Kannywood

By Prince Daniel Aboki

Every Nigerian has the constitutional right to support any political party or candidate of their choice. That right is guaranteed by the Constitution and should always be respected.

However, an industry cannot thrive when, every election cycle, a few individuals position themselves as speaking on behalf of everyone, mobilising groups to endorse politicians and, in the process, reducing the industry’s engagement with government to the pursuit of personal benefits.

When this becomes the dominant culture, the industry risks not being taken seriously. Government and development partners are beginning to see the industry not as a strategic economic sector but as a collection of individuals seeking patronage every four years. More often than not, the distribution of cash gifts, vehicles, and other favours also creates avoidable divisions within the industry, as practitioners become aligned with competing political interests. Instead of fostering unity around the collective growth of Kannywood, election seasons too often leave the industry fragmented long after the campaigns have ended.

Politicians understand the influence that Kannywood celebrities command, particularly in Kano and across Northern Nigeria. They know these personalities can shape public opinion, mobilise supporters, and amplify campaign messages during elections. That influence is valuable, but it should be used as a bargaining tool to secure lasting benefits for the entire industry—not for personal aggrandisement. Our collective influence should translate into meaningful negotiations for better policies, sustainable funding, stronger institutions, improved infrastructure, and greater opportunities for everyone in Kannywood, rather than short-term personal gains for a few individuals.

Kannywood is far bigger than election campaigns. It is one of Northern Nigeria’s greatest cultural and economic assets. It has the capacity to create thousands of jobs, preserve and promote our culture, strengthen social values, attract tourism, earn foreign exchange, stimulate investment, and project Northern Nigeria to the world.

What makes this even more compelling is that Kannywood has already demonstrated its commercial strength. Some of its producers operate some of the biggest and most successful YouTube channels in Nigeria, attracting millions of views and building significant audiences worldwide. That success should not remain the achievement of a few individuals. It should be consolidated into an industry-wide strategy that creates opportunities for younger filmmakers, actors, writers, directors, editors, cinematographers, musicians, and other creative professionals.

This is the conversation we should be having with those in office and those seeking public office.

Rather than seeking cash gifts, vehicles, or personal favours, we should be demanding policies that strengthen the entire industry: film villages, production funds, affordable financing, stronger copyright protection, modern cinema infrastructure, professional training, international partnerships, tax incentives, and support for participation in global film markets and festivals. That is how enduring creative industries are built.

Over the years, Nollywood has increasingly engaged government and development partners on issues that strengthen the industry’s ecosystem. The conversation has largely centred on policy, investment, institutional support, skills development, financing, and international collaboration. Individual practitioners may support political candidates—as they are entitled to—but the industry’s long-term development has remained a central focus.

This does not mean Nollywood is a perfect congregation. There have also been individuals within Nollywood who have pursued personal interests above the collective interest of the industry. However, when the two industries are compared, Nollywood has, on balance, positioned itself more effectively as a strategic partner in industry development, policy engagement, and institutional growth. Kannywood can do the same.

We must stop approaching politicians with a cap in hand every election season. An industry with this much talent, influence, and economic potential should not present itself as a sector waiting for handouts. It should present itself as a partner in development—one capable of creating jobs, generating revenue, attracting investment, promoting tourism, preserving culture, and contributing meaningfully to the economy of Northern Nigeria.

Politicians will respect Kannywood when Kannywood first respects its own value. This is not a criticism of anyone’s constitutional right to participate in politics or support a candidate. Rather, it is a call for Kannywood to recognise its collective economic power and organise itself as an industry worthy of sustained investment, strategic partnerships, and long-term development.

The question should no longer be, “Who is giving us what?” The question should be, “What policies, investments, and partnerships will transform Kannywood into one of Africa’s most competitive creative industries?”

The future of Kannywood will not be determined by what a handful of individuals receive during an election season. It will be determined by what the entire industry builds together for generations to come.

The choice before us is simple: we can continue chasing political patronage every four years, or we can build an industry that creates wealth, creates jobs, attracts investment, shapes culture, and becomes impossible for governments and the rest of the world to ignore.

