Using the Stuart Hall's encoding and decoding lens to review LionHeart

Stuart Hall, a leading figure in cultural studies, introduced the Encoding/Decoding theory in 1973 to explain how media messages are created (encoded) by producers and then understood (decoded) by audiences. Hall argued that audiences don’t just passively receive media messages, they interpret them in their own way, depending on factors like culture, personal experience, and social background. He identified three main decoding positions: dominant (or preferred) reading where the audience agrees with the message of the film, writing etc, negotiated reading, where the audience both agrees and disagrees that is, they do not strongly agree neither do they strongly disagree and oppositional reading where the audience strongly disagres with the message. In Lionheart, we see how this theory plays out through the film’s themes, characters, and how different viewers might respond to the story.

A dominant reading of Lionheart would align with the message Genevieve Nnaji and the filmmakers likely intended, that Adaeze, a strong and competent woman, can lead a major business in a male-dominated society and thrive without sacrificing her values. Audiences who accept this message as it is might see the film as an inspiring story about gender equality, family unity, and Nigerian pride. For these viewers, the film reinforces the idea that women can be effective leaders, that traditional values can go together with modern ambition, and that local storytelling has global potential. This reading celebrates the film’s empowering tone and polished execution.

However, some viewers may take a negotiated reading of the film. They might appreciate the feminist message and the cultural pride but question some parts of the execution. For instance, they may acknowledge that Adaeze is a capable leader, but also notice that her rise to leadership still depends on her father’s authority and her uncle’s support. In this view, the film supports women’s empowerment, but only within a safe and family-approved structure. Some may even feel that Adaeze’s leadership is not fully independent, since she’s not given the chance to completely stand on her own because she was helped by her uncle. These viewers still enjoy the film but may wish it had pushed the boundaries a bit more.

Then there are audiences who might take an oppositional reading of Lionheart. These viewers may argue that while the film appears progressive on the surface, it still holds on to certain patriarchal norms. For example, the fact that Adaeze’s father initially prefers her uncle to take over the company might be read as reinforcing the idea that men are more naturally suited for leadership. Some might feel that the film, while trying to break barriers, ends up being too subtle or even safe, especially when compared to more severe feminist narratives. They may also question why romance is completely removed from the storyline, as if a woman can only be shown as competent if she has no personal relationships. 

Encoding and decoding also show up in how Lionheart presents Nigeria to both local and international audiences. The film was acquired by Netflix, making it the first Nigerian film to stream globally under the platform’s original content banner. This move suggests an encoded message of national pride and a desire to present Nigeria in a positive light. However, not all audiences decode this message the same way. Nigerian viewers might feel proud to see their culture represented, but they might also feel the portrayal is “too clean” or not harsh enough to reflect the realities of daily life. On the other hand, international viewers might decode the film as a refreshing and positive story from a country they usually see only in negative news, yet they might not fully grasp the cultural tensions within the story.

A great example of decoding differences is the language controversy. When Lionheart was submitted for the Best International Feature Film category at the Oscars, it was disqualified because it was mostly in English. This situation exposed the gap between the film’s encoded message of cultural representation and how it was decoded by international institutions. For Nigerian audiences, English is a valid national language and represents unity in diversity, especially in a multilingual country. But to others outside the country, it may seem like a Western language that disqualifies the film from being considered “foreign.” This shows how decoding isn’t just personal, it’s also shaped by systems and power structures.

Furthermore, Hall’s theory helps us understand the film’s little use of comedy and warmth. The filmmakers might have encoded humor and lightheartedness as a way to make the story more approachable and family-friendly. Some viewers decode it as charming and refreshing, while others may feel it waters down more serious issues like sexism in the workplace or corporate corruption. What one audience finds touching, another might find too simplified.

Ultimately, Hall’s Encoding/Decoding theory reminds us that Lionheart does not have one fixed meaning. The film is a conversation between the creators and the audience, with room for multiple interpretations. Whether audiences fully accept, negotiate, or reject the film’s messages, what matters is that the story encourages reflection and engagement. Lionheart may not be perfect, but it sparks important conversations about gender, leadership, culture, and representation.

In conclusion, applying Hall’s theory to Lionheart shows us just how different media interpretation can be. By understanding how encoding and decoding work, we can appreciate not only what the filmmakers wanted to say, but also how different people understand it based on who they are and where they come from. Lionheart becomes more than just a movie, it becomes a space where multiple voices meet, challenge, and reshape meaning. It is the power of thoughtful storytelling.

