Veterans Patience Ozokwor and Kanayo O. Kanayo have reignited debate over royalty payments in Nollywood, calling for systemic change in how actors are compensated. In an April 4, 2026 interview on the Curiosity Made Me Ask podcast with Isbae U, Ozokwor stated that actors receive only a one-time payment for their work, with no residuals despite ongoing profits from films on television and streaming platforms. She attributed the financial struggles of many veteran actors to this model, saying, "The reason why Nollywood actors and actresses are poor is because we don't get royalties for what we do; we only get paid for our appearance at the shoot." She contrasted this with actors in developed film industries, who earn from past projects throughout their lives and leave inheritable income for their families.
Kanayo O. Kanayo echoed the concern, advocating for legislation to enforce royalty payments and highlighting structural flaws in the industry's financial framework. However, the call met resistance from younger figures. Actress Bolaji Ogunmola and filmmaker Jade Osiberu pushed back, arguing that filmmaking is capital-intensive and that profitability is not guaranteed. Osiberu stressed that focusing solely on actor payouts ignores the broader ecosystem, saying, "Any single player just looking to earn without thinking about the whole value chain and ecosystem needs to settle down and really learn about their industry."
Patience Ozokwor's blunt declaration on April 4, 2026—that Nollywood actors are poor because they don't receive royalties—strips away decades of polite silence around exploitation in the industry. Her words name a system that has enriched distributors, marketers and now streaming platforms, while the faces that built Nollywood's global image are left with nothing when the cameras stop rolling. This is not nostalgia; it is an indictment of an industry that monetises memories without compensating the people who made them.
The resistance from Bolaji Ogunmola and Jade Osiberu reveals a generational and economic rift. Their argument—that filmmaking requires heavy upfront investment—holds weight in an industry where many productions still operate on razor-thin margins. But it also reflects a shift: today's creators are not just performers but producers, directors and platform owners who control distribution. When Osiberu says actors must understand the "value chain," she is describing a new Nollywood where power has moved from performers to entrepreneurs.
For ordinary actors, especially those from the 1990s and early 2000s, the absence of royalties means no pension, no fallback, and no recognition in the revenue streams their labour helped create. Many now rely on social media or public appeals for survival, while their films generate passive income for others. This isn't just about fairness—it's about whether artistic contribution in Nigeria will ever be treated as lasting economic value.
A pattern is clear: as Nollywood professionalises, its financial architecture still excludes those who defined its golden era. The clash isn't really about money changing hands—it's about who gets to define what Nollywood owes its own.