Prince Daniel is “A Concerned Citizen” and a filmmaker. He can be reached via blackvillemedia@gmail.com.

By Mubarak Umar

There are television series you watch for entertainment, and there are those that remind you what storytelling is truly capable of.

Matan Gida, created by Abubakar Bashir Maishadda, is one of those rare productions.

For years, Hausa television has largely remained within the familiar territory of domestic disputes, predictable romances, and neatly resolved family conflicts. Audiences have become accustomed to stories that rarely challenge expectations. Matan Gida breaks away from that tradition with remarkable confidence.

The series is driven by a screenplay that feels fearless. I can sense that when Ibrahim Birniwa opened his PC to draft Matan Gidan, he wasn’t writing to satisfy convention; he was writing to provoke thought. The script explores uncomfortable realities, moral ambiguities, power dynamics, and the hidden complexities in our everyday lives, subjects that many filmmakers have hesitated to approach. Every episode feels intentional, with dialogue that carries weight and scenes that linger long after the credits roll.

The entire cast truly deserves equal praise. The ensemble is balanced, with each actor bringing a distinct personality and energy to the screen. There is no sense of characters competing for attention; instead, every performance contributes meaningfully to the larger narrative. It is this diversity of characterisation that gives Matan Gida its emotional richness and realism.

Abubakar Maishadda deserves credit for trusting a script that challenges Kannywood’s conventional cinema. Because producing a series like Matan Gida is a creative statement. It proves that audiences are ready for mature, thought-provoking stories.

And now comes the real test.

With Season Two premiering today, expectations are high. The first season didn’t just tell a complex story—it raised the standard in Kannywood. Audiences will be expecting deeper conflicts, higher emotional stakes, more character arcs, and answers to the questions deliberately left hanging. More importantly, viewers will expect the series to preserve the boldness that made the first season stand out rather than retreat into familiar territory.

If Ibrahim Birniwa’s pen remains as fearless as it was in Season One, and if the series continues on the pedestal that challenges both the industry and its audience, Matan Gida has every chance of becoming one of the defining works of modern Hausa television.

By Ibrahim Aliyu

Over the past few decades, Kannywood has grown into one of the most influential cultural industries in Northern Nigeria. Rooted in the Hausa language, Islamic values, and local traditions, it has shaped entertainment, storytelling, and public discourse across millions of homes. For many families, Kannywood was never merely cinema; it became a reflection of identity, morality, family structure, and social values.

Yet despite its cultural importance, Kannywood continues to attract criticism from various sections of society. Some believe the industry has drifted from the moral and religious principles it once claimed to uphold. Others argue that society itself has become increasingly harsh, suspicious, and contradictory in its judgments of public morality.

Perhaps the deeper issue is not merely “bad behaviour” in the industry, but the growing tension among public morality, private intentions, and shifting social perceptions.

In Islam, unnecessary physical intimacy between non-Mahram men and women is generally discouraged, and Hausa society has historically taken such boundaries seriously and with respect. However, there was also a period in Northern Nigeria when families could sit together and watch classic Kannywood comedy scenes featuring actors such as Ibro and Tsigai without automatically interpreting every interaction through a sexual lens.

Parents watched alongside their children. Grandparents watched with their grandchildren. Communities laughed together. At the time, many viewers saw those scenes primarily as comedy, storytelling, and harmless entertainment within a familiar cultural context.

This raises an important question: What changed?

Part of the answer may lie in how modern society increasingly interprets many human interactions through suspicion and moral anxiety. The rapid expansion of social media, unrestricted internet access, celebrity culture, and exposure to explicit online content have reshaped how people perceive entertainment, gender interactions, and morality itself.

As a result, public discussions about morality sometimes become less about intentions, discipline, and character, and more about appearances and public performance. In such an environment, accusations of immorality can spread quickly, even when the cultural context or the intention is more complex.

Hausa society contains longstanding cultural traditions that show how social interaction has historically been understood within context and boundaries. Practices such as “wasan kanin miji” and “wasan kaka da jika” reflect playful social interactions that coexisted with strong family values and respect for marriage institutions. These interactions were not automatically deemed immoral because society recognised the importance of trust, intention, and communal understanding.

