rather than dictating it. The sound design avoids melodrama, focusing instead on enhancing the psychological undercurrents of dialogue-heavy moments and scenes of introspection. There are stretches where silence is used effectively, allowing ambient sounds and character interactions to carry the weight of the moment.
The production design is rooted in authenticity. Locations feel lived-in and functional, from the cybercafés where deals are made to the spiritual shrines that anchor key plot points. Attention to detail is evident in the set dressing—walls are scuffed, furniture is mismatched, and no environment feels artificially curated. Costume design follows the same philosophy. Characters are dressed to reflect their realities: Idia’s wardrobe is sharp and styled, reflecting her street-smart confidence rather than casual practicality, Sparkles’ wardrobe is sharp and aspirational, and Inspector Mo’s uniform is deliberately understated, avoiding theatrics.
Visual effects are used sparingly but with precision. Dream sequences and ritual visions employ subtle distortions and overlays, enhancing the narrative’s psychological layers without drawing attention to the technology behind them. These effects are integrated smoothly into the visual language of the series, ensuring they support the story rather than distract from it.
Overall, the cinematography, music, and production design of To Kill a Monkey are cohesive and intentional. Each technical element serves the narrative’s tone, ensuring that the series maintains its grounded, tension-driven atmosphere without resorting to visual or auditory excess.
Watching To Kill a Monkey is not comfortable. It’s not meant to be. But it’s not traumatic either. It sits in that uneasy space where emotional truth lives. By the end of the series, you realise you’ve been holding your breath. You realise that the boy from the first scene, the one who took the oath in silence, never really left. He’s still kneeling somewhere inside. He’s still asking if loyalty is worth the life it costs.
For Nigerian viewers, there are particular resonances, from the coded language of survival, the expectations of men, to the spiritual subtext that goes unspoken but not unfelt. For international viewers, the story still holds, though its emotional GPS is definitely local.
This is not the kind of show you watch while texting. It demands your time. Not in a preachy way, but in a way that says: if you want to understand the violence beneath the quiet, you must sit still.
So, would I recommend it? Absolutely. Would I watch it again? Probably. Though next time, I might bring bananas. Just in case.
