The release of “The Herd,” a new crime‑thriller film directed by Daniel Etim-Effiong and now available on Netflix, has ignited a fierce, emotionally‑charged debate across Nigeria. For many, the film’s storyline — a wedding ambushed by armed cattle herders-turned‑kidnappers — is a harrowing, painfully familiar mirror of the insecurity that has plagued parts of the country in recent years. For others, however, it is a dangerous work of storytelling that unfairly casts suspicion on an entire ethnic group, fueling stereotypes, prejudice, and social division. This two-edged reaction raises critical questions about art, representation, collective trauma, and the responsibility of storytellers in a fractured society.

At the heart of the controversy is the concern that “The Herd” does more than depict insecurity: it allegedly conflates criminality with identity. Prominent among the critics is former presidential aide Bashir Ahmad, who condemned the film’s depiction of pastoralist herders, largely members of the Fulani community, as violent kidnappers. Ahmad described a key scene in the trailer where herders casually walk with their cattle along a highway before suddenly pulling out guns and abducting travellers as “dangerously inaccurate.” He argued that while some bandits are indeed Fulani, the overwhelming majority of herders are peaceful, law‑abiding citizens who themselves have suffered the ravages of insecurity, loss of cattle, livelihoods, and lives. To depict all herders as criminals, he warned, risks casting a shadow of suspicion over innocent people and entrenching harmful stereotypes.

This grievance is rooted not only in defence of cultural dignity but also in a broader fear: a high-profile film like “The Herd,” streaming globally on Netflix, has the power to shape perceptions beyond Nigeria’s borders. For communities already bearing the weight of years of insecurity, marginalization, and stigmatization, the potential global misrepresentation looms large. Ahmad urged filmmakers and regulators, among them the Nigerian Film Corporation, to exercise greater caution when handling sensitive national issues.

Yet, among defenders of the film, there is a firm belief that art must not be censored simply because it makes people uncomfortable. For many Nigerians, “The Herd” does not stereotype; it reflects. The surge in kidnapping, banditry, and attacks on highways across different regions is documented by media reports and lived experience. To dramatize such realities is not to vilify an entire group, but to hold a mirror up to the nation’s trauma, forcing collective acknowledgement and possibly, collective action.

Those who defend the movie stress that criminals in the film are drawn from various ethnic and religious backgrounds, not only pastoralist herders, but also traffickers, corrupt individuals, and opportunistic criminals from different parts of the country. The film’s narrative, supporters argue, indicates a broken system riddled with complicity, greed, and moral collapse, not an ethnic group.

The divide reveals something bigger than cinematic preferences: it exposes fault lines in how Nigerians view identity, trauma, and representation. On one side lies the fear that art can amplify prejudice; on the other, the conviction that art can illuminate truth. In a nation where crime and insecurity have become part of daily headlines, the tension between these two impulses becomes especially raw.

For many of those calling for a ban or deletion of the film or the streaming platform, the issue is not cinematic quality but collective memory and dignity. They worry that repetition of negative tropes, even when fictional, deepens stigmatization. According to research, media portrayal of marginalized or historically vilified communities can entrench prejudice, influence social attitudes, and rationalize discrimination. In Nigeria, where ethnic tensions already simmer and identity politics often flare, the impact of a major film on public consciousness is not trivial.

Moreover, this is not the first time a Nigerian film has triggered such outcry. Previous controversies, over films that depict traditional culture in a negative light, or that challenge sacred institutions, have exposed the difficulty of balancing creative freedom and respect for identity. The case of “The Herd” adds a fresh dimension because it deals not with myth or heritage, but with present-day violence and insecurity, a reality many Nigerians live with, but few feel comfortable labeling publicly as ethnically linked.

Those defending the movie assert that avoiding uncomfortable truths for fear of offending would amount to self-censorship and denial. For them, if insecurity, kidnappings, and banditry are real and traceable to certain groups, fictional representation should not be silenced simply to protect group image. Instead, such representation could help foster national urgency, empathy for victims, and pressure for accountability. In their view, demanding ban or deletion is not about protecting vulnerable people, it is about protecting impunity and erasing uncomfortable facts.