This does not mean boundaries should disappear, nor does it suggest that moral principles are unimportant. Rather, it highlights the need for balance, sincerity, and self-awareness when discussing morality in public life.

The danger arises when society becomes more concerned with appearing morally superior than with cultivating genuine ethical discipline. Excessive suspicion, constant public outrage, and the tendency to sexualise ordinary human behaviour can deepen social tension rather than achieve genuine moral reform.

In this sense, Kannywood is more than a film industry. It has become a mirror reflecting the wider struggles within Northern society — the struggle between tradition and modernity, religious values and entertainment culture, public expectations and private realities.

The debate surrounding Kannywood is therefore not only about actors, actresses, or films. It is also about how society defines morality, how communities respond to cultural change, and whether public conversations about ethics are guided by wisdom, balance, and sincerity rather than by fear, projection, or moral performance.

As Northern Nigeria continues to evolve socially and culturally, perhaps the challenge is not to destroy cultural institutions out of anxiety, but to engage them thoughtfully, critically, and honestly — while preserving the values that truly strengthen society.

Ibrahim Aliyu wrote via khalilnuradeen@gmail.com.

By Lawan Bukar Maigana

In recent times, Kannywood, the Hausa film industry, has continued to evolve with productions that spark both entertainment and reflection. Kaddara stands out as one such seasonal series that is profoundly produced and emotionally engaging. Although I have only watched two episodes so far, the quality and depth are already evident.

What makes the series particularly compelling is its bold attempt to explore complex human behaviour within marriage. It presents not just a story, but a mirror through which society can examine itself. The character of Haidar, played by Adam A. Zango, introduces a troubling but important conversation.

If a woman, by fate or circumstance, finds herself married to someone like Haidar, her life may gradually become defined by suspicion. No matter how responsible, careful, or committed she is, she may still live under constant scrutiny. This raises a sincere question. Do such men still exist in our society today?

One cannot help but ask why a man would choose to marry a woman he does not trust. Marriage, by its very nature, is built on trust, understanding, and mutual respect. When suspicion becomes the foundation, the relationship is already standing on fragile ground.

Another striking element of Khaidar’s character is his decision to prevent his wife, Maimuna (played by Nafisa Abdullahi), from working. This is not just a personal preference. It directly dismisses the years of effort, sacrifice, and resources invested in her education. It reduces her potential to nothing more than a perceived threat.

His justification is rooted in fear. He claims that allowing her to work would expose her to the gaze of other men, including her employer. This line of thinking raises an important concern. Is this truly protection, or is it insecurity disguised as control?

This leads to a deeper question about the purpose of knowledge. Is education only valuable when it results in employment? Is impact measured solely by financial contribution or professional visibility? These are questions that go beyond the storyline and touch on societal values.

The truth is that knowledge is never wasted. Even outside formal employment, an educated person contributes meaningfully to family, community, and society. However, denying someone the opportunity to apply that knowledge based on unfounded fears is neither fair nor balanced.

Haidar further justifies his actions by referencing a hadith about the concept of dayyuth. According to his interpretation, a man who lacks protective jealousy over his wife risks severe spiritual consequences. This is where the conversation becomes even more critical.

The concept of protective jealousy in Islam is often misunderstood. It is meant to preserve dignity and moral boundaries, not to justify oppression or excessive control. When taken out of context, it can easily be weaponised against those it is supposed to protect.

Scholars have long clarified that a dayyuth is a person who knowingly accepts clear immorality without concern. It does not refer to a man who simply allows his wife to live, grow, and function within ethical boundaries. There is a clear difference between awareness of wrongdoing and baseless suspicion.

What Kaddara presents, whether intentionally or not, is a reflection of how religious teachings can be misapplied. It highlights a reality where some individuals use fragments of knowledge to justify actions that contradict the broader principles of justice and balance.

If Maimuna were a sister, the advice would be simple yet firm. Marriage should not strip away dignity, purpose, or peace of mind. There must be room for dialogue, understanding, and growth. Where suspicion replaces trust, there must be honest reflection and, if necessary, intervention.

