The occasion of the sudden death of Idrissa Ouedraogo is probably a good moment to review the trajectories and typologies of what is called African cinema. It is not uncommon to watch Nigerian movies on various international flights. It is no longer surprising to come across a film by Alain Gomis or Abderrahmane Sissako on Air France. That has not always been the case, and if these companies can now entertain their customers with these very limited non-mainstream movies, it means something has happened in the African film industry. Why have African narratives suddenly become “showable”? It may come as a surprise. But while this is simply anecdotal, I do not recall seeing any film by Sembène Ousmane or Med Hondo listed on those flights. That does not mean much, though. So, what happened?
Contemporary African directors, many of whom are relatively young and female, with extremely limited experience of colonialism or of autocratic regimes in their countries, have dedicated their cinematographic career to fun and entertaining narratives in specific genres. Quick examples include Owell Brown (Côte d’Ivoire) with Le Mec ideal (2010) and Boubacar Diallo with a series of detective films, along with the numerous directors who, like Idrissa Ouedraogo with Kadi Jolie, decided to exclusively focus on television series and hence put to rest the reign of the endlessly didactic African film. Differently put, what is happening today, what has become in a way trendy with African entertainment cinema, was outlined long ago, in the strongest terms, by Idrissa Ouedraogo.
At some point, cultural historians will probably need to determine the relationship between the one-party system, autocracy, and the production of what was known as “African cinema,” in its most essentialist and prescriptive nature. For decades, there was an extremely simplistic perception of a monolithic African cinema, aptly illustrated through Férid Boughédir’s definition, which contrasts “African cinema” with its Western counterpart recognized more as:
[...] a cinema of escapism, of evading the real and its problems. This is the opiate cinema, the cinema that lulls you to sleep. 90 percent of commercial films participate in this operation, and that’s why film is universally considered first and foremost a form of entertainment. To entertain also means to distract, to divert from reality, to allow a temporary escape that slows down the raising of awareness. (Boughedir Ferid Reference Boughedir1974)
With the release of Ousmane Sembène’s films, the creation of the Fédération Panafricaine des Cinéastes, and the dogmas of the Algiers Charter, “it became almost impossible for any filmmaker […] not to take a politically engaged position” (Harrow Reference Harrow2007). This political commitment was based on the perception that cinema, like literature, must be a tool for social transformation. According to Mweze Ngangura (1996:60–64), this commitment is one of the principal causes of African cinema’s inability to fully connect with a public in desperate need of entertainment. Ngangura challenges the relevance of narratives that claim to have militancy as the primary aim, to the exclusion of all other forms of cinematic creation. For him, the “evening school” films, such as those directed by Sembène Ousmane, are economic failures because African spectators do not identify with them. This proliferation of auteur films has further alienated a public already weary of ideological subjugation. This phenomenon is further illustrated in Henri Duparc’s Caramel (2005), a comedy which presents an allegory of African cinema’s relationship to its audience. The film features Fred, a young cinema hall manager who is nearly bankrupted because no one attends his screenings, including those organized during a special African film festival. He tells the manager of the Film Board where he rents movies to be shown in his hall that the most popular films are Indian musical comedies, because spectators are only interested in dreaming. That is precisely the definition of cinema written on his car: “le cinéma c’est le rêve/Cinema is a dream.” In Jean-Pierre Bekolo’s Aristotle’s Plot (1997), Essomba Tourneur, one of the main characters, states even more succinctly that he does not watch African films because they are all “shit.”
Idrissa Ouedraogo was probably the first filmmaker to openly challenge the reductionist definition of “African” films that produced the narratives (or “shit”) with which very few spectators could actually connect. Early in his career, he decided to turn away from politically engaged films. This choice displeased scholars who seemed to have adopted the common dogmatic political approach to African cinema. When Ouedraogo’s Yaaba (1989) was released, it was critically acclaimed and had unusual box office success for an African film. The film considers the meaning of tolerance and tells the story of a grandmother ostracized by her community when she is accused of witchcraft. Western critics unanimously applauded the film, which was selected for the quinzaine des réalisateurs. It also received the Prix du peuple at the 1989 FESPACO, where this film, as well as several of Ouedraogo’s other productions, remains extremely popular.
