In one unforgettable scene, Efe (William Benson) sits in a dimly lit internet café, sweat beading on his forehead as his finger hovers over the keyboard. One keystroke, one moment of hesitation, this is the world of To Kill a Monkey, and director Kemi Adetiba drags you into its tense gravity from the opening frame.

To Kill a Monkey is now streaming on Netflix, and it does more than tell a story; it crafts an entire ecosystem. Meet Efe, a sharp young programmer whose talent should have secured his success. But success doesn’t wait its turn in Lagos. The city’s pulse is relentless: okadas weaving through gridlock, hawkers shouting over car horns, and the air thick with the smell of exhaust and ambition.

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When Efe’s old friend returns, Oboz (Bucci Franklin), shimmering with easy money and shadowy connections, the world tilts. A single step off the righteous path isn’t a leap, it’s a gradual unravelling. Adetiba doesn’t romanticise this descent; she portrays the city as a living, conspiratorial entity. The cinematography alternates between neon-lit streets and claustrophobic alleys, visually echoing the duality of possibility and peril. Dialogue snaps like live wires, ever taut, never allowing you to relax.

At its core, the film is about its people. Efe is neither hero nor villain, but that blurry middle ground where hunger, loyalty, and fear collide. His relationships, always shifting, ready to bend or break, mirror the alliances and betrayals that Abuja insiders call “executive moves.” It’s an emotional chess game played on Lagos traffic.

The supporting cast like Stella Damasus, Michael Ejoor, Sunshine Rosman, Abimbola Akintola, and Ireti Doyle,  are equally compelling. As the returning friend, bring a magnetic charm that’s unsettling, like someone who laughs in a whisper, all the better to draw you in before they sting; their chemistry with Efe crackles with allegiance and distrust.

This isn’t just Lagos; it’s the collective mirror of any city where hope is combustible and stakes are always fatal. The film leaves lingering questions: How far would you go when the streets demand payment in values you once cherished? What does loyalty cost when survival moves the price tag? And, even more unsettling, can you ever return after crossing the line?

There’s no neat resolution. No comfort in closure. Instead, what stays with you is a hum, like exhaust in your lungs, or an unanswered dare in your own reflection.

Kemi Adetiba hasn’t just given us a movie. She’s given us a sharp question disguised in shadows and strobe light.

Would you choose ambition or your humanity?

Anita Chinedu