In the end, Kaddara is more than a series. It is a conversation starter. It challenges viewers to question not just the characters on screen, but the norms and beliefs that exist within society. And perhaps that is its greatest strength.

For the first time in a while, I have come across a Kannywood series trailer so compelling that it instantly made me crave its release. Such is the effect of the newly released trailer for the upcoming series Kaddara, unveiled yesterday.

It is worth recalling that the series was announced a few months ago by Abnur Entertainment. It has since generated considerable buzz due to the reputation of the producers and its stellar cast, including the veteran Nafisa Abdullahi, who is making a comeback after a prolonged hiatus from the Kannywood film industry.

The compelling has further amplified the anticipation. The editing is deliberate, showing only fragments of conflict without revealing the full shape of the narrative. In other words, the trailer teases just enough to excite without giving away the complexity of the plot.

This restraint is commendable, as it avoids the common pitfall of overexposure that plagues many Kannywood teasers.

Equally significant is the assembly of the cast. Alongside Nafisa Abdullahi are Ibrahim Maishunku and Zahradden Sani, whose reduced visibility in recent years has made their presence here particularly noteworthy. They are complemented by the constant faces of Ali Nuhu, Adam Zango, and Falalu Dorayi, among others. Naturally, this is a cast designed to deliver.

However, trailers are just promises, not guarantees. Kannywood has, on several occasions, produced compelling previews that ultimately led to uneven final products. The real test for Kaddara will therefore lie in its narrative discipline.

Kaddara is scheduled for release on Sunday, April 12, 2026. We wait to see whether it can sustain tension, avoid melodramatic excess, and translate its visual appeal into a coherent and engaging story.

Habibu Maaruf Abdu 

habibumaaruf11@gmail.com

By Shamwil Ibrahim (Justice)

The news of Umar Ascon’s death arrived with a weight that words can barely carry. For many who knew him, it felt unreal, like a story told in error, a rumour that would soon be corrected. But it was true. Umar Ascon was gone. For those of us who shared a classroom with him, the loss feels even more personal.

I first met Umar Ascon in 2015 at Kano State Polytechnic. We were both admitted to study English and Applied Linguistics. Like many students starting a new academic journey, we were strangers brought together by the same course and the same campus. Yet it did not take long for Umar to become someone impossible to overlook.

He was one of the funniest people in our class and, arguably, in the entire department. Wherever Umar was, laughter followed. His humour was natural and effortless. He had a way of turning ordinary conversations into moments of joy. In lecture halls, corridors, or casual gatherings around campus, Umar had the rare ability to make people forget their worries, even if only for a moment.

Although he was older than me, Umar never allowed age to create distance between us. He treated everyone with openness and warmth. Over time, what began as a simple acquaintance developed into friendship. Across Kano State Polytechnic, Umar was already known by many students. Whenever he walked across campus, people would often point him out and whisper a familiar word: celebrity.

The reason was simple. Even during his years as a student, Umar Ascon was already appearing in Kannywood films. He was gradually building his presence in the Hausa film industry while still pursuing his education. For many students, seeing someone from their own classroom on television screens was both surprising and inspiring.

Yet what made Umar remarkable was not just his growing recognition in the film industry. It was his humility.

Despite the attention he received, Umar remained approachable and friendly. He never carried himself with arrogance. Instead, he used his position to encourage and uplift others.

For me, Umar did something that would shape my life. He introduced me to the Kannywood film industry. Through him, I found my own path into filmmaking, a voyage that continues to define my creative life today. Opportunities like that often come through people who believe in you before the world does. Umar was that person.

Even in recent times, Umar continued to think about the future of the industry he loved. The last conversation I had with him was about a film project he was planning. Umar spoke passionately about creating a production that could reach global standards, a film capable of standing proudly alongside international productions on platforms such as Netflix. He believed strongly that the Hausa film industry had the talent and stories needed to reach the world.

His dream was not only to entertain audiences but to elevate the industry. That dream now remains unfinished.

When the news of his death reached me, disbelief overwhelmed me. I felt compelled to confirm it myself. I called his phone. His wife answered. My voice shook as I asked, almost hoping the answer would dismiss the rumour. “Where is Umar?”

