Aníkúlápó: The Ghoul Awakens is the third chapter in Kunle Afolayan’s franchise, a five-episode Netflix series that premiered on January 30, 2026. Returning stars include Kunle Remi (absent this season), Bimbo Ademoye as Arolake, Owobo Ogunde as Bashorun Ogunjimi, and new faces like; Abike Dabiri-Erewa as Iyalode, and others including Taiwo Hassan, Sola Sobowale, Gabriel Afolayan, Lateef Adedimeji, Eyiyemi Afolayan, Moji Afolayan, Aisha Lawal, and Bukumi Adeaga-Ilori.
Directed by Kunle Afolayan, the series expands Yoruba mythology into darker territory, introducing ghouls, soul-feeding, and colonial shadows while shifting from intimate folklore to broader empire intrigue. It is ambitious and visually rich, but the weight of too many subplots and a scattered focus dulls the soul of what made the original film special.
Aníkúlápó: The Ghoul Awakens
Directed by: Kunle Afolayan
Produced by: Kunle Afolayan
Genre: Epic, Supernatural
Released on: January 30, 2025 (Netflix)
Language: Yoruba
A Franchise Expanding Beyond Its Roots
The series picks up after Aníkúlápó: Rise of the Spectre, where Bashorun Ogunjimi’s ambitions led to his downfall. His passage into the afterlife, visually coded as hell (despite the unconvincing CGI), establishes continuity and initially reassures the viewer that the franchise still understands its own mythology. Bashorun’s defining trait has always been his scheming nature, and the series wastes no time reaffirming this. Now in the afterlife, he schemes his way back to the living world, returning not fully alive nor dead. While his return to the living world happens quickly and easily, it does preserve the franchise’s central obsession with death as a negotiable boundary.
Despite lending the season its title, the ‘ghoul’ rarely feels like the story’s driving force. Bashorun operates mostly in the background, orchestrating events rather than directly shaping them. While he is technically responsible for the disappearances, the narrative repeatedly sidelines him in favour of other plotlines. The rules governing his existence remain vague, not in a deliberate, mythic way, but in a manner that suggests uncertainty on the part of the writing itself. This creates a fundamental imbalance. The series insists that the ghoul is a threat, yet it never allows him to dominate the narrative space long enough for that threat to register emotionally. Instead of escalating dread, the story disperses attention. The question becomes unavoidable. If the ghoul is not the focus, then what is?
Back to the plot progression.
Prince Aderoju returns to Oyo to celebration, but discovers his sister Omowunmi is missing from the palace. She was married to Kuranga (killed secretly by Bashorun), and tradition demanded she wed his younger brother Asiru. Aderoju secretly brings her back, breaking fragile peace between Oyo and Ede. Omowunmi’s return is hidden, but the king’s discovery forces Aderoju to send her back, risking war.
Akin and Arolake move to Ilú Saki for a fresh start. Arolake becomes pregnant and gives birth, but finances tighten, exhaustion sets in, and resentment brews. Akin considers joining a singing troupe to raise money, but Arolake notices chemistry between him and the troupe’s female lead.
Awarun and her daughter run a slave trade business, while European ships signal colonial influence. Multiple subplots unfold simultaneously: palace intrigue, family rescue, pregnancy struggles, slave trade, and the ghoul’s quiet terror. The narrative spreads across Oyo, Ede, Ilú Saki, and Cape Coast, broadening the world but scattering focus.
Love, Power, and the Weight of Myth
Reintroducing the death-to-life motif through Bashorun rather than Saro is, on paper, an interesting narrative choice. Bashorun returns as something undefined, a ghoul, neither alive nor dead, bound by unclear rules and sustained only by feeding on the souls of others. It is a solid mythological hook, unsettling, morally charged, and well aligned with the world Aníkúlápó originally built.
The problem is that the series never commits to this premise as its centre.
The franchise began with intimate folklore and personal consequences. This season widens to empire politics, slave trade, and colonial shadows. Love stories multiply: three major ones, each with struggles. The ghoul, central to the title, takes a backseat, working behind the scenes while the subplots dominate.
The show explores power as theft, not destiny. Resurrection and soul-feeding reframe ambition as a curse. Betrayal returns in new forms, but the story leans on grand visuals over tight narrative. Mythology is deep, but the writing sometimes feels stretched, introducing ideas for plot convenience rather than organic growth.
One of the most persistent issues with Aníkúlápó: The Ghoul Awakens is how long it takes to establish its purpose. Five episodes pass without the season articulating a clear narrative or thematic destination. The story is constantly in motion, yet rarely progressing.
Multiple plot threads unfold simultaneously across different locations. Akin and Arolake relocate, attempt to rebuild their lives, face financial difficulties, and navigate pregnancy and childbirth. Arolake discards the magical pouch of limitless money after developing a conscience, a decision with massive implications that the series barely interrogates. Akin joins a dance troupe to raise funds, a development that feels incidental rather than organic.
