When To Kill a Monkey premiered on Netflix on July 18, 2025, it arrived as more than another Nollywood crime drama—it marked a turning point for African storytelling. Crafted by Kemi Adetiba, this eight‑episode saga follows Efemini “Efe” Edewor (William Benson), a first‑class graduate humbled by poverty, humiliation, and stalled ambition in Lagos. But it isn’t just Efe’s plunge into cybercrime that anchors the series—it’s what he leaves behind.
From the outset, we sense Efe’s desperation: teaching himself code by stealing Wi‑Fi, mourning a child lost to hardship, enduring scorn at a dead‑end job. Benson’s performance is subtle, soulful—a man who still clings to integrity while watching it slip through his fingers. Yet the lure of Oboz (Bucci Franklin), his charismatic school friend turned digital fraud king, proves irresistible. Oboz is swagger, status, and street smarts—everything Efe yearns for. Their dynamic crackles oscillating between loyalty and corrosion.
To Kill a Monkey
At its emotional core, the series questions what a man sacrifices in pursuit of inheritance when the only inheritance he sees is failure. Griffin‑tight plotting in early episodes immerses us in Efe’s world. We feel every insult, every slight. Yet the narrative falters when it skips a four‑year transformation, fast‑forwarding past the evolution of what becomes the notorious AI‑driven fraud network known as the “Monkey Case.”. This narrative omission turns what should be a metamorphosis into backstory. We know the outcome before we know the journey, and that loss of discovery blunts the impact. Still, To Kill a Monkey succeeds in refining its emotional landscape through character. Bimbo Akintola’s Inspector Mo Ogunlesi stands out—not merely as law enforcement, but as grief personified. Her trauma over personal loss fuels a relentless pursuit, conjuring moral tension that reverberates beyond the case files. Meanwhile, Chidi Mokeme’s “Teacher” plays antagonist and metaphor—feeding off others’ talents, thriving in intimidation, living by fear. A searing emblem of parasitic power.
What sets this series apart is the way performances hold up the social critique. The friendship‑turned‑betrayal between Efe and Oboz taps into questions about trust and moral collapse. As one Reddit viewer pointed out about Efe’s arc:
“I never saw Efe as a victim … he betrayed Oboz after everything the guy did for him … Efe was … hypocrite … consistently terrible decision maker”
That sentiment reflects deeper truths in the story: good intentions do not inoculate one from becoming the villain.
Critics broadly applaud the ambition. An AfroFilm Times review says it “is not just a film—but an experience,” crediting Adetiba with bold cinematic language and ensemble acting that “elevates every emotional beat”. Premium Times acknowledges the layered sub‑themes—betrayal, ambition, pain—but warns the sprawling scope sometimes buries what matters most. Social metrics reinforce the resonance: within days of launch, the series cracked Netflix’s top 10 in multiple countries. Digital Spy called it a “rare gem,” lauding its realism and emotional depth while noting that it juggles style more effectively than narrative economy. On IMDb, many users gave it perfect scores, celebrating its believability and sincerity in storytelling.
To Kill a Monkey refuses to be comfortable. It builds empathy—then demands judgment. It invites us to sit in silence rather than explanation. It insists that the cost of survival can be compassion. Though its structure stumbles, the characters carry the burden. In Lagos’s digital underbelly, ambition doesn’t just thrive—it warps. By the end, Efe is no longer the man we met. He’s a cautionary monument to compromise. And in his shadow, we sense the larger truth: systems may break us, but we break ourselves. Adetiba doesn’t just show that fall—she makes us feel it.