There was silence for a moment. Then, through tears, she spoke words that will remain with me forever. “Umar is no more.” She explained that he had passed away following complications related to liver illness. In that moment, reality settled with painful clarity.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un.

Umar Ascon’s death represents a profound loss not only to his family and friends but also to the Kannywood film community. He was talented, vibrant, and deeply passionate about his craft. His presence brought laughter to classrooms, energy to film sets, and encouragement to those around him.

Some people leave behind fame. Others leave behind fortune. Umar left behind something far more enduring: memories, laughter, and inspiration.

For those who knew him, the echoes of his humour and kindness will remain long after this moment of grief passes.

May Allah forgive his shortcomings, grant him Aljannatul Firdaus, and give strength to all those mourning his loss.

Umar Ascon may be gone, but the stories, laughter, and dreams he shared will continue to live on. History will be so kind to you, Umar Ascon (Chairman).

Shamwil Ibrahim (Justice) wrote via ibrahimshamawilu@gmail.com.

The new series, Bakan Gizo, is unique for departing from the usual Kannywood storytelling. It is much like a thriller, narrated with suspense and tension, while exploring the immoral lifestyle that is rampant among young people today.

Directed by Kamal S. Akali, the story follows Sharifa (Mommy Gombe), a young woman who leaves her home state, Gombe, to study at Bayero University, Kano. There, she is drawn into a new social circle through her free-spirited friends, Salma (Zahrah Aliyu) and Zee (Bilkisu Abdullahi). She also begins an affair with Abba (Yusuf Saseen), who is deeply in love with her but increasingly possessive.

Sharifa is not content with Abba as her partner. She, therefore, enters a new relationship with Sharif (Isah Adam Feroz Khan), a spoiled brat from a wealthy family. However, things take a violent turn when her two lovers discover each other, leading to Sharif being stabbed in the stomach.

Judging by its genre, which is well-suited for a series film format, Bakan Gizo promises to be a compelling and attention-grabbing production. Viewers are already left in suspense to see how the story unfolds, particularly how Sharif’s wealthy mother, a high-ranking police officer (played by Hauwa Farar Lema) who also sleeps with Abba, will investigate the unfortunate incident that befalls her son.

The series appears to draw stylistic inspiration from Indian cinema. This is unsurprising, given director Kamal S. Akali’s creative history, including adaptations of films like Velayudham (as Kanwar Dubarudu) and Drishyam (as Umar Sanda) for Kannywood audiences.

The narrative revolves around a single storyline with interrelated characters. However, while the characters are well connected, some scenes feel disjointed, making the transition between episodes one and two almost convoluted.

On the other hand, although the performances come across as slightly over-the-top, the stellar cast remains highly effective. Seeing Mommy Gombe and Zahrah Aliyu reunite their chemistry from Gidan Sarauta, alongside the rivalry of Isah Adam (Feroz Khan) and Yusuf Saseen (as seen in Labarina), makes for an enjoyable watch.

Finally, it is too early to pass judgment, but I recommend Bakan Gizo for its fresh storytelling approach in the Kannywood series.

Reviewed by:

Taqdeer (Divine Decree), a 2025 Nigerian Islamic film directed by Ruben Reng, is a captivating tale of love, fate, and cultural heritage. Starring Ibrahim, Sakina, Mustapha, and Zainab as leading characters, this film weaves a narrative that explores the intricacies of human relationships against the backdrop of Nigerian and Hausa traditions.

The film’s plot revolves around themes of destiny, faith, and choices, unfolding a story that keeps viewers engaged. The narrative delves into the lives of its characters, exploring their struggles and triumphs in a way that resonates deeply. 

Watching Taqdeer is a visually immersive experience. The cinematography captures the vibrant essence of Abuja, blending traditional and modern elements harmoniously. The film’s use of Hausa language and Islamic cultural references adds authenticity, making the story feel both personal and universal. The performances by the cast are compelling, bringing depth to their characters.

