The Nigerian Dream Unraveled: Why 'I Live in V.I.' Is More Than Just a Film
There’s something profoundly unsettling about the Nigerian dream, and I Live in V.I., Ugochukwu Azuya’s upcoming social class satire, seems poised to capture that unease with razor-sharp precision. Personally, I think this film isn’t just a story about Lagos—it’s a mirror held up to the global urban experience, where the promise of opportunity often collides with the harsh realities of alienation, gentrification, and the relentless grind of capitalism.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Azuya frames the narrative through Florence, a 23-year-old woman who moves to Lagos in search of a better life. Her journey isn’t just about survival; it’s about the lies we tell ourselves and others to fit into a society that values appearance over substance. Florence’s decision to squat in an abandoned construction site and pretend she lives in the affluent Victoria Island (V.I.) is more than a plot twist—it’s a commentary on the lengths people go to in order to maintain the illusion of success.
From my perspective, this film taps into a universal truth: cities are both dream factories and emotional minefields. Lagos, with its chaotic energy and stark contrasts between wealth and poverty, serves as the perfect backdrop. Azuya’s description of the city as a ‘constellation’ of diverse neighborhoods—Yaba, Oshodi, Elegushi, Obalende—highlights its complexity. But what many people don’t realize is that this complexity often obscures the individual struggles of those who call it home. Florence’s story is a microcosm of this larger tension, and her unprocessed grief adds a layer of vulnerability that’s both relatable and heartbreaking.
One thing that immediately stands out is the film’s exploration of gentrification. Lagos, like many global cities, is undergoing rapid transformation, often at the expense of its most vulnerable residents. Azuya’s focus on an abandoned government building project from the 80s isn’t just a detail—it’s a symbol of broken promises and systemic neglect. If you take a step back and think about it, gentrification isn’t just about physical displacement; it’s about the erasure of cultural identity and the commodification of space. This raises a deeper question: who gets to belong in a city, and at what cost?
A detail that I find especially interesting is the film’s ‘möbius-strip-esque structure.’ This isn’t just a stylistic choice; it’s a metaphor for the cyclical nature of struggle and survival. Florence’s journey isn’t linear—it’s a loop of hope, despair, and adaptation. What this really suggests is that the Nigerian dream, much like the American or any other, is often an endless chase. The film’s surreal elements, combined with its sardonic humor, promise to deliver a critique that’s as biting as it is poetic.
In my opinion, the universality of I Live in V.I. lies in its ability to speak to anyone who’s ever felt out of place in a city. Whether you’re in Lagos, Tokyo, São Paulo, or New York, the pressures of urban life—the commute, the cost of living, the loneliness—are eerily similar. Azuya’s emphasis on the Nigerian collective psyche, with its eccentricity and resilience, adds a unique flavor, but the core themes are global. This is why the film deserves to be seen beyond Nigeria—it’s a conversation starter about the human cost of urbanization.
What’s next for Azuya and his team? The Tabakalera-San Sebastian Residency Award is a significant step, but I’m more intrigued by how this film will evolve during its development cycle. Will it maintain its raw, unfiltered perspective, or will it soften to appeal to a broader audience? Personally, I hope it stays true to its roots. The world doesn’t need another sanitized portrayal of city life—it needs stories like I Live in V.I., which dare to expose the cracks in the urban facade.
In the end, this film isn’t just about Florence or Lagos—it’s about all of us. It’s about the lies we tell, the dreams we chase, and the cities that shape us. As Azuya puts it, ‘We are all just a city.’ And perhaps, in watching Florence’s story, we’ll find a piece of ourselves—flawed, resilient, and endlessly searching.