Class, Culture and Capital: A Marxist reading of LionHeart

 

Marxist Critique of Lionheart

Class, power, and the control of economic structures form the basics of Marxist theory, and Genevieve Nnaji’s Lionheart is a fascinating case study in how these ideas play out within a Nigerian capitalist framework. In this film, we watch how economic capital determines social standing, opportunity, and identity. The story, which centers on Adaeze Obiagu’s efforts to save her family’s transportation company, is not just a tale of family loyalty, it’s a subtle exploration of class, privilege, and access to power. Through a Marxist lens, Lionheart reveals the workings of a corporate elite and how wealth shields certain characters from the harsher realities of Nigerian life.

First, the film subtly shows how the capitalist class holds and protects economic power. Adaeze’s family owns a well-established Transportation company, a business large enough to be threatened by a takeover from another company and attract government contracts. The Obiagus are part of Nigeria’s corporate bourgeoisie (a Marxist term for the wealthy or the Haves), and even though the narrative portrays them as moral and principled, their power is undeniable. They operate in a world where elite relationships, networking, and social capital are more important than public accountability. For example, when Lionheart faces a financial crisis, the immediate solution is not to appeal to banks or restructure, it’s to find powerful allies like Maikano Motors, another rich transportation industry, or negotiate deals that only people in their social class can access. Ordinary Nigerians facing bankruptcy wouldn’t have these options. The Obiagus’ wealth cushions them, allows them time to strategize, and gives them influence over decisions others wouldn’t even be invited to.

Furthermore, the film shows corporate capitalism while overlooking the working class and labor force. The drivers, clerks, cleaners, and other essential workers of Lionheart Transport barely feature in the story. Except when at the beginning if the movie, they were being beaten by thugs, their voices are silent, their concerns invisible. We never see them unionize or protest or even offer perspectives on the looming financial collapse. All decision-making occurs at the top, among the executives. This reflects a capitalist ideology where workers are mere tools, cogs in a machine, not real agents with economic desires or political power. From a Marxist viewpoint, this is deeply problematic. It reinforces the idea that only the rich and educated matter in the economic narrative. Adaeze is admirable, but even her kindness doesn’t challenge the broader system that keeps workers voiceless.

Another key Marxist insight is the illusion of class mobility, and how good merits and character is framed as the path to success. Adaeze is positioned as competent, brilliant, and forward-thinking, traits that, in theory, should be enough for success. But in reality, her access to education, experience, and corporate culture all come from her class background. She didn’t rise from poverty, she was born into wealth and mentored by her father, Chief Ernest. The film glosses over this. It tries to suggest that Adaeze is “fighting” for her place, but the truth is that her privileges paved her way. In the real world, thousands of equally smart Nigerian women, without her connections, struggle to even find employment. Lionheart doesn’t highlight this, instead, it upholds the fantasy that anyone can succeed with hard work and determination, ignoring the economic structures that prevent that for the masses.

In addition, the film’s conflict between Lionheart Transport and Igwe Pascal’s company is portrayed as a moral battle, but it also reflects deeper capitalist competition and class interest. Pascal is not the villain because he is corrupt, he’s the villain because he threatens the status quo of Lionheart’s family business.

From a Marxist view, both companies are capitalist entities seeking profit and survival. The struggle between them isn’t about right and wrong but about who controls resources and wealth. Pascal is demonized not because he’s fundamentally different but because he disrupts the existing balance of class power. The film tries to frame this as a triumph of good over evil, but it’s really about one elite family preserving their dominance over another.

Furthermore, the film’s portrayal of family ties within the capitalist system offers an interesting Marxist contradiction. On the surface, Lionheart champions familial loyalty and unity. But look deeper, and you’ll see that family is a mechanism through which wealth and class status are protected. Ernest Obiagu doesn’t look for an external candidate to save the company, he grooms his daughter and trusts his brother to run things temporarily. Favouritism is normalized. There’s no competitive hiring process, no outsider is brought in with fresh ideas. This highlights how elite families in capitalist societies pass down wealth and influence through lineage, keeping opportunities within the family circle and excluding those outside their class. The “family business” becomes a tool for class consolidation.

