To Kill A Monkey is a visual knockout — crisp cinematography, compelling sound design, and a gritty, modern Nigerian aesthetic. Created by Kemi Adetiba, the eight-part limited series takes on corruption, loyalty, and survival. But where it dazzles technically, it stumbles narratively.
Starring William Benson as Efemini, a software genius with world-changing potential, and Bucci Franklin as Oboz, a fierce and loyal street hustler, the series opens strong. The chemistry between the two anchors the early story, portraying a friendship bound by hardship but ripe with ambition. Supporting them are powerhouses like Bimbo Akintola as the obsessive Inspector Mo Ogunlesi, and Stella Damasus as Nosa, adding a much needed A-list vibe and depth to the ensemble.
But despite this high-caliber cast, the series quickly becomes a morality sermon — one that feels forced, predictable, and unbalanced.
Efemini, the quiet, brilliant protagonist, develops AI software that could revolutionize fraud detection in a country drowning in financial crime. Yet the very society that should uplift him instead drives him to desperation. His talent goes unrecognized. His needs go unmet. He is left to endure exploitation, humiliation, and eventually betrayal — not just by the characters around him, but by the script itself.
Oboz, for all his flaws, is portrayed with loyalty and street smarts. He protects Efe and believes in him, but is handed a plot twist that feels more like punishment than resolution. It’s betrayal not just of character, but of genre expectation — the antihero arc starts but never finishes.
Inspector Mo Ogunlesi, a metaphor for the Nigerian state, emerges the only clear “winner” — despite bending rules, defying superiors, and being motivated largely by personal vendetta. In a bizarre twist, her moral ambiguity is rewarded while Efe’s silent endurance leads to destruction.
What’s worse is the glaring lack of accountability from those in power. The sexual harassment Efe endures from his boss (a role that receives no narrative consequence), the poverty that pushes him to the edge, and the silence of the very system that should have nurtured him — none of it is resolved or even properly interrogated.
Instead, the series ends with a message many Nigerian youth have heard too many times: suffer quietly, die broke, and don’t challenge the system. It’s a defeatist note dressed up as moral triumph. And it’s exhausting.
This could have been Nigeria’s Breaking Bad — a searing critique of structural failure, wrapped in compelling drama. But To Kill A Monkey refuses to implicate the real villains. It offers no grace to its heroes. It pushes a flawed idea that crime must always fail, without asking why it starts in the first place.
Final Word
This is not a bad series — it’s beautifully acted and technically excellent. But it had the potential to be revolutionary. Instead, it plays it safe, appeases power, and repeats the same old cautionary tale, where the state always wins, and the people always lose.
