I sat through over two hours of Broken Hallelujah, the much-hyped movie by Bimbo Ademoye, and I have to admit — it was a real struggle.
Two hours should be enough to tell a meaningful, layered story, but almost the entire first half of the movie was spent on Dia’s (Bimbo Ademoye) background, her budding love affair with Didi (Etim Effiong), the destruction of his clothing shop, and a series of scenes that, while mildly entertaining, felt largely irrelevant to the main thematic concern of the movie.
Take Dia’s baptism scene, for instance. It was perhaps meant to show her early religious devotion, but the way the film lingered on it felt unnecessary and indulgent. We get it — she’s a born-again Christian with strong faith. There are many ways to establish this without dragging us through a long, ceremonial scene that eats into storytelling time. And the subplot about Dia’s background, her Iya Agba’s moonlight tales, and the destruction of Didi’s shop also ended up feeling like a distraction. Instead of focusing sharply on the struggles of fertility, marriage expectations, and self-worth, the film got tangled in too many side stories.
I went into the movie hoping for something refreshing — something that would challenge the harmful patterns that have long plagued Nollywood’s treatment of marriage and fertility. Unfortunately, Broken Hallelujah turned out to be yet another disappointing rehash of outdated, harmful narratives.
The movie leans heavily into the glorification of childbearing within marriage, almost to the point of obsession. From the early stages of Dia and Didi’s marriage, there is this undercurrent that subtly — and then loudly — suggests that the ultimate validation of their union rests on the ability to produce biological children. Dia and Didi play their parts well, but the script gives them little room to challenge the stereotypes they are trapped in. The emotional weight of their fertility struggles is real, but instead of pushing for a broader conversation about different paths to parenthood, the film narrows itself into the tired narrative that life and marriage are incomplete without a child born from one’s own womb.
This framing felt not just regressive but tone-deaf, especially considering how much progress has been made globally — and even among younger Nigerians — in redefining marriage, fulfillment, and parenting.
One of the biggest problems with Broken Hallelujah is that it unintentionally reinforces the archaic belief that “barrenness” — an already harmful and stigmatizing term — is a shameful curse that must be broken at all costs. Throughout the movie, Dia is portrayed as desperate, prayerful, guilt-ridden — all because she hasn’t conceived. Even when the idea of adoption and surrogacy is finally brought up by Esosa, her childhood friend, it is treated like a last-resort option and not a beautiful, intentional choice on its own. Dia dismisses the idea almost immediately and never even discusses it with her husband. That refusal to even entertain other pathways to parenthood sends a clear, damaging message: it’s either your own biological child, or nothing.
Instead of challenging these outdated expectations, Broken Hallelujah clings to them desperately. The film makes childbearing not just aspirational but almost a moral duty. It reduces the complexities of marriage and personal fulfillment to the ability to conceive, ignoring the deep emotional, psychological, and social realities of individuals and couples who can’t — or choose not to — have biological children.
Even more disappointing is how the movie tiptoes around other important conversations. For a story so obsessed with childbearing, Broken Hallelujah fails to meaningfully explore related issues like postpartum depression (like Damilola Orimogunje’s movie For Maria Ebun Pataki does), miscarriage trauma, or the psychological pressure society places on women. Instead, it simplifies fertility struggles into a linear path: pray, cry, struggle, and finally, conceive, which feels not only unrealistic but also emotionally dishonest.
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When we compare Broken Hallelujah to other Nollywood movies on similar themes, the shortcomings become even more glaring. Films like The Wait (2021), which also deal with fertility struggles, similarly fall into the trap of over-spiritualizing the issue. In The Wait, couples endure years of childlessness only for the narrative to conclude with a miraculous biological conception after persistent faith and patience, again reinforcing the damaging notion that biological children are the ultimate prize.
On the flip side, some international films like Private Life (2018) starring Kathryn Hahn and Paul Giamatti, treat the issue of infertility with far more nuance. Private Life explores IVF failures, adoption hurdles, emotional breakdowns, and ultimately leaves the idea of parenthood open-ended, respecting the complexity and diversity of human experiences.
Nollywood’s failure here is systematic. For a thriving industry that claims to tell African stories, it often lags behind in reflecting real, contemporary African realities. There’s a persistent fear of embracing narratives that deviate from traditional, conservative ideals, especially around marriage, fertility, and gender roles. Stories that validate adoption, surrogacy, blended families, or even the decision to remain child-free are nearly nonexistent. Instead, the industry recycles old tropes wrapped in glossy cinematography and big-name actors.
The result is that Nollywood continues to feed harmful societal pressures, especially for women. The idea that a woman’s worth — or the success of a marriage — is tied to her ability to conceive remains deeply entrenched, partly because movies like Broken Hallelujah keep reinforcing it.
And it’s not just about the messaging. Even from a cinematic standpoint, Broken Hallelujah struggles. The pacing is sluggish, with too many unnecessary scenes that bog down the core story. Character development feels thin in places — we know Dia prays, suffers, and cries, but we don’t deeply understand her interior world beyond her childlessness. There is only a scene of her and her husband in the restroom during her struggle with IVF. Other scenes show her crying and lamenting about her childlessness before the mysterious old woman. Didi’s own feelings are barely explored beyond generic “supportive husband” lines. Even the cinematography, though neat, feels uninspired — no real risks are taken visually to heighten the emotional gravity of their struggles.
Broken Hallelujah could have been a groundbreaking film. It had the platform—over a million YouTube subscribers—the talent, and the hype. But instead of using that platform to empower and enlighten, it settles for promoting ideals that belong in a past era. In 2025, Nollywood should be leading conversations, not dragging them backward.
We need Nigerian movies that depict adoption and surrogacy not as shameful last resorts, but as beautiful, valid choices. We need stories that explore marriage beyond children. We need depictions of women whose worth is not tied to their wombs. Until Nollywood embraces this, we will keep getting “broken” stories that do more harm than good.
Broken Hallelujah seemed, at first glance, like it might be different — its title suggested the promise of an interesting and redemptive story, much like the inspiring Kendrick Brothers movies such as Overcomer and The Forge that I’ve seen. But in the end, the only thing truly broken here is the opportunity to tell a bold, honest, and much-needed story.