However, according to Manthia Diawara, Yaaba is “flawed” because of its representation of “a bourgeois humanist of tolerance, which is imported from the city” (1992:162), “a sort of French liberalism” (1992:164) that does not confront nation-building and political challenges. Nwachuku Frank Ukadike goes further in his criticism, almost dismissing the film for being “elitist” and “individualist” (1994:279). As he states, “although much of the film’s strength lies in its whimsical irony, Ouedraogo nonetheless does not seem to have a clear vision of the African future, and there is cause to wonder whether Yaaba’s parabolic structural oppositions truly illuminate societal conflicts” (282).
While no one can discount that nation-building was (and remains) a social and political necessity in postcolonial Africa, one cannot ignore Idrissa Ouedraogo’s commitment to what, in fact, is a real, free African Cinema, with true intellectual freedom. Essentially, Ouedraogo anticipated what can be called popular African cinema, that is, a cinema accessible to a much larger audience that also avoids a prescriptive cultural nationalism. Idrissa Ouedraogo’s entire body of work is predicated on two key elements: freedom from dogmatic “African cinema” and, more importantly, the need to build narrative plots that go beyond African territoriality. This means appealing to universal experiences because Africans do not belong to a separate group of humanity. It is likely for this reason that his cinematography often goes beyond the political, a characteristic of his work that he himself recognizes:
Les réalisateurs africains pensent au discours revendicateur plutôt qu’au cinéma tout court. [...] Le public africain attend de nous de l’inspiration et de la qualité, de l’évasion intelligente. Filmer la campagne, les villages, les relations entre les hommes, correspondait à une étape de ma carrière cinématographique. Dans mes prochains films, j’accorderai plus d’importance à la force de l’histoire et des acteurs qu’à la beauté des décors. Ce sera toujours le même univers, avec un travail très différent dans le son, la mise en scène, l’image, l’histoire sera plus ouverte, plus accessible à d’autres publics (1995:337).
[African directors think about a militant and political discourses that makes demands rather than simply cinema by itself […] The African public waits for quality inspiration from us and qualities, intelligent escapism. To film the countryside, the villages, the relations between people, corresponded to one stage in my cinematic career. In my next films, I will give greater emphasis to the strength? of narration and to actors rather than the beauty of the décor. It will still be the same universe, with a totally different approach to sound, mise-en-scène, image; the story (or storyline) will be more open, more accessible to the public.]
Clearly, Idrissa Ouedraogo distances himself from the dogmas of “African cinema” that suffocated cinematographic productions for years in the name of nation-building and social criticism. When outlining his perception of cinema, not “African cinema,” he explains:
Je n’ai aucunement la prétention de représenter mon peuple ou les valeurs africaines. On est facilement prétentieux en s’érigeant moniteur, instituteur... “L’école du soir” de Sembène, ce n’est pas du cinéma fictionnel! Pourquoi parler d’un cinéma africain qui se pervertit au gré des modes? Quand on décide de faire de la fiction, on assume et on dit qu’on le fait pour soi, que ce n’est pas forcément un luxe, que cela peut permettre à la jeunesse africaine de rêver! (in Olivier Barlet, Reference Barlet1996:75).
[I neither pretend nor claim to represent my people or African values. It is easy to be pretentious in presenting oneself as monitor, teacher… “The Night School” of Sembène is not fictional cinema. Why speak of an African cinema which corrupts itself by following given modes? When you decide to make a work of fiction, you own (claim?) it, do it for yourself. That isn’t necessarily a luxury and it make African youth dream!]
However, Ouedraogo’s theorization does not mean that his films are not political. As a matter of fact, Christian Zimmer (Reference Zimmer1974) considers all films to be political. With that in mind, it goes without saying that the cruel ostracism suffered by Sana in Yaaba can be attributed to a social and political structure which, resembling what René Girard (Reference Girard1972) describes in relation to Europe’s darkest days, actively sought scapegoats against which to channel ritual violence. Although it is set in Africa, Yaaba appeals to human feelings and values: tolerance, kindness, and justice. These themes are obviously political, particularly as they are conveyed through the story of a young teenage boy not yet corrupted by social conservatism.
