Directed by Austin Nnaemeka, Bro Code comes wrapped in the slick packaging of a modern rom-com-bromance hybrid. With a line-up including Mike Ezuruonye as Chris, Daniel Etim Effiong as KC, and Majid Michel as Arinze, the film teases a comedy about reckless bachelors and the chaos of romance. The synopsis even hints at a self-aware unraveling of a so-called “Bro Code.” But that unraveling never really happens. Instead, what unfolds is a dangerously misguided story that uses tired tropes, weak character arcs, and overtly damaging themes to tell a tale that contributes more to the problem than any kind of cinematic or social progress.

When the Code Is Not the Core

Despite what the title and synopsis claim, Bro Code isn’t about a brotherhood built on misguided principles that eventually gets tested or reformed. The so-called “bro code” barely appears until the end, making the title feel like bait. The film spins three interconnected stories of emotionally stunted men and the women who are used as props for their pseudo-redemption. But even that word, redemption, feels too generous for what actually happens.

The narrative leans on formulaic devices: bad boy meets good girl, good girl loves bad boy irrespective, bad boy treats her bad anyway, good girl teaches bad boy how to love, bad boy “changes”, and somehow we’re meant to believe growth has occurred. But growth never arrives. The writing attempts to pass off women’s pain and tolerance as the catalyst for change, reinforcing a regressive idea that women are tools for fixing broken or dangerous men. It is textbook misogynistic storytelling dressed up in romantic and comedic clothing. It’s largely ironic that this was written by a woman.

A Plot That Undermines Itself

The structure of the film is painfully elementary. Take KC (played by Daniel Etim-Efiong)’s arc—a man who suddenly “attempts” to treat a woman better only because she decides to teach him how. She stays over at his house, says they won’t have sex, and the film frames this as discipline. There’s no actual confrontation with his past behaviour, no internal reckoning. He simply coasts into goodness because a woman stupidly put her life at risk. The message? Men don’t need to take accountability. Women will do the emotional labour. Irrespective, there’s a woman for every bad man.

The message of the film: “the bravest people are those who aren’t afraid to love.”

Chris, played by Mike Ezuruonye, is equally as bad. He leads Lara (Nancy Isime) on while planning a marriage with another woman he never loved, just to get her into bed. The resolution of Lara’s subplot is a masterclass in narrative cowardice. She finds out the truth, visits him, delivers a weak confrontation, and disappears. There’s no justice, no release, no weight. Just a sigh and another failed opportunity for the film to make a statement.

Another equally disturbing thread lies with Arinze (Majid Michel), whose relationship with Emem includes rape and emotional abuse—yet the film somehow finds a way to place her back in his orbit. But this isn’t empowerment. It’s exploitation. There is no catharsis, no consequences, only the reinforcement of cycles of harm. The film never once acknowledges these dynamics as problematic. Instead, it trivialises them into lessons and laughs.

Not once does the story force them to reckon with their actions in a way that matters. Instead, the burden is placed on the women to reform them.

The story claims to reveal the flaws of these men, yet the very structure protects them. There’s no genuine arc. No real reckoning. Just a carousel of sexual escapades, paper-thin apologies, and a message that feels less like redemption and more like indulgence.

Take KC’s storyline: he begins as a selfish manipulator and ends the same, only this time with a woman smiling beside him, as though she’s the prize he earned for enduring her trials.

This is a film that confuses toxicity for entertainment, trauma for drama, and sex for story. The characters are not only written as caricatures of immoral men, but they are protected by a narrative that refuses to hold them accountable. It’s an example in how misogyny isn’t just in what characters do, but in what the story endorses.

Performances and Direction: Flat and Forced

There is little to celebrate in terms of performances. Most of the cast sleepwalks through underwritten characters and forced dialogue. The only consistent performance is the film’s relentless effort to undermine its female characters. And don’t get started on the narration. A voice tells us how men are the real victims of their own hearts. The irony? It takes a woman’s voice to sell a man’s lie.

The sound design is poor. Dialogue is often drowned or hollow. What little structure exists here is buried under a mountain of sex scenes, many of which blur the line between consent and coercion. Cinematography sexualises the female body under the guise of stylised storytelling, framing abuse and non-consensual encounters in flattering light, shots linger on women’s bodies, their trauma sexualized for aesthetic, not insight. This is not storytelling. It’s titillation pretending to be meaningful. The film creates moments that should be painful and reflective but dresses them in music and lighting that eroticizes the abuse. It’s the male gaze in action.

Final Thoughts: A Story That Should Never Have Been Told This Way

There’s no lesson here. Bro Code uses the language of transformation to excuse inexcusable behaviour. It cloaks emotional manipulation, sexual misconduct, and deeply harmful gender dynamics in the language of love and comedy. This film arrives at a time when Nigeria is already grappling with public debates about abuse, accountability, and how women are constantly expected to fix men. The Blessing CEO controversy—where she publicly defended a suspected abuser to the point of getting engaged to him—shows how easily people will romanticize toxic masculinity if it’s packaged with enough polish. Bro Code is just that: packaging. It actively contributes to the rot.

To recommend this film without heavy warnings is to risk endorsing its ideas. And to say that it mirrors reality is not enough. The job of cinema is not just to reflect, but to interrogate, to push us beyond the cycles we normalise. It tells us the happiest people are those who aren’t afraid to love. But it’s not love. It’s grooming, manipulation, and coercion, repackaged as redemption. And for impressionable viewers, especially younger audiences, the messaging is not just problematic—it’s dangerous. If anything, Bro Code mirrors the reality many are trying to escape.

If you’re going to create a redemption arc, the characters must suffer, change, and grow. Here, the “change” is a costume the men wear once the women have suffered enough. There’s no catharsis, just a quiet whisper that “boys will be boys.” It’s not about bias. It’s about responsibility. This film refuses to accept that responsibility.

Verdict

If Bro Code was trying to be satire, it failed. If it was trying to teach lessons, it taught the wrong ones. This film is an emotional hazard dressed as entertainment. A romantic comedy? No. A cautionary tale? Absolutely not. This is a brothel of broken values, stitched together with lazy writing, uninspired direction, and a moral compass that’s been flushed down the toilet.

Rating: 1/5