A couple of years ago comedian AY (real name, Ayo Makun) introduced a preposterous fellow named Akpors. Long used as a character in Nigerian stand-up, presumably for the coiled hilarity of the name, AY pursued the fellow so much it looks now like he created the name. He didn’t—it is a popular diminutive of a South-south Nigerian name. But he imbued the name with a distinct, if ludicrous, personality.
American audiences will misapprehend the humour. Tempting as it is to think this a failing, it isn’t
Initially portrayed by AY acolyte Bovi, Akpors became open source, upon which anyone could write new jokes or merely heap old ones, slightly modified. The fellow quickly evolved from being the subject of jokes into a punchline—the culprit to silly crimes was Akpors, he embodied the fallible but witty Nigerian. 
On the internet, you’ll find Akpors as played by Bovi answering questions on a parody of ‘Who Wants to be A Millionaire?’ Akpors, like everyone else, wants to be one and like some of the real show’s participants, is often clueless. But where real participants accept defeat with televised grace, Akpors reacts with threats or disrupts the show by bringing his off-screen baggage. Somehow his antics never work because he was always back, more desperate.

Such was Akpors’s appeal that he got an app. Thus it was that Akpors went from being a stand-up routine to an online character and then transformed to an app. The big screen was the only space unoccupied by this uniquely Nigerian creation.
And Akpors, like nature, abhors a vacuum.
Consequently, Akpors now has received his cinematic debut in the film 30 Days in Atlanta. Directed by Robert Peters, the film is bewildering: unoriginal and established on feeble dramatizations of popular jokes, 30 Days surprisingly is hilarious. It is the rare movie that is more than a sum of its worn parts. It may not even be a movie in the traditional sense of character or plot driven stories. 30 Days in Atlanta is cut and paste cinema with heavy comic capital.

Akpors (played by AY) wins a trip to the US and being unmarried takes his cousin Ese (a bemused Ramsey Nouah) as partner. Once there the film breaks into a pastiche of the Nigerian in the New World. A spoilt white kid receives a talking-to from the corporal punishment endorsing Akpors, he upstages a B-boy with traditional Nigerian dance steps, at a bar Akpors asks for Nigerian brew, ogogoro—the stuff of several Nigerian jokes. AY’s dependence on physical comedy, from his sudden jaw-drop to the elaborate protrusion of his butt walking, means transcribing or even describing the nature of these scenes reduces them—most of 30 Days’ funny scenes, to be appreciated, can only be seen not read.

Subsequently, shards of a plot are glued together to form a romantic comedy. This gives Ramsey Nouah a chance to bring forth the lover boy charm upon which his career is based. It also gives 30 Days an opportunity to refract the Hollywood dream of getting the girl through Nigerian lenses. Standing in Ese’s way are cultural differences and a father (played by Nollywood great Richard Mofe Damijo) who having escaped the harsh realities of Nigeria, treats the young men with suspicion.
Film still from 30 Days in Atlanta
Film still from “30 Days in Atlanta”
It is this ‘freedom from film’ that has permitted 30 Days to be both Nigerian and effective
An American commentator postulated that the Dave Chappelle Show was successful because it was loved by two groups of people: those who got it and those who didn’t. You can say that about most jokes based on difference—be it class, cash or colour. How much of such a joke is oblique commentary on the existence of difference? How much of it is merely mining (or miming) a certain reality? With AY’s 30 Days, a part of the audience will, albeit grudgingly, think of it as subtle exploration of cultural difference in the mould of, say, Sting’s 1988 single Englishman in New York. Those reluctant to be so generous will label it crass and incredibly stereotypical. 
The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere in the middle. The tone of 30 Days is considerably removed from the antics of Nkem Owoh in Osuofia in London. Where Owoh’s Osuofia appeared blind to or ignorant of the perceptions both of the audience and other characters, AY’s Akpors brashly accosts fellow characters’ preconceptions as it winks at knowing members of the audience. He has come to the big screen after a rich life off it and a section of his audience is witness to that life.
Film still from "30 Days in Atlanta"
Film still from “30 Days in Atlanta”
This life off it and steeped as it is in Nigerian humour, 30 Days is not the kind of comedy to travel easily among cultures. Never mind that it features two actresses—Vivica Fox and Lynn Whitfield— from the US, American audiences will misapprehend the humour. Tempting as it is to think this a failing, it isn’t. With so many Nigerian artists—filmmakers, novelists, musicians—increasingly looking outwards, neglecting the millions of their compatriots in pursuit of a product that appeals to the west, there is a case to be made for AY’s film. It is in that sense innovative. We wish it were a better film, or a film even. Unfortunately, it isn’t. Yet it is this ‘freedom from film’ that has permitted 30 Days to be both Nigerian and effective.
Clearly, this is not ideal for any film industry; yet only a few will remember that while laughing.
30 Days in Atlanta - Poster [1131 x 1600]
Source:thisisafrica.me