The relationship between Lionheart Transport and government institutions is another area for Marxist critique. The film shows how the company thrives partly because of state contracts and political patronage. Adaeze and her uncle Godswill meet with government officials, navigate long processes, and use personal connections to protect their interests. The state, which in Marxist thought should represent the people, ends up serving the interests of the economic elite. There’s little sense of regulation or public oversight. The government is not an impartial body but an extension of the capitalist class structure. This reflects how, in many societies, the state operates as a tool to maintain class hierarchies, not dismantle them.

Lastly, there’s an emotional manipulation that the film uses to avoid deeper systemic critique. Because the Obiagus are portrayed as kind, relatable, and traditional, the audience is less likely to question their privilege. Adaeze’s humility, Godswill’s humor, and Ernest’s wisdom make the family easy to root for. But emotional appeal doesn’t change the material conditions, they are still wealthy business owners who make decisions from the top. The film creates a kind of soft capitalism, where class differences are made invisible in favor of a moral narrative about integrity and vision. From a Marxist angle, this is dangerous because it masks inequality with charm.

In conclusion, Lionheart is a heartwarming, well-made film, but beneath its surface lies capitalist ideologies and class power. The narrative presents the ruling class as moral heroes while sidelining the working class and normalizing nepotism and and elite access. While it breaks ground by placing a woman at the center of a corporate drama, it does not challenge the deeper economic structures that shape Nigerian society. A Marxist critique reveals that behind the inspiring story is a system where class still determines who gets to lead, who gets to speak, and who remains invisible.

Understanding the Oppositional Gaze in LionHeart

 

Oppositional Gaze in Lionheart

The concept of the oppositional gaze, introduced by feminist scholar bell hooks, invites viewers, particularly Black women, to resist the dominant ways of seeing, especially the cinematic representations that have historically marginalized or stereotyped them. Rather than passively consuming visual culture, the oppositional gaze is active and critical. In Lionheart, Genevieve Nnaji doesn’t just encourage this kind of viewing, she builds the film around it. Her work becomes both a mirror and a rebellion, showing Nigerian women, especially, in ways that push back against the visual erasure or distortion they’ve experienced for decades.

From the first scene to the last, Lionheart positions Adaeze Obiagu as a character who invites a deeper, more critical gaze and not as a sexual object or a victim of patriarchy, but as a complex, capable woman operating in a deeply patriarchal environment. The film challenges viewers to look at Adaeze not through the lens of stereotypical Nollywood tropes (the helpless daughter, the overly emotional female executive, or the romantic interest), but as a leader, thinker, and strategist. This is where the oppositional gaze thrives, in the refusal to accept what’s typical and the insistence on seeing more. Adaeze’s intelligence, her calm resilience, and her competence in a male-dominated corporate world are emphasized more than her beauty, her vulnerability, or her romantic entanglements. Her story is not centered on love or heartbreak but on business, family legacy, and personal growth.

An important moment where the oppositional gaze is reinforced is when Adaeze is passed over by her father, Chief Obiagu, for the role of Acting MD in favor of her uncle, Godswill. In a typical patriarchal narrative, this might signal a descent into bitterness or a subplot about betrayal. But here, Nnaji flips the expected emotional script. Adaeze neither whines nor collapses, she collaborates. She plays the long game. She watches, learns, adjusts her strategy. And in that quiet power, she resists the dominant ways that women, especially African women, are often visually represented, weak, loud, dramatic, or hysterical. Instead, we are invited to watch a woman who moves with calculation, who absorbs disrespect without allowing it to defeat her, and who uses her silence and emotional control as a kind of rebellion.

Through cinematography and performance, the audience is encouraged to view Adaeze with admiration. The camera lingers on her face during meetings, showing her reactions to sexist comments from board members. Rather than sensationalizing these little aggressions, the film trusts the audience to notice and analyze them. This trust between director and viewer is key to the oppositional gaze, the understanding that Black women watching this film will see what’s happening beneath the surface and respond with understanding.

Beyond Adaeze, the film also subtly includes other women who defy expectation. Her mother, Abigail Obiagu, played by Onyeka Onwenu, is not a typical sidelined housewife. She’s wise, firm, and emotionally intelligent, a grounding force in the chaos of corporate and family politics. She encourages Adaeze without telling her to shrink herself or accept less. Even the brief but significant appearance of other women in corporate scenes shows a different Nigeria, one where women are increasingly claiming space, even if it’s still hard-won. These characters collectively shape a world that viewers,especially women, can critically engage with. They don’t just exist to serve male narratives. They exist to push their own.