In two other films, Tilaï (1991) and La Colère des dieux (2003), African characters, costumes, and settings are only used to build a discourse around issues that have historically plagued every human society: authority, power, and sex and its often tragic consequences. Both films develop Oedipal motifs generated “because of women” or as a result of hatred between brothers. While La Colère des dieux revisits the Biblical conflict of Cain and Abel, Tilaï focuses on the unresolvable rivalry between a father and a son. The son in this narrative becomes intimate with his ex-fiancée, who is now his father’s wife and therefore his stepmother. In both films, clitoral power reveals itself to be disastrous. These films present a world of chaos, violence, and destruction that appeals to global audiences and sensibilities. It would be difficult to say that Ouedraogo read Greek classics when preparing his film. Rather, its structure is based on human feelings that clearly go beyond Africa. When talking about Tilaï, Ouedraogo expresses his own surprise: “I hadn’t realized it, but it is a Greek tragedy” (in Barlet 2000:63).
As a matter of fact, the Oedipal topos in Tilai depicts the suffering and the tragic destruction of the cultural, and by extension, the political order. By opposing his father Nomenaba, Saga refuses to bargain his way into an oppressive society that controls desire and prevents him from declaring his love for Nogma. By helping his brother run away, Kougri tries to reconcile his love for his brother Saga with his abhorrence of the “incest” that has been committed. He is torn between Saga’s right to act on his desire and his authoritarian father’s wishes. He also has a good deal of sympathy for Nogma, his brother’s ex-fiancée, who, through a strange turn of events, becomes his stepmother after being forced to marry his father. Tilaï is, without a doubt, a tragedy: Tenga, Nogma’s father, commits suicide out of humiliation. His daughter not only dares to disobey him by not wanting to marry the old man of his choosing, but further humiliates him by sleeping with the banned son.
La Colère des dieux fits even more neatly into the canons of classic tragedies. It is also a remarkable representation of postcolonial authoritarianism, through its focus on rivalries that ravage a royal family. In this film, the transgression that produces chaos in the social fabric is not incest, but rather power/control. However, the father, who in this case is a king, dies, and is unable to prevent his ambitious son from taking over power by force. Tanga challenges all the rules and imposes himself upon the community as the new king simply because he is the commander in chief. The dying father is powerless and leaves the matter to the gods; as in ancient tragedies, transgression can only be punished by “angry gods.”
However, when Tanga uses his new power to force Awa, the fiancée of Rasmané, to marry him, he is unaware that she is pregnant with Salam. This boy is initially anointed prince, though when his illegitimacy is revealed, an oracle stipulates that Tanga must kill him lest he usurp his power. The son, whose own tyranny rivals that of his adoptive father, commits suicide when he realizes that he has also offended the very gods who offered him the protection and strength he needed to fight the despotic Tanga. Apart from the Oedipal metaphor present in La Colère des dieux, one can also note the issue of illegitimate power as illustrated by Nero in classical tragedies. It is a direct reflection on political power and tyranny, as explored through a son’s unquenchable thirst for domination.
While there is little evidence that La Colère des dieux has had the same box office and popular success as Tilaï and Yaaba, one can comfortably state that Idrissa Ouedraogo had long understood that African cinema can be openly political without being aggressively militant. His cinematography belongs to what Ukadike calls “new African films,” and which I have labeled postnationalist African cinemas, that is, those narratives that are not predicated on nation-building. Most importantly, and this is what Idrissa Ouedraogo was the most vocal about, cinema is an industry designed to entertain the widest audience possible. Entertainment requires sophisticated narrative plots, excellent technical construction, beautiful images or costumes, and no restriction on representability. In this new African cinema, laughter, sex, love, food, fashion, professional acting, and social criticism can all be accommodated. For decades, filmmakers such as Moustapha Alassane, Mahamat Johnson Traoré, Henri Duparc, or Alphonse Béni were either ignored or dismissed because they did not belong to the dominant (and domineering) political and hopelessly Manichean “African cinema.” Idrissa Ouedraogo’s cinematography has helped shape the cinema that can be found in Africa today. After being systematically dismissed and ignored (including by FESPACO officials), Nigerian productions are becoming the new norm of what is known as “African cinema.” It is also no surprise that Ouedraogo shot and directed the eighty episodes (twelve minutes each) of Kadi Jolie in 1999: African spectators who were addicted to questionable Brazilian or Argentinean telenovelas are now flooded with hundreds of original local television series. Moreover, thousands of them are available for free online. Here again, Ouedraogo was among the first to pinpoint exactly what African spectators need: entertainment, laughter, and fun. Apart from directors such as Haïle Gerima and several documentary filmmakers, contemporary African cinema now focuses on a new territory, that of supply and demand. In that, Idrissa Ouedraogo was a pioneer.
