In Nigerian society, parental authority often wears the mask of unwavering love, even when it veers into toxicity. This is especially evident in the dynamics between mothers and sons, where overprotectiveness, emotional manipulation, or outright enabling of flaws can create profound challenges. “They’re just looking out for us,” we say, empathising with behaviours that border on control or harm.

Yet, Nollywood, as a mirror of Nigerian life, captures not just these toxic elements but also the broader spectrum of tense relationships—through stories that make the unbelievable believable, we understand these mothers as products of societal pressures, personal traumas, or survival instincts. These portrayals highlight both the darker sides of toxicity and the everyday tensions that arise from love’s complexities.

At its core, cinema archives the realities we live, prompting us to examine how love and strain coexist. In this piece, we explore select Nollywood titles to delve into mother-son duos that range from slightly tense to more pronounced strains, offering a lens into Nigeria’s complex family structures where affection and challenges intertwine.

Overindulgence and Enabling

Kemi Adetiba’s King of Boys (2018) is a cornerstone in exploring this theme, not just for its gripping tale of power and corruption but for its raw depiction of maternal dominance clashing with filial independence as a twisted form of love. Alhaja Eniola Salami, played with fierce intensity by Sola Sobowale, is a businesswoman and philanthropist entangled in Lagos’ underbelly, with a checkered past that fuels her political ambitions.

Her relationship with her son Kitan (Ademola Adedoyin) is a volatile mix of overprotection and resentment: she spoils him rotten, shielding him from her dark dealings while expecting blind loyalty, but berates him as the weakest Salami in the family for his lack of ruthlessness, often excluding him from key discussions and prioritizing him as the male heir over her more capable daughter despite his ineffectiveness.

Eniola’s iron-fisted control over her criminal empire spills into their bond, demanding that he inherit her crime empire, leading to arguments, belittling, and an iconic slap when he rejects her ruthless ways, as the tension stems from her dominance clashing with his desire for normalcy.

Their dynamic peaks in betrayals—Kitan’s naive involvement exposes family vulnerabilities, culminating in him witnessing his sister’s murder in his arms, discovering his girlfriend’s betrayal, and ultimately taking his own life in despair—highlighting how Eniola’s “protective” love, tainted by ambition and absentee parenting amid violence, erodes maternal bonds and fosters fractured trust.

We empathise with Eniola’s drive, born from survival in a patriarchal society, but it normalizes a toxicity where a mother’s control overrides her son’s autonomy, framing it as familial loyalty. In Nigerian homes, this resonates—mothers who indulge sons as compensation for societal hardships, only for it to foster vulnerability, dependency, and resentment.

Discipline and Conflict

Biodun Stephen’s Breaded Life (2021) shifts the lens to overt conflict, portraying a mother-son bond marked by disapproval and attempts at guidance that create ongoing strain. Mummy, embodied by Tina Mba, is the quintessential Nigerian mother, exasperated by her overindulged son Efe (Timini Egbuson), whose irresponsible lifestyle leads to constant altercations.

\The film features heated exchanges where she questions his choices and decries his unruliness, reflecting efforts to rein him in amid his bratty demeanor. This paints a picture of love expressed through criticism and firm boundaries, though it often results in emotional friction for both.

Yet, this presentation of repeated confrontations as “caring” mirrors real-life Nigerian families, where mothers’ frustration stems from economic pressures or single parenting, manifesting as shared exhaustion. The film’s redemption arc suggests growth is possible, but it underscores how such tension can be seen as a mother’s role in guiding her son, even if it tests their bond.

Class-Drven Expectations

Kemi Adetiba’s The Wedding Party (2016) offers a lighter yet tense exploration of class-driven involvement, where maternal love manifests as concern and active participation. Obianuju Onwuka, played by Ireti Doyle, is the affluent mother who believes her son Dozie (Banky W) deserves “someone more suitable” than his bride Dunni, leading to clashes with the in-laws and moments of subtle influence on the union. The film’s chaotic wedding day amplifies this, with Obianuju’s personal frustrations spilling into her oversight of Dozie’s choices.

It’s a slightly tense dynamic, guised as a mother’s protective instinct in elite circles, but it highlights how such involvement can test adult sons’ independence. In Nigerian culture, this is commonplace—mothers offering input on marriages under the banner of family honour, often seen as wisdom from experience, which can perpetuate generational discussions.

Hidden Past and Revelation

Finally, Biodun Stephen’s I Am Anis (2025), inspired by true events, delves into the strains of hidden traumas and their ripple effects on mother-son bonds. Anisola Williams (Shaffy Bello) has rebuilt her life after a challenging past, raising her son David (Adebowale Adedayo) in a setting of stability. When her secrets surface on what should be a joyous day, it forces a confrontation that tests their relationship, with David’s own experiences adding layers of inherited challenges.

Anisola’s love involves protective secrecy to maintain their facade, reflecting the idea of withholding pain as maternal care. This mirrors Nigerian society’s quieter struggles, where mothers shield sons from past stigmas, only for it to emerge as tension, understood as “doing what’s best” amid survival needs.

As these Nollywood films illustrate, tense dynamics in mother-son relationships aren’t just entertainment—they’re a societal archive, showing how we empathise with dedicated parents under the guise of love. From indulgence to firm guidance, these patterns persist because they’re woven into our cultural fabric, often prompting reflection on both toxic undertones and everyday strains.

Yet, as Nigeria evolves, it’s worth questioning: Who does this love truly benefit? The mothers, shaped by expectations? The sons, navigating it? Or a society that values continuity over deeper understanding?