Elsewhere, the crown prince Aderoju (who appears out of nowhere) returns and immediately reasserts himself, demanding his sister back from Ede. What could have been a serious political and moral conflict is resolved with surprising ease once his father intervenes.
At the same time, the princess, spiritually unmoored after Karanga’s death, drifts through the narrative. Her inability to find peace leads her to flee, stowing away with servants bound for another land, only to end up captured by slave traders. This storyline alone contains enough weight for an entire season, yet here it exists as just another strand in an already overcrowded tapestry. The result is not richness but congestion.
Performances That Anchor and Drift, and Afterthought Characters
Owobo Ogunde’s Bashorun Ogunjimi revival is a grand return. He plays the ghoul like second nature, fierce and commanding. His performance commands fear, even when the character steps back from the foreground.
Bimbo Ademoye delivers one of the standout performances of the show as she continues Arolake’s cycle, struggling to rebuild but facing new hurt. The cast is rich and intentional, from veterans to new faces. Diction is weighty and ceremonial, evoking classic stage play rather than modern screen. Everyone is grounded, fully embodied: royalty, warriors, lovers, villains. The collective commitment to old Yoruba intonation adds gravitas and authenticity.
The series repeatedly introduces characters and ideas as conveniences rather than necessities. New characters like Prince Aderoju appear with little narrative groundwork and are quickly absorbed into the sprawl. Developments occur because the plot requires momentum, not because character arcs demand them.
Arolake’s husband’s sudden discovery of a singing talent and subsequent performance career exemplifies this problem. There is no emotional or narrative preparation for this shift. It exists purely to generate movement and maintain attention. The same is true of the multiple romantic subplots introduced throughout the season. Three separate love stories are layered onto the narrative, each with its own conflicts and emotional beats. None are given the depth required to matter. Instead of enriching the story, they compete for space and further erode focus.
Technical Craft: Rich but Uneven
Cinematography is crisp and immersive. Sets feel lived-in, costumes rich with Yoruba culture. Portuguese characters are thoughtfully styled. The aesthetic pleases overall. A few tribal marks look like face paint, Asiru’s hair and beard verge on comedic, but these are minor.
The score and music, composed by Oludamilola Adewale Aluko aim to serve as an emotional guide through the narrative. They are purposeful in intent, rising to heighten mood during key dramatic turns and ritual moments. Yet for a film of this mythic scale and visual grandeur, the overall soundscape feels strangely restrained. Where sweeping, soul-stirring orchestral layers or enigmatic motifs could have deepened the sense of ancient power and cosmic stakes, the music remains understated, often instrumental, subtle, and content to merely underscore rather than truly elevate.
The result is a peculiar silence beneath the spectacle: the score is there, but it rarely fills the frame with the kind of transcendent, haunting presence that the world-building and cultural weight seem to demand.
The film look compliments the genre. However, CGI is uneven especially for the ghoul, turning tension into unintentional comedy.
Final Thoughts
Disappointing. Tonally, the series drifts far from its mythic roots. At times, it feels less like a historical fantasy grounded in folklore and consequence, and more like a domestic drama where conflicts emerge and dissolve with soap-like regularity. Many scenes play as though events are occurring simply because the format demands activity, not because the story requires it.
This tonal confusion underscores a deeper issue. The series does not seem to know why it exists beyond sustaining the franchise.
Perhaps the most damaging choice is how the season ends. After five episodes, and roughly five hours of storytelling, the series resolves almost nothing. Major plotlines are cut short. Conflicts remain suspended. There is no sense of culmination, no thematic or emotional closure, not even the courtesy of a clear continuation marker.
This abrupt ending feels calculated rather than artistic, a deliberate withholding designed to manufacture anticipation for another instalment. Instead, it produces irritation. The series had ample time to justify its existence and tell a complete story. The refusal to commit to finality only reinforces the perception of a franchise stretched beyond its natural lifespan.
The material feels overextended. Continuing this franchise no longer feels like exploration. It feels like obligation. At this stage, the argument that Aníkúlápó should have remained a film series becomes difficult to ignore. The first film justified its scope and ambition. Subsequent entries, especially The Ghoul Awakens, struggle under the weight of episodic expansion. What might have worked as a tightly constructed sequel film collapses when stretched into a series format that demands constant escalation without narrative discipline.
Aníkúlápó: The Ghoul Awakens is not undone by a lack of ideas, but by an excess of them and a refusal to prioritise. It is everything everywhere all at once, without the precision, restraint, or purpose required to make such ambition coherent. The season introduces mythology, politics, romance, migration, slavery, spirituality, and family drama, yet never decides which of these deserves to lead.
By the end, the most pressing question is no longer what happens next, but why this story is still being told.
Verdict
Aníkúlápó: The Ghoul Awakens suits viewers who love Yoruba mythology and visual grandeur, even if pacing and plot waver. It offers rich cultural depth and ambitious world-building, but demands patience with its sprawl. Ambitious yet uneven, overly disappointing. It risks losing the original spark that made the first feature film so unforgettable.
Rating: 2.4/5
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