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The occasion of the sudden death of Idrissa Ouedraogo is probably a good moment to review the trajectories and typologies of what is called African cinema. It is not uncommon to watch Nigerian movies on various international flights. It is no longer surprising to come across a film by Alain Gomis or Abderrahmane Sissako on Air France. That has not always been the case, and if these companies can now entertain their customers with these very limited non-mainstream movies, it means something has happened in the African film industry. Why have African narratives suddenly become “showable”? It may come as a surprise. But while this is simply anecdotal, I do not recall seeing any film by Sembène Ousmane or Med Hondo listed on those flights. That does not mean much, though. So, what happened?
Contemporary African directors, many of whom are relatively young and female, with extremely limited experience of colonialism or of autocratic regimes in their countries, have dedicated their cinematographic career to fun and entertaining narratives in specific genres. Quick examples include Owell Brown (Côte d’Ivoire) with Le Mec ideal (2010) and Boubacar Diallo with a series of detective films, along with the numerous directors who, like Idrissa Ouedraogo with Kadi Jolie, decided to exclusively focus on television series and hence put to rest the reign of the endlessly didactic African film. Differently put, what is happening today, what has become in a way trendy with African entertainment cinema, was outlined long ago, in the strongest terms, by Idrissa Ouedraogo.
At some point, cultural historians will probably need to determine the relationship between the one-party system, autocracy, and the production of what was known as “African cinema,” in its most essentialist and prescriptive nature. For decades, there was an extremely simplistic perception of a monolithic African cinema, aptly illustrated through Férid Boughédir’s definition, which contrasts “African cinema” with its Western counterpart recognized more as:
[...] a cinema of escapism, of evading the real and its problems. This is the opiate cinema, the cinema that lulls you to sleep. 90 percent of commercial films participate in this operation, and that’s why film is universally considered first and foremost a form of entertainment. To entertain also means to distract, to divert from reality, to allow a temporary escape that slows down the raising of awareness. (Boughedir Ferid Reference Boughedir1974)
With the release of Ousmane Sembène’s films, the creation of the Fédération Panafricaine des Cinéastes, and the dogmas of the Algiers Charter, “it became almost impossible for any filmmaker […] not to take a politically engaged position” (Harrow Reference Harrow2007). This political commitment was based on the perception that cinema, like literature, must be a tool for social transformation. According to Mweze Ngangura (1996:60–64), this commitment is one of the principal causes of African cinema’s inability to fully connect with a public in desperate need of entertainment. Ngangura challenges the relevance of narratives that claim to have militancy as the primary aim, to the exclusion of all other forms of cinematic creation. For him, the “evening school” films, such as those directed by Sembène Ousmane, are economic failures because African spectators do not identify with them. This proliferation of auteur films has further alienated a public already weary of ideological subjugation. This phenomenon is further illustrated in Henri Duparc’s Caramel (2005), a comedy which presents an allegory of African cinema’s relationship to its audience. The film features Fred, a young cinema hall manager who is nearly bankrupted because no one attends his screenings, including those organized during a special African film festival. He tells the manager of the Film Board where he rents movies to be shown in his hall that the most popular films are Indian musical comedies, because spectators are only interested in dreaming. That is precisely the definition of cinema written on his car: “le cinéma c’est le rêve/Cinema is a dream.” In Jean-Pierre Bekolo’s Aristotle’s Plot (1997), Essomba Tourneur, one of the main characters, states even more succinctly that he does not watch African films because they are all “shit.”
Idrissa Ouedraogo was probably the first filmmaker to openly challenge the reductionist definition of “African” films that produced the narratives (or “shit”) with which very few spectators could actually connect. Early in his career, he decided to turn away from politically engaged films. This choice displeased scholars who seemed to have adopted the common dogmatic political approach to African cinema. When Ouedraogo’s Yaaba (1989) was released, it was critically acclaimed and had unusual box office success for an African film. The film considers the meaning of tolerance and tells the story of a grandmother ostracized by her community when she is accused of witchcraft. Western critics unanimously applauded the film, which was selected for the quinzaine des réalisateurs. It also received the Prix du peuple at the 1989 FESPACO, where this film, as well as several of Ouedraogo’s other productions, remains extremely popular.
