Baby Farm opens the door to one of society’s darkest corners. A white couple running a “sanctuary” for pregnant, helpless girls. But underneath the carefully painted walls is a reality far darker. A woman seeking the one thing her fame and wealth cannot buy. A girl, trapped between her past and her unborn child, steps into a house where charity is a veil, and beneath it, something sinister lurks.

A Sanctuary that Becomes a Cage

There is something deeply unsettling about places that promise salvation but hide something far worse.

From the very first frame, Baby Farm sets an unsettling tone. The opening shot is intimate and raw: a woman in labour, her face contorted in agony. There’s no glamour, no softening of the pain—only the stark reality of childbirth. This directorial choice immediately signals that the series will not be an easy watch. It’s an introduction that demands attention, a visual and emotional warning of the horrors to come.

We later learn that this woman is Ebun (Genoveva Umeh), but Baby Farm is not only her story—it is Adanna’s (Onyinye Odokoro). Adanna’s journey begins with her desperate escape to Lagos after discovering she is pregnant. She is young, alone, and vulnerable, quickly finding herself homeless before being taken in by the Evans Foundation.

The World of Baby Farm: How the Film Traps Us

There’s what we are told, and there’s what we see.

The Evans Foundation presents itself as a refuge—a home for teenage mothers abandoned by their families, a place where shame turns to solace. But beneath the carefully curated charity lies a thriving market, a system where desperation is currency and newborns are the product. That is the world Baby Farm drops us into—a world where kindness is a façade, and innocence is easily exploited.

Motherhood is not a choice here, and babies are not born into the arms of their mothers but into a system that sees them as currency. Baby Farm—a name that strips away the illusion of safety, revealing the cold, transactional reality beneath. The series attempts to pull us into this world of deception and desperation—but does it fully immerse us, or does it falter when it matters most?

One of the film’s strongest tools is its dialogue. Conversations are precise, and real, carrying the weight of manipulation, fear, and quiet defiance. The writing lets us sit in the tension, forcing us to read between the lines.

Episode 1: Lost and Found

The first episode is all about deception—the warmth of The Evans Foundation masking something much colder. Adanna enters believing she has found safety, but we, as the audience, see the cracks from the very beginning.

Genoveva Umeh understands her character’s complexity to the last detail. Her performance is filled with nuance—there’s something unnervingly innocent about her, something broken yet utterly convinced of its own rightness. The cinematography, the score, the uneasy pacing—it all works to make us feel the psychological weight of Adanna’s new reality.

With so much story and substance packed into its runtime, Baby Farm never overstays its welcome. The pacing feels deliberate—each moment given the space it needs, making the series feel urgent without being rushed.

Episode 2: No Way Out

By Episode 2, the narrative pulls us in so effectively that critical thinking almost takes a backseat to raw immersion. Yet, on reflection, the show’s careful construction becomes evident.

This episode subtly shifts the cinematographic approach. The once-expansive shots become more constrained—medium wides transition to tighter framing, drawing us into Adanna’s immediate surroundings. Our visual perspective is being controlled, just as hers is. The thematic score, already familiar from Episode 1’s title sequence, plays over a black screen instead of the usual visuals. The effect? A chilling realisation that Baby Farm has successfully embedded itself into our psyche. We no longer need the title card to recognise its presence; the music alone is enough to remind us of the dark reality we’re witnessing.

Episode 3: Sisters Cry

Here, Walter ‘Waltbanger’ Taylour and Kayode Kasum share directing duties, and their combined vision is seamless. The tension escalates naturally, aided by a score that mimics breathing, syncing with Adanna’s own anxious rhythm. The unease is visceral, dragging us further into her fear.

Onyinye Odokoro’s performance stands out. She brings an authenticity to Adanna’s character that is both captivating and unnerving. Her choices driven by fear, self-preservation, and flickers of defiance, feel deeply human. She is not a flawless heroine, but a young woman making impossible choices.

Episode 4: Get Out

It’s from this episode that Baby Farm begins to show some cracks—not in its tension, but in its narrative construction.

For one, the logistics of Adanna’s escape attempt feel murky. How did she know the surveillance cameras would be off? Had she been monitoring them? If so, we never saw this process. Why was Aishat (Osereme Inegbenebor), the bully, suddenly absent when she had been a constant threat? Was her disappearance merely for plot convenience?

The ticking clock effect, hidden within the score, mirrors the growing tension as Adanna’s escape attempt unfolds. The stakes are high—failure means punishment or even death. But what we don’t fully grasp is the timing. Here, the missing details from the previous episode lessen its impact.

Why was this the right moment to attempt escape? Had they been watching for a pattern? Was there a deadline they were racing against? They had only that night, but are they really racing against time? Without this information, the urgency—though still palpable—is slightly diluted.

Then, there’s Barbara (Jenny Stead), a character whose motivations remain frustratingly underdeveloped. Her attachment to Ebun is intriguing, yet we never see the full psychological journey that led to their dynamic. Instead, we’re left to infer, which weakens the emotional weight of her character arc. We catch only glimpses of what’s going on between her and her husband. And it’s not enough to fully empathize with her.

