It is a profound question because, unlike countries like Lebanon where cinema has been used as a direct mirror for societal scars, Nigeria often tends to prioritize a culture of moving forward quickly to avoid the weight of the past. While we have a vibrant creative industry, much of our storytelling often leans toward entertainment or aspirational narratives rather than the difficult, cathartic documentation of our specific collective traumas. I think we are currently at a crossroads where younger generations are starting to use digital art, literature, and independent film to challenge the culture of silence, yet we still lack the institutional support to make these works central to our national discourse. Relying on art to heal requires a painful honesty that we have historically been uncomfortable with, but I believe that shifting our focus toward these artistic confrontations is the only way to break the cycles that keep us tethered to our history. Ultimately, art does not just help us remember, it provides the language we need to process the grief we have been told to ignore.

It is a profound question because while we have a vibrant creative culture, there is a palpable tension between the act of documenting our history and the instinct to simply bury it to survive. We certainly have writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie or filmmakers capturing the complexities of our past, but these works often face a difficult uphill battle against a cultural preference for moving forward without fully processing the underlying trauma. Relying on art to heal requires a national appetite for discomfort, and right now, many of us seem more inclined to embrace the comfort of forgetting rather than the pain of remembrance. If we want to break these cyclical loops, we have to treat our stories not just as entertainment, but as essential tools for national reconciliation. Until we value the act of remembering as much as the act of progressing, our art might remain a secondary witness rather than a primary catalyst for healing.