However, according to Manthia Diawara, Yaaba is “flawed” because of its representation of “a bourgeois humanist of tolerance, which is imported from the city” (1992:162), “a sort of French liberalism” (1992:164) that does not confront nation-building and political challenges. Nwachuku Frank Ukadike goes further in his criticism, almost dismissing the film for being “elitist” and “individualist” (1994:279). As he states, “although much of the film’s strength lies in its whimsical irony, Ouedraogo nonetheless does not seem to have a clear vision of the African future, and there is cause to wonder whether Yaaba’s parabolic structural oppositions truly illuminate societal conflicts” (282).
While no one can discount that nation-building was (and remains) a social and political necessity in postcolonial Africa, one cannot ignore Idrissa Ouedraogo’s commitment to what, in fact, is a real, free African Cinema, with true intellectual freedom. Essentially, Ouedraogo anticipated what can be called popular African cinema, that is, a cinema accessible to a much larger audience that also avoids a prescriptive cultural nationalism. Idrissa Ouedraogo’s entire body of work is predicated on two key elements: freedom from dogmatic “African cinema” and, more importantly, the need to build narrative plots that go beyond African territoriality. This means appealing to universal experiences because Africans do not belong to a separate group of humanity. It is likely for this reason that his cinematography often goes beyond the political, a characteristic of his work that he himself recognizes:
Les réalisateurs africains pensent au discours revendicateur plutôt qu’au cinéma tout court. [...] Le public africain attend de nous de l’inspiration et de la qualité, de l’évasion intelligente. Filmer la campagne, les villages, les relations entre les hommes, correspondait à une étape de ma carrière cinématographique. Dans mes prochains films, j’accorderai plus d’importance à la force de l’histoire et des acteurs qu’à la beauté des décors. Ce sera toujours le même univers, avec un travail très différent dans le son, la mise en scène, l’image, l’histoire sera plus ouverte, plus accessible à d’autres publics (1995:337).
[African directors think about a militant and political discourses that makes demands rather than simply cinema by itself […] The African public waits for quality inspiration from us and qualities, intelligent escapism. To film the countryside, the villages, the relations between people, corresponded to one stage in my cinematic career. In my next films, I will give greater emphasis to the strength? of narration and to actors rather than the beauty of the décor. It will still be the same universe, with a totally different approach to sound, mise-en-scène, image; the story (or storyline) will be more open, more accessible to the public.]
Clearly, Idrissa Ouedraogo distances himself from the dogmas of “African cinema” that suffocated cinematographic productions for years in the name of nation-building and social criticism. When outlining his perception of cinema, not “African cinema,” he explains:
Je n’ai aucunement la prétention de représenter mon peuple ou les valeurs africaines. On est facilement prétentieux en s’érigeant moniteur, instituteur... “L’école du soir” de Sembène, ce n’est pas du cinéma fictionnel! Pourquoi parler d’un cinéma africain qui se pervertit au gré des modes? Quand on décide de faire de la fiction, on assume et on dit qu’on le fait pour soi, que ce n’est pas forcément un luxe, que cela peut permettre à la jeunesse africaine de rêver! (in Olivier Barlet, Reference Barlet1996:75).
[I neither pretend nor claim to represent my people or African values. It is easy to be pretentious in presenting oneself as monitor, teacher… “The Night School” of Sembène is not fictional cinema. Why speak of an African cinema which corrupts itself by following given modes? When you decide to make a work of fiction, you own (claim?) it, do it for yourself. That isn’t necessarily a luxury and it make African youth dream!]
However, Ouedraogo’s theorization does not mean that his films are not political. As a matter of fact, Christian Zimmer (Reference Zimmer1974) considers all films to be political. With that in mind, it goes without saying that the cruel ostracism suffered by Sana in Yaaba can be attributed to a social and political structure which, resembling what René Girard (Reference Girard1972) describes in relation to Europe’s darkest days, actively sought scapegoats against which to channel ritual violence. Although it is set in Africa, Yaaba appeals to human feelings and values: tolerance, kindness, and justice. These themes are obviously political, particularly as they are conveyed through the story of a young teenage boy not yet corrupted by social conservatism.
