The news of Olu Jacobs’ passing at 84 reverberates across Nigeria and the African diaspora, rightfully eulogizing a giant of stage and screen. His career, spanning decades, is rightly celebrated as foundational to Nollywood, a cultural behemoth that has captivated millions globally. Yet, as the tributes pour in, we must not merely mourn an individual but interrogate the systemic conditions that shaped his extraordinary journey and continue to define the lives of millions in the informal creative economy. For Amara Diallo, the loss of Olu Jacobs isn't just about an actor; it's a stark reminder of the often-unacknowledged economic realities underpinning artistic production in nations grappling with structural inequality.
Nollywood, often lauded as a major economic success story, is simultaneously a testament to ingenuity and a stark illustration of pervasive informalisation. It is the world’s second-largest film industry by volume, churning out thousands of films annually, largely without the formal institutional support, robust regulatory frameworks, or comprehensive social safety nets commonplace in Western equivalents. This explosive growth wasn't state-sponsored or driven by substantial foreign direct investment; it was an organic, bottom-up phenomenon, born of necessity and entrepreneurial spirit in the face of widespread unemployment and limited formal opportunities.
Jacobs’ generation of performers laid the groundwork for this industry, often working under conditions that would be unthinkable in developed economies. Low wages, irregular contracts, lack of health insurance, and minimal to no pension provisions were, and often still are, the norm. The glamour projected on screen often belies the precarious existence of many behind and in front of the camera. While figures like Jacobs attained iconic status, many thousands of actors, crew members, and producers toil in relative anonymity, their livelihoods hanging by a thread, vulnerable to illness, old age, and economic downturns. This is the informal sector writ large, providing employment where the formal economy fails, but doing so without the protections that define decent work.
The "growth statistics" so often trumpeted by international development agencies and national governments frequently fail to disaggregate this reality. GDP figures might swell with Nollywood’s output, but what do they truly tell us about the distribution of wealth, the quality of life, or the long-term economic security of the majority of its participants? The industry, while providing livelihoods for over a million people, often operates on a cash-in-hand basis, largely outside formal tax structures and labour laws. This isn't a failure of individual actors; it’s a consequence of structural economic policies – often dictated or influenced by external aid conditionality – that have historically de-prioritized social welfare and robust public institutions in favour of liberalization and austerity.
Jacobs himself navigated an industry where talent and dedication were paramount, but where systemic support for creative professionals was virtually nonexistent. His longevity and success are a testament to his individual brilliance and resilience, rather than evidence of a thriving, equitable industry infrastructure. Indeed, his final years, battling health challenges, likely brought into sharp focus the vulnerabilities that even revered figures face when formal social security provisions are weak or absent. How many other less celebrated actors face similar struggles, without the decades of goodwill and accumulated resources Jacobs might have had?
The eulogies for Olu Jacobs must extend beyond celebrating his artistic contributions to an honest appraisal of the economic architecture he operated within. His legacy should compel us to look beyond the surface gloss of Nollywood’s global reach and acknowledge the informal, often exploitative, conditions that persist. It’s a call to scrutinize how economic development is measured, and for whom. True progress means formalizing informal labour, strengthening social protections, and ensuring that the cultural wealth generated in places like Nigeria translates into equitable economic security for all, not just a celebrated few.
The passing of Olu Jacobs is not just the end of an era; it’s an urgent prompt for policymakers, development economists, and indeed, all of us, to confront the structural realities of global labour. We must demand that the immense cultural capital of the Global South is built upon foundations of dignity, security, and justice, rather than sustained by the relentless grind of precarious work. Only then can we truly honour the full scope of giants like Olu Jacobs.