Genevieve Nnaji’s direction deliberately avoids over-sexualization. Adaeze wears fitted but professional clothes. Her beauty is acknowledged, but not worshipped. Her power is framed through her work ethic, decisions, and internal struggle, not through male validation. This refusal to cater to the male gaze helps sharpen the oppositional one. When women see this film, especially those used to being shown either as accessories or plot tools, they are invited to sit up, observe, and maybe for the first time, see themselves in control of the narrative.

In this way, Lionheart doesn’t just allow the oppositional gaze, it encourages it. It teaches us how to look differently, how to reject the usual ways of seeing, and how to search for representation that feels true, empowering, and human. In the place of fantasy or stereotype, it gives us reality. Not a perfect woman, but a powerful one. That’s the strength of Nnaji’s work, she doesn’t just direct a film, she creates space for Black women to watch with pride and with power.

Media Analysis of Lionheart

 

Genevieve Nnaji’s Lionheart isn’t just a story about a young woman trying to save her family’s transport business, it is also a quiet revolution told through film. The film’s power lies not in spectacle but in subtlety. Every formal element, which is what we see, hear, and feel, is carefully crafted to reflect a deeper truth about family, gender, cultural identity, and integrity. Through cinematography, mise en scène, sound design, editing, performance, and narrative structure, Lionheart offers a film experience that feels both deeply Nigerian and universally human.

The visual presentation of Lionheart is clean, warm, and composed. The Director of Cinematography, Yinka Edward leans into natural lighting and deliberate framing to create a world that feels authentic but polished. There’s a sense of calm and order in the way the film is shot, it is not fast paced, there are steady camera movements, well-balanced compositions, and soft lighting all contribute to an atmosphere of emotional restraint and great storytelling. Close-up shots of Adaeze, especially during moments of emotional tension, bring us face-to-face with her quiet pain and resilience. Her facial expressions are often more revealing than her words. For example, the face expression she made when she found out she wasn’t going to be the acting MD but instead her Uncle was made acting MD, showed her pain, anger and disappointment. These intimate shots help us feel her isolation in a male-dominated space, as well as her determination to earn respect through competence rather than confrontation. Wide shots, in contrast, give us a sense of the environments she navigates, from the bus terminals to corporate boardrooms, places that mirror the weight of her responsibility and the scale of the challenge ahead. The cinematography is not loud,rather it calm. It respects silence and space, allowing viewers to absorb emotion rather than be overwhelmed by it. This visual patience is part of what makes the film so compelling and interesting.

 For mise-én-scene, the visual elements within the frame, costumes, settings, props, and staging all quietly but powerfully shape the world of Lionheart. The film draws a sharp but respectful contrast between tradition and modernity, a theme reflected most clearly in its characters’ appearances and surroundings. It is also seen in Adaeze dresses, that is, tailored suits and gowns in neutral tones, signaling her professionalism and seriousness. Her style choices are deliberate, they’re not flashy, but they demand respect, In contrast to her uncle, Godswill, with his brightly colored traditional outfits and relaxed aura, which represents an older, more culturally rooted approach to life. Home scenes are bathed in warm colors and surrounded by symbols of legacy, family portraits, wooden furniture, rich textiles. The family home feels lived-in and full of history. By contrast, the Lionheart corporate office is clean, modern, and corporate. These contrasting environments visually express the internal conflict Adaeze faces between fulfilling professional obligations and maintaining her family’s emotional legacy. The presence of buses and transit spaces is also more than literal, they’re symbolic of movement, both physical and generational. Transport is the family’s business, but it’s also a metaphor for change, continuity, and inheritance.

