‘My Father’s Shadow’ Review: Childhood, Memory, and Political Upheaval in Nigeria

Parents—at least as seen by their young children—are mysterious figures: larger than life, ultimately unknowable. Kids may feel they know them, yet there are always things that don’t quite add up—things they say, things they do, their absences, their silences, the way they look at you. Maybe children don’t consciously dwell on it—they’re busy with other concerns—but they register it all the same. And that sense of distance only deepens when the father is largely absent, living a life elsewhere, one his children can barely begin to imagine.

My Father’s Shadow is a poetic, quietly beautiful attempt to reckon with that absence—to bridge that gap, or at least to give it shape. Like Aftersun, it revisits a father through a child’s perspective (here, two brothers), filtered through the retrospective clarity of adulthood, when fleeting impressions begin to make emotional sense. With elegance and restraint, and grounded in a vivid sense of place—occasionally punctuated by stylistic flourishes that hint at his background as a visual artist—Akinola Davies Jr. transforms memory into a resonant, melancholic portrait of a single day in the life of a father and his sons in Nigeria.

Set in June 1993, the film is not only autobiographical but anchored in a pivotal moment in Nigerian history: the country’s first free elections in over a decade, meant to bring an end to the military rule of Ibrahim Babangida, with MKO Abiola widely expected to win. At first, this political backdrop remains peripheral to the family story, but it gradually seeps into it—shaping both the broader atmosphere and the characters’ immediate reality, as hope, uncertainty, and tension ripple through everyday life.

Akim and Remi, aged eleven and eight (played by real-life brothers Chibuike Marvellous Egbo and Godwin Egbo), live in a rural town hours away from Lagos. Their mother works, leaving them to their own devices—bickering, improvising routines—until she returns. Their father, Folarin (played by Ṣọpẹ́ Dìrísù), is largely absent, based in the capital, drifting in and out of their lives. When he unexpectedly shows up one day, planning only a brief visit before leaving again, the boys persuade him—reluctantly—to take them along to Lagos, on the condition they return that same night so as not to alarm their mother.

What follows is a loose, episodic journey through the city, one that unfolds as both an adventure and a gradual revelation. Lagos is overwhelming to the boys—an assault of sounds, colors, and movement—and Davies captures that sensory overload with remarkable acuity. The film tracks them as they trail behind their father, catching glimpses of a life they don’t fully understand: a job where he’s owed money and forced to wait for payment, acquaintances who greet him with deference (calling him “Capo”), fleeting exchanges with a woman, scattered lessons about survival and dignity. Passing through certain places triggers memories of how he met their mother, fragments of a past the boys can only partially grasp.

All the while, the political tension builds in the background. The optimism surrounding the elections coexists with unease—fears that the military may refuse to relinquish power, that the results may never be honored. These undercurrents mirror, in subtle ways, the instability and uncertainty within the family itself.

The film resists exposition, and wisely so: everything is filtered through the children’s limited understanding. Even between the brothers there are differences—one is more skeptical of their father, the other more admiring; one longs to return home, the other wants to stay. As the day unfolds, what initially feels like a kaleidoscopic, almost chaotic experience gradually reveals itself as something more lasting—not necessarily in the moment, but in retrospect, when revisited with the emotional literacy of adulthood.

The autobiographical dimension—Davies co-wrote the film with his older brother Wade—underscores the enduring value of what is often called “quality time”: those encounters that forge bonds, create memory, and momentarily close emotional distances. Dìrísù gives Folarin a compelling ambiguity—at times authoritative and composed, at others tender, uncertain, even vulnerable—remaining, in the end, as enigmatic to the audience as he is to his children.

It is precisely through that embrace of mystery—through its refusal to over-explain, its commitment to experience over interpretation—that My Father’s Shadow emerges as one of the most striking and revelatory works in contemporary African cinema.