There’s also the missing link in Ebun’s transformation. We’re told she has become “broken and compliant,” but how? Seeing the gradual erosion of her spirit would have added to the horror of the Evans Foundation’s methods. Instead, these key details feel glossed over and mentioned in glimpses.

Episode 5: Falling Apart

And then there’s the strange case of Joy’s body being moved in broad daylight. Emem’s sister’s plan to expose the Evans Foundation using Joy’s body raises too many questions: why and how did the police accept the story without deeper investigation? What concrete evidence did they even have that would cause the Evans Foundation to collapse so quickly? The film begins to lose clarity here—stakes become muddled, and the weight of the final takedown feels unearned.

Despite these, Baby Farm ends swiftly on a satisfying yet open-ended note. The cliffhanger leaves room for a continuation but also serves as a fitting conclusion. It’s a rare balance to strike and one that ensures the series lingers.

A Cast that Delivers

One of Baby Farm’s Strongest Assets is the Cast. Genoveva Umeh understands her character’s complexity to the last detail. Her performance is filled with nuance—there’s something unnervingly innocent about her, something broken yet utterly convinced of its own rightness.

Onyinye Odokoro’s delivers a career defining performance with herportrayal of Adanna is both captivating and unnerving. She brings an authenticity to her role, making Adanna’s choices—driven by fear, self-preservation, and flickers of defiance—feel deeply human.

Rita Dominic as Cherise had all the makings of a powerhouse performance. For Jenny Stead as Barbara, a character who should have been the emotional core of the story, it seems like there’s more to her that should be explored, but remains unscathed.

Visual Storytelling and Atmosphere

The cinematography reinforces this deception. The film presents glimpses of cinematographic brilliance—moments where the framing, shot choices, and movement add layers to the storytelling.

The use of long and wide shots (in Episode 1) initially offers a sense of openness, allowing the audience to observe Adanna as just one of many in Lagos, free to navigate the city’s chaos. But as she enters the Evans Foundation, this visual freedom is stripped away. The camera shifts to surveillance-style shots, trapping Adanna—and us—within the institution’s confines. It’s a subtle yet effective technique that mirrors her loss of autonomy.

But rather than feeling like a wholly deliberate visual language, these are more like pieces scattered throughout, open to interpretation. My own interpretation found meaning in these glimpses—a shift in perspective here, a change in framing there—that subtly reinforced the film’s themes of control, entrapment, and isolation. Whether intentional or not, these moments enhance the experience, offering the kind of visual depth that allows different viewers to take away different things.

Then, there’s the score. Kaliné Njoku’s compositions ooze eeriness, underscoring the psychological torment simmering beneath the surface. When Ebun laughs after childbirth, the sound is unnerving—neither purely joyful nor entirely painful, but something in between. This duality is central to Umeh’s performance, which is masterfully layered. Her character’s unsettling mannerisms—such as her hand repeatedly hovering near her belly in an unnatural position—hint at deep psychological trauma. Ebun is both victim and enabler, a product of the very manipulation that defines the Evans Foundation.

Final Thoughts: A Story Close to Its Potential

There is no denying that Baby Farm is a story worth telling. The horror of baby factories in Nigeria, or anywhere else, is a brutal reality. And, the series takes on the challenge of exposing this dark underbelly. However, a story like this demands a certain intensity—one that does not simply rely on shocking subject matter but digs into the psychological and emotional weight of it including that of its characters.

And that is where the cracks begin to show. Particularly in how some characters are handled.

Rita Dominic as Cherise had all the makings of a powerhouse performance, but something was missing. Whether it was the writing or the direction, her character never truly came alive. We get glimpses of depth, of pain, but they remain just that—glimpses. The same can be said for Barbara, a character who should have been the emotional core of the story but instead feels like a sketch of something greater. There’s definitely more to these characters, hopefully, we get more details if there’s a follow-up season.

The series’ greatest strength lies in its ability to make the audience feel the loss of control alongside its protagonist. The slow, almost imperceptible constriction of visual freedom mirrors Adanna’s descent into captivity, making for a uniquely unsettling viewing experience.

For a series built on tension and secrecy, Baby Farm has moments that should grip the viewer, moments that demand intensity—but sometimes, they don’t hit hard enough. The unease is there, but it doesn’t always settle in. And just when we should be holding our breath, the series rushes to the finish line, wrapping things up too quickly to leave a lasting impact.

Despite its few narrative stumbles, Baby Farm is undeniably well-written. It carries a serious, gritty tone that never undermines the weight of its subject matter, treating its characters and their struggles with the gravity they deserve. Though it stumbles in places, especially in missing details that could have added depth, the overall experience remains undeniably gripping.

Verdict

Baby Farm is a meticulously crafted thriller that excels in atmosphere, performance, and visual storytelling that successfully pulls its audience into a world where trust is elusive, freedom is fleeting, and every smile hides a sinister truth. Definitely worth watching.

Rating: 3.85/5