The sound in Lionheart is not meant to dominate, it’s meant to deepen. The soundscape is full of careful choices that make the world feel real without drawing attention to themselves. Dialogue is crisp and uncluttered. You can always hear what’s being said, and what isn’t said often lingers even louder. There’s a consistent blend of ambient noise, that is, traffic in the distance, voices in the background, the hum of daily Nigerian life, sounds that grounds each scene in its environment. These sounds are subtle but effective. The film’s soundtrack is also gentle and intentional. Soft traditional Nigerian music and mellow contemporary instrumentals enhance mood without overwhelming it. During tender or tense scenes, the music gently rises and falls, guiding emotion but never forcing it. In some of the film’s most poignant moments, silence takes center stage. These quiet spaces, where all you hear is the rustling of clothes or the heaviness of breath, are where the emotional truth and tension of the film often lives.

The editing style in Lionheart mirrors its narrative style, simple, elegant, and restrained. There’s a refreshing absence of quick cuts or overused visual tricks. Instead, the film flows at a deliberate pace that gives time for reflection for both the characters and viewers. Conversations are given room to breathe. Scenes often end with a lingering shot, allowing the emotion to settle before we move on. Transitions are smooth, almost invisible, keeping the audience anchored in the story without drawing attention to form. Flashbacks are rarely used and always with purpose. They never disrupt the present moment, but rather enrich it. Whether it’s a memory of Adaeze’s childhood or a subtle nod to her relationship with her father, these moments add texture without spoiling the narrative.The pacing may feel slow to those expecting drama or action, but it is purposeful. Lionheart prioritizes introspection and character over spectacle, and the editing honors that intention.

The performances in Lionheart are refreshingly real. Genevieve Nnaji leads the cast with quiet strength, delivering a portrayal of Adaeze that is both vulnerable and firm. She doesn’t rely on dramatic outbursts or grand gestures. Instead, she lets silence, stillness, and subtle expressions carry her emotions. It’s in the tightening of her jaw, the forced smile, the shut eyes or the slight tremor in her voice that we see Adaeze’s internal battles.

Nkem Owoh as Uncle Godswill brings warmth and levity to the film without ever undermining its emotional core. His charm and spontaneity balance Adaeze’s discipline, and their chemistry feels authentic. He isn’t just comic relief,he is the heart of the film’s human side, reminding us that leadership isn’t only about control, but also about connection.

Pete Edochie, as the patriarch Chief Obiagu, is a quiet force. His scenes are few, but his presence is strong. He portrays the pain of letting go with dignity, and his respect for Adaeze is felt even when it’s not voiced. The entire ensemble performs with sincerity, allowing the film to unfold with emotional honesty.

The narrative structure of Lionheart follows a classic three-act structure: setup, conflict, and resolution. But its real strength lies in how character-driven that structure is. It’s not a film about plot twists or high-stakes action, it’s a film about choices, relationships, and quiet perseverance.

The film begins with Adaeze’s professional setback, being overlooked in favor of her uncle (we see this when her uncle was chosen as the MD instead of her). From there, we watch her navigate multiple layers of conflict: company debt, internal betrayal, cultural sexism, and family pressure. Rather than resolving these challenges through violence or rebellion, Adaeze meets them with strategy, patience, and emotional intelligence. What’s especially noteworthy is how the subplots, her bond with her father, the tension with Godswill, the gender politics of the boardroom are connected together seamlessly. They don’t distract from the central story, they deepen it.

By the time Adaeze finds a solution and earns the respect of those around her, the resolution feels earned. It’s not about triumph through domination, it’s about winning with authenticity.

In conclusion, Genevieve Nnaji doesn’t just tell a story, she builds a world. Through the film’s formal elements, we’re invited into a version of Nigeria that is modern but rooted, ambitious but familial. Yinka Edward’s cinematography is warm and reflective. The mise en scène speaks in visual metaphors. The sound design is intimate. The editing is respectful. The performances are layered. And the narrative structure puts heart over hype making the film worthy of attention.

Behind the Glamour: A Marxist Look at Chief Daddy

 

EbonyLife’s Chief Daddy (2018) is a Nigerian comedy-drama that follows the chaotic aftermath of a billionaire's sudden death. Chief Beecroft, a man who had everything, wealth, businesses, properties, multiple families, and countless dependents, dies unexpectedly, leaving his large and complicated family fighting over who gets what. The movie is packed with dramatic outbursts, flashy parties, and expensive outfits, making it fun and chaotic on the surface. But when you dig deeper, you start to see that it also reflects how money, power, and social class work in real life. Using Marxist theory, we can explore how the film shows the struggle between the rich and the poor, and how money shapes people’s lives.