Taqdeer’s formal techniques, such as its cinematography and sound design, effectively enhance the narrative’s emotional impact. The film’s portrayal of Islamic moral themes and traditions provides a rich context for the story, making it relatable and thought-provoking. The blend of music and story-based sound adds to the film’s atmosphere, drawing viewers into the world it creates.

Analytically, while Taqdeer is strong in many areas, certain scenes linger longer than necessary, which can detract from the story’s overall momentum. Nevertheless, these moments are outweighed by the film’s strength, particularly its moral richness.

In conclusion, Taqdeer is worth watching for its engaging narrative, moral richness, and strong performances. It offers a glimpse into Nigerian Muslim culture and explores universal themes of love and fate, making it a compelling watch for audiences interested in diverse storytelling.  

Reviewed by

Rexford Asamoah Adu

radu@smail.uni-koeln.de

To Kannywood audiences, the TV series Gidan Badamasi needs no introduction. It is arguably the most successful comedy series since the industry’s migration to YouTube/TV series production. There have been other popular comedy series, such as Zafin Nema and Jikokin Maigari. However, none has matched the reach and longevity of Gidan Badamasi.

After six successful seasons, Gidan Badamasi now returned with Season 7. Only two episodes have been released so far, yet the new season already shows the potential to surpass its predecessors. This is due to its thematic preoccupation, which tackles the issue of insecurity in Northern Nigeria and the problematic framing of the Fulani ethnic group as terrorists without distinction. The new season rightly reinforces a crucial truth: that terrorism has no religion or ethnicity.

The first episode opens with Alhaji Badamasi (Magaji Mijinyawa) and his aide, Taska (Falalu Dorayi), being abducted by kidnappers. The kidnappers’ kingpin, Dan Tsito, is portrayed as Fulani.  However, the narrative shows that Dan Tsito’s criminal path begins within his own community (Rugga), before extending into the forest, where he operates alongside criminals from other ethnic groups. 

The series obviously avoids ethnic reductionism and offers a more balanced portrayal of terrorists and terrorism in Nigeria. It also dismantles the notion of selective victimhood by presenting Alhaji Badamasi, a Hausa Muslim, and his aide as victims. This challenges how the international community often wrongly assumes that terrorism in Nigeria targets only Christians, and how films like The Herd (2025) subtly reinforce that misleading narrative.

The director, Falalu Dorayi and the creative team deserve commendation for addressing this sensitive issue with courage and clarity. This is the kind of storytelling Northern filmmakers must prioritise – telling their own stories truthfully rather than allowing outsiders to define their realities.

The series is also technically solid. Both picture quality and sound design are commendable. However, based on the two episodes released so far, the makers need to be more restrained with unnecessary comic scenes. A more disciplined approach would allow the series to do full justice to the seriousness of its subject matter.

In conclusion, Gidan Badamasi Season 7 shows strong promise. It remains as entertaining as previous seasons while effectively blending important social issues into its narrative. I highly recommend it.

Reviewed by

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

Yunusa Mu’azu, a well-known actor and producer in the Kannywood film industry, has issued a public appeal for urgent financial support for popular actress Zee Diamond Talatuwa, fondly known by fans as Maman Bintalo from the hit television drama Labarina.

In a statement posted on his official Facebook page, Yunusa Mu’azu revealed that the actress is battling a serious and life-threatening medical condition involving blocked blood vessels and abnormally thick blood. According to medical reports shared in the post, the condition—linked to hereditary factors and allergies—has made even basic intravenous treatment difficult and places her at high risk of heart failure and kidney complications.

Doctors have reportedly advised that Zee Diamond must be taken abroad for specialized treatment, as the condition cannot be adequately managed locally. The total cost of the medical procedure and travel is estimated at ₦25 million.

Yunusa disclosed that members of the Kannywood community, alongside the actress’s relatives, have so far raised approximately ₦18 million, leaving a shortfall of ₦7 million. He added that medical experts have warned that the treatment must be carried out within the next two months, stressing that any delay could have fatal consequences.

The appeal has triggered renewed calls for support across social media, with colleagues, fans, and well-wishers urged to contribute toward closing the funding gap. The development has once again drawn attention to the health challenges faced by creative industry professionals and the strong culture of solidarity within the Hausa film industry.