Yet the counterargument persists: public art merges with public perception, and perception shapes reality. When a film screens such violence perpetrated by a particular community during a national crisis, it has cascading social consequences. People may begin to view herders with suspicion; innocent pastoralists may face harassment; existing social tensions may deepen. The debate over “The Herd” thus becomes a test case: Can heavyweight media responsibly depict national insecurities without reinforcing ethnic prejudice?

But even amid the clashes, many voices have called for calm reflection instead of reactive bans. Some commentators stress that critics should watch the full film before judging, because the teaser alone could misrepresent the nuance, balance, or broader context. Others argue that Nigeria’s real problem is not the film, but silence, societal apathy, neglect, and denial of the root causes of insecurity. Shutting down films, they say, risks silencing important conversations about violence, accountability, and collective trauma.

Interestingly, the uproar over “The Herd” appears to have had the unintended effect of amplifying its reach. The film has reportedly crossed 30 million streams within days of its release, a sign of how scandal, controversy, and national debate can drive visibility.

This raises a broader question: in Nigeria’s fraught social and political landscape, should art be constrained by concerns over perception or liberated by the imperative to reflect truth, however unpalatable? The stakes are high, because when media producers shy away from depicting national trauma, denial thrives; but when they proceed without sensitivity or depth, prejudice can be exacerbated. The tension between artistic freedom and social responsibility becomes a delicate balancing act.

Another dimension to consider is the role of storytellers and regulators in mitigating harm. Critics of the film have urged industry institutions, including the Nigerian Film Corporation, to institute guidelines for sensitive storytelling, especially when dealing with ethnic or regional issues. They argue that when national security, communal identity, and existing social tensions intersect, storytellers must carry greater responsibility. This involves research, stakeholder engagement, nuanced portrayal, and possibly, consultation of affected communities.

But who draws the line? And can regulation coexist with creative freedom? The danger is that heavy-handed restrictions risk sliding into censorship, suppressing discussions that Nigeria badly needs, about insecurity, inequality, justice, and national trauma. The alternative, of course, is irresponsible depiction, sensational or careless portrayals that inflame tensions rather than foster understanding.

Ultimately, the debate around “The Herd” may not conclude with a ban or sustained backlash, but with reflection, conversation, and perhaps change. If defended thoughtfully, the film could act as a catalyst for deeper national introspection: a moment when Nigerians ask not just “who committed the crime,” but “why is crime widespread,” “what systemic failures allow it,” and “how do we protect victims without scapegoating entire communities.”

The film’s defenders argue that by flattening the violence into generic criminality, Nigeria continues to deny patterns that have real identity implications, a denial that hurts victims, communities, and the possibility of effective solutions. By contrast, demanding bans may seem like an easy fix for discomfort, but it risks burying the conversation, letting social wounds fester unexamined.

In a nation struggling with insecurity seeped in ethnicity, religion, poverty, and neglect, “The Herd,” intentional or not, holds up a mirror. And the question is: will Nigerians flinch, wipe away the reflection, and pretend the stain isn’t real? Or will they look, acknowledge it, and begin the hard work of healing, justice, and systemic change?

What the “Herd” controversy ultimately reveals is that film and storytelling in Nigeria are not neutral entertainment. They are social commodities, political tools, and identity markers. They shape narratives, influence perceptions, and contribute to the national memory. As such, the responsibility on filmmakers is heavy, but equally heavy is the responsibility on audiences: to watch critically, to distinguish between crime and community, to condemn violence without fueling prejudice.

If “The Herd” succeeds in one thing, perhaps it is forcing Nigerians to confront a central paradox: that they are a nation of many identities, living under shared insecurities, yet often divided by fear, stereotype, and denial. The film may not be perfect or comprehensive, no artwork ever is, but perhaps its greatest value lies not in its final cut, but in the conversations it has triggered: painful, urgent, necessary conversations about identity, justice, and the price of silence.

In the end, whether one chooses to watch, boycott, ban, or debate “The Herd,” the more important question is what happens next: do we react emotionally, or reflect responsibly; do we silence uncomfortable stories, or hold them as a call to action; do we allow identity fears to govern our narratives, or do we demand nuanced truth-telling that acknowledges complexity while championing humanity.

Because beyond the controversy, beyond the outrage and the defence, lies a deeper challenge for Nigeria: to rebuild trust between communities, to address insecurity without scapegoating, to create art that heals rather than harms and to ensure that every story told does not erase people, but remembers them.