Marxist theory is all about how society is divided between people who have wealth (the bourgeoisie) and those who don’t (the proletariat). It looks at who controls the money and the work, and how this affects everything from relationships to opportunities. Marx believed that rich people stay rich not because they work the hardest, but because the system is designed to keep them at the top. When we watch Chief Daddy with this in mind, we start to see how the film mirrors these ideas, especially in how it portrays wealth, inheritance, and the working class.

Right away, it’s clear that Chief Daddy sees wealth as something you inherit, not something you earn. Chief Beecroft is rich, no doubt about it—but the film never really explains how he got his money. We don’t see him working hard or building his empire from scratch. We’re just told he was a successful businessman. That leaves out a big part of the story, what about the workers who helped him get there? What about the effort behind the scenes? In Marxist terms, this is typical of how the rich often benefit from the hard work of others, while taking all the credit.

Meanwhile, the people who work for Chief Daddy, his staff, are always around but barely noticed. They drive him, clean his house, cook his food, and take care of everything. Yet they hardly get a voice or a backstory. They’re just there to serve. This reflects how the working class is often ignored, even though they keep things running. Their labour is important, but the film doesn’t focus on their struggles or dreams. It’s all about the people who are already comfortable and connected to wealth.

The whole plot kicks off when Chief Daddy dies and everyone suddenly wants a piece of his money. His wives, kids, mistresses, and other dependents all show up to hear the will, each hoping they’ll be rewarded. What follows is a battle over inheritance, full of entitlement and desperation. But the film never really questions whether this system is fair. Instead, it turns the fight over money into comedy. In Marxist theory, inheritance is a big part of how the rich stay rich, it keeps wealth in the family and makes it harder for outsiders to break in. Chief Daddy doesn’t challenge that. It just plays into it.

Another big thing you’ll notice is how much the film glorifies wealth. From the huge houses to the designer clothes and expensive events, the movie constantly reminds us that these characters are rich. Even the funeral feels more like a fashion show than a time of mourning. Everything is about showing off. In Marxist terms, this is commodification, when even emotions and relationships are treated like products or performances. It’s not just about who’s grieving, it’s about who looks the best while doing it.

When it comes to class mobility, the idea that people can work their way up from poverty to wealth, the film doesn’t give us much hope. Almost all the characters fighting for a piece of Chief Daddy’s estate are already connected to him. They’re family, lovers, or close associates. The people who work for him? They stay in the background. They don’t suddenly become rich or move up the ladder. This suggests that if you weren’t born into money, or close to someone who has it, you don’t really have a chance. Hard work isn’t shown as the path to success. Connection is.

While the film does show some examples of economic inequality, it doesn’t dive into them deeply. We see characters asking for money for rent, school, and business support, but these situations are treated more like side plots or jokes than serious problems. Nobody stops to ask why so many people were dependent on one man for survival. Nobody questions how fair it is that one person had enough money to solve everyone’s problems, while others struggled to afford basics. The film shows the gap between rich and poor, but it doesn’t talk about how that gap could be closed.

After Chief Daddy dies, it seems like the perfect moment for the family to wake up and become more responsible. But that’s not what happens. Most of them continue to fight over the money, hoping they’ll still get lucky. When some are told to actually work to earn their share, they act shocked, as if it’s beneath them. This shows how even the idea of labour is treated as something negative or unnecessary if you’re used to luxury. In a system like this, people are trained to chase wealth, not understand the value of work or where money comes from.

Some of the characters are more grounded or less greedy than others, and that helps balance things out a bit. But the film still focuses more on personal choices than on the bigger system. Being “humble” or “kind” is seen as a character trait, not a way to challenge injustice. That means the film doesn’t really push for change—it just shows individual personalities within the same broken structure.

In the end, Chief Daddy is more than just a family comedy. When looked at through a Marxist lens, it becomes a reflection of how wealth and privilege work in real life. It shows how the rich stay in power through inheritance, how the working class is ignored, and how society often values money over effort. While the film could have used its story to question these problems, it mostly sticks to glam and laughs. Instead of challenging the status quo, it makes the drama of the rich entertaining to watch.

But even that says something important. Chief Daddy might not be trying to make a political statement, but it still shows us what kind of world we live in. A world where some people have everything, while others have to wait and hope for a piece. A world where wealth is celebrated, but the people who make it possible are forgotten. And maybe, the real question the film leaves us with isn’t “Who gets the money?” but “Why is the system built this way in the first place?”