In two other films, Tilaï (1991) and La Colère des dieux (2003), African characters, costumes, and settings are only used to build a discourse around issues that have historically plagued every human society: authority, power, and sex and its often tragic consequences. Both films develop Oedipal motifs generated “because of women” or as a result of hatred between brothers. While La Colère des dieux revisits the Biblical conflict of Cain and Abel, Tilaï focuses on the unresolvable rivalry between a father and a son. The son in this narrative becomes intimate with his ex-fiancée, who is now his father’s wife and therefore his stepmother. In both films, clitoral power reveals itself to be disastrous. These films present a world of chaos, violence, and destruction that appeals to global audiences and sensibilities. It would be difficult to say that Ouedraogo read Greek classics when preparing his film. Rather, its structure is based on human feelings that clearly go beyond Africa. When talking about Tilaï, Ouedraogo expresses his own surprise: “I hadn’t realized it, but it is a Greek tragedy” (in Barlet 2000:63).
As a matter of fact, the Oedipal topos in Tilai depicts the suffering and the tragic destruction of the cultural, and by extension, the political order. By opposing his father Nomenaba, Saga refuses to bargain his way into an oppressive society that controls desire and prevents him from declaring his love for Nogma. By helping his brother run away, Kougri tries to reconcile his love for his brother Saga with his abhorrence of the “incest” that has been committed. He is torn between Saga’s right to act on his desire and his authoritarian father’s wishes. He also has a good deal of sympathy for Nogma, his brother’s ex-fiancée, who, through a strange turn of events, becomes his stepmother after being forced to marry his father. Tilaï is, without a doubt, a tragedy: Tenga, Nogma’s father, commits suicide out of humiliation. His daughter not only dares to disobey him by not wanting to marry the old man of his choosing, but further humiliates him by sleeping with the banned son.
La Colère des dieux fits even more neatly into the canons of classic tragedies. It is also a remarkable representation of postcolonial authoritarianism, through its focus on rivalries that ravage a royal family. In this film, the transgression that produces chaos in the social fabric is not incest, but rather power/control. However, the father, who in this case is a king, dies, and is unable to prevent his ambitious son from taking over power by force. Tanga challenges all the rules and imposes himself upon the community as the new king simply because he is the commander in chief. The dying father is powerless and leaves the matter to the gods; as in ancient tragedies, transgression can only be punished by “angry gods.”
However, when Tanga uses his new power to force Awa, the fiancée of Rasmané, to marry him, he is unaware that she is pregnant with Salam. This boy is initially anointed prince, though when his illegitimacy is revealed, an oracle stipulates that Tanga must kill him lest he usurp his power. The son, whose own tyranny rivals that of his adoptive father, commits suicide when he realizes that he has also offended the very gods who offered him the protection and strength he needed to fight the despotic Tanga. Apart from the Oedipal metaphor present in La Colère des dieux, one can also note the issue of illegitimate power as illustrated by Nero in classical tragedies. It is a direct reflection on political power and tyranny, as explored through a son’s unquenchable thirst for domination.
While there is little evidence that La Colère des dieux has had the same box office and popular success as Tilaï and Yaaba, one can comfortably state that Idrissa Ouedraogo had long understood that African cinema can be openly political without being aggressively militant. His cinematography belongs to what Ukadike calls “new African films,” and which I have labeled postnationalist African cinemas, that is, those narratives that are not predicated on nation-building. Most importantly, and this is what Idrissa Ouedraogo was the most vocal about, cinema is an industry designed to entertain the widest audience possible. Entertainment requires sophisticated narrative plots, excellent technical construction, beautiful images or costumes, and no restriction on representability. In this new African cinema, laughter, sex, love, food, fashion, professional acting, and social criticism can all be accommodated. For decades, filmmakers such as Moustapha Alassane, Mahamat Johnson Traoré, Henri Duparc, or Alphonse Béni were either ignored or dismissed because they did not belong to the dominant (and domineering) political and hopelessly Manichean “African cinema.” Idrissa Ouedraogo’s cinematography has helped shape the cinema that can be found in Africa today. After being systematically dismissed and ignored (including by FESPACO officials), Nigerian productions are becoming the new norm of what is known as “African cinema.” It is also no surprise that Ouedraogo shot and directed the eighty episodes (twelve minutes each) of Kadi Jolie in 1999: African spectators who were addicted to questionable Brazilian or Argentinean telenovelas are now flooded with hundreds of original local television series. Moreover, thousands of them are available for free online. Here again, Ouedraogo was among the first to pinpoint exactly what African spectators need: entertainment, laughter, and fun. Apart from directors such as Haïle Gerima and several documentary filmmakers, contemporary African cinema now focuses on a new territory, that of supply and demand. In that, Idrissa Ouedraogo was a pioneer.