The Obi Effect

 

Peter Obi’s campaign poster is not just a design, it’s a message. Everything about it, from the colours to the fonts, the layout, and even the symbols, works together to show the kind of leader he wants to be. The poster presents him as calm, honest, and ready to lead. It doesn’t try too hard or feel too flashy. Instead, it feels focused and respectful, which matches the image Obi has built: a serious, no-nonsense candidate who wants to do things differently.

 Starting with the colours. The main colours on the poster are green, white, and red, the same colours as the Labour Party and also colours found in the Nigerian flag. Green stands for growth, hope, and the future, while white usually means peace and honesty. Red is strong and bold, it grabs attention and shows passion. These colours are not just beautiful; they are chosen on purpose to make people feel something. When you look at the poster, you feel like Obi stands for peace, progress, and strength. The green bar at the bottom, where his name is written, connects him directly to the image of Nigeria itself. It makes it feel like he’s not just another politician, but someone who cares about the country deeply.

The font choice also plays a big role. “PETER OBI” is written in bold, clear letters using a simple font that’s easy to read. It’s not stylish or dramatic but it’s straight to the point. This makes him come across as serious and reliable. The focus on his name, in capital letters, shows that the campaign is about him more than the party. It’s personal. He’s not hiding behind party politics, he’s putting himself forward as a leader we can know and trust. The rest of the text is also clean, with no clutter, making it easy to take in all the information at a glance.

The picture of Peter Obi on the poster is also important. He’s shown from the shoulders up, wearing dark, neat clothes and glasses, with a soft, confident smile. His background is white, which helps him stand out. The photo makes him look smart, calm, and honest. It doesn’t feel staged or dramatic, it feels human. It gives off the feeling of someone who is approachable but also in control. The placement of the photo, right next to his name and slightly overlapping the green bar—helps tie the whole design together. It makes it feel like this isn’t just an ad, but a reflection of who he really is.

Now let’s talk about the symbols. At the top right, we see the Labour Party logo which is  a gear with a family inside it. That gear represents work, while the family shows that the party is focused on everyday Nigerians. Next to the logo is a fingerprint, which reminds people of voting, identity, and taking part in democracy. These two small images add a lot of meaning. They show that Obi is running for regular Nigerians, and that every vote matters. Together with the slogan and the year “2023,” the message is clear: this is a campaign for real change, built around the people.

The whole poster has a clean, balanced design. There’s no overcrowding, no loud graphics, and no unnecessary extras. Unlike many Nigerian political posters, it doesn’t include tribal clothes, regional language, or religious symbols. This is on purpose. Obi is trying to present himself as a national leader, not just someone from a certain part of the country. The message here is unity. He wants people from all over Nigeria—no matter their tribe, religion, or background, to feel like he represents them.

Looking at the whole design, it becomes clear that the poster is not just trying to promote a campaign. It’s trying to tell a story about Peter Obi as a person and as a leader. The design says he is honest, focused, and prepared. It says he’s not trying to impress with noise or drama. Instead, he wants people to trust him because of who he is and what he stands for. In a political space full of loud speeches and complicated promises, this poster feels simple but yet powerful.

Still, the poster isn’t just about simplicity. It’s also about smart branding. By putting Obi at the center of everything, his name, his face, his message, the campaign builds a personal connection with voters. People aren’t just voting for a party. They’re voting for Peter Obi, the man. And that kind of connection matters, especially in a country where trust in politicians is often very low.

In conclusion, Peter Obi’s campaign poster is well thought out and carefully made. It uses colour, layout, font, and symbols to share a clear and honest message. It tells us that Obi is serious, ready, and committed to a better Nigeria. The poster avoids the usual flashy style and instead focuses on real values—unity, transparency, and leadership. It speaks to both the eyes and the heart. And in doing so, it gives voters not just a name to support, but a leader to believe in.

One Protest, Many Truths: Understanding CNN's Lekki Report.

 

CNN’s investigative piece on the Lekki Tollgate shooting is carefully organized to expose state violence and push back against official silence. The report doesn’t just tell a story, it actually shows it, using satellite images to trace military movements, timed footage to document the timeline, and emotional eyewitness accounts to ground it all in lived experience. These elements work together to deliver a powerful message, that peaceful #EndSARS protesters were fired upon by the military, and the Nigerian government tried to bury the truth. The visuals are intense and heartbreaking, close-up pictures and videos of blood-stained clothing, scattered ID cards, and distressed voices crying out in fear. The background music is subdued and tense, heightening the emotional gravity. It’s clear CNN wants the audience to feel the injustice, to side with the protesters, and to see the incident as a deliberate act of repression that those in power hoped would never come to light.

For those who were on the ground during the protests, CNN’s report was more than just a documentary, it was a moment of truth. Many local #EndSARS protesters viewed it through what Stuart Hall calls a dominant reading. Having experienced the chaos firsthand, they recognized the footage as a confirmation of their truth. The satellite images aligned with what they saw in real time, and the emotional interviews echoed their own stories and trauma. To them, the report wasn’t speculative, it was evidence. It showed the world what they had been screaming for months,  that unarmed citizens were attacked by their own government. CNN’s investigation became a rallying point, a record of what happened, and a symbol of international support. For these viewers, the report hit exactly the way CNN intended, it was seen as honest, urgent, and long overdue.

However, not all Nigerians interpreted the report in exactly the same way. Many citizens, especially those who sympathize with the protests but weren’t directly involved, approached CNN’s investigation with a mix of agreement and skepticism. This is what Hall refers to as a negotiated reading. These viewers generally accepted that something terrible occurred at Lekki Tollgate and that the government’s response was far from transparent. But they also felt that CNN, as an international media outlet, might not have fully captured the real truth of Nigeria’s political issues. Some questioned whether the report leaned too much into intense and loud visuals or lacked the deeper social and economic context needed to understand the bigger picture. For this group, CNN’s message wasn’t completely rejected, but it was filtered through their own understanding of how foreign media sometimes oversimplifies Nigerian issues. They believed the truth of the violence, but they didn’t take the entire report at face value. 

On the other end of the line, the Nigerian government’s response to CNN’s report fell squarely into what Hall describes as an oppositional reading. Government officials and military spokespeople dismissed the report as biased, accusatory, and inaccurate. From their perspective, CNN wasn’t uncovering truth, it was spreading misinformation and pushing a political agenda. The images of gunfire, chaos, and bloodshed were dismissed as either staged, manipulated, or taken out of context. Instead of seeing the soldiers as aggressors, the government painted them as protectors who were maintaining order. They also suggested that some protesters were armed or instigating violence. This decoding was rooted in the government’s need to preserve authority and national image. From their standpoint, the report wasn’t just wrong, it was dangerous, an attack on Nigeria’s sovereignty by foreign media.

For many international viewers, especially in Western countries, CNN’s report was received as a trustworthy and compelling account of human rights abuse. With CNN’s global reputation and excellent storytelling style, most viewers saw the video as a credible example of government brutality. They likely accepted the narrative that peaceful protesters were harmed by the state and felt sympathy and outrage. This is a dominant reading. However, some international viewers may have taken a more negotiated stance. While still believing in the seriousness of the Lekki incident, they might have wanted more context about Nigeria’s political history or heard more directly from local voices. These viewers leaned toward a negotiated reading, they believed the core message but remained cautious about oversimplification or Western bias. Their reaction was a blend of agreement and critical thinking, shaped by awareness of how global media operates.

Stuart Hall’s encoding/decoding theory reminds us that meaning doesn’t stop once a message is produced, it changes based on how different people interpret it. CNN created a report clearly meant to expose government violence, supported by visuals, data, and personal testimony that encouraged viewers to side with the protesters. But how that message landed depended entirely on the viewer’s context. Protesters received it as confirmation and support. Average Nigerians understood its importance but balanced it with their own knowledge of the country. The government rejected it outright to protect its leadership. And international viewers largely accepted it, though some called for more depth and context.

In the end, the Lekki Tollgate report became more than just a news piece, it became a battleground of different meanings. Yes CNN set out to inform and expose, but the message took on different shapes depending on who was watching. That’s the core of Hall’s argument,  media is never neutral. It’s a site of power, where truth is negotiated, challenged, and sometimes resisted. The Lekki story wasn’t just about what happened that night, it’s about who gets to say what it meant. And as long as media exists, that struggle over meaning will continue because different audiences will always have different ideas.