By OLUSOJI DAOMI
A familiar face on television.
A character that has entered our homes, our language, our laughter.
A man we all feel we know.
And yet, behind the laughter, there is a quiet revelation that unsettles.
The man who played “Papa Ajasco” for decades, Abiodun Ayoyinka, recently disclosed that despite years of work, he has no house of his own, no car to his name. For many Nigerians, it sounds unbelievable. How can someone so visible, so iconic, remain so financially constrained?
But that is where law meets reality. And reality, as always, is less sentimental than the audience imagines.
Let us slow down and examine this, not as gossip, but as a legal lesson.
The “Papa Ajasco” brand itself was created and produced by Wale Adenuga, a seasoned media entrepreneur. From the beginning, the character, the show, and the intellectual property surrounding it were structured under his control. Over time, as the show gained popularity, the character became more than just a role. It became a brand. A commercial identity. A marketable symbol.
And crucially, that identity was protected under Nigerian law through trademark registration.
Now, this is where many Nigerians misunderstand the entertainment industry.
You can be the face.
You can be the voice.
You can be the body that brings a character to life.
But in law, that does not automatically make you the owner.
Under the Nigerian Trade Marks Act, a trademark is a legally protected sign, name, or identity used to distinguish goods or services. Once a name or character is registered as a trademark, the owner has exclusive rights to use it commercially. That includes endorsements, branding, merchandise, and licensing.
So when “Papa Ajasco” is trademarked, it means the character is no longer just artistic expression. It is property. Legal property. Commercial property.
And the owner of that property controls how it is used.
This is why the actor, despite embodying the character for decades, cannot simply take the “Papa Ajasco” persona and sign endorsement deals independently. He cannot walk into an advertising agency and say, “I am Papa Ajasco, pay me.” The law will stop him.
Because legally, he is not Papa Ajasco.
He is an actor who plays Papa Ajasco.
There is a difference. A painful difference. A costly difference.
This distinction becomes even more striking when one considers the earnings trajectory he disclosed. From ₦2,500 per episode in the late 1990s, gradually rising to ₦45,000 per episode in 2026, a figure that sits below Nigeria’s current minimum wage, it raises uncomfortable questions about value, bargaining power, and long-term contractual arrangements.
But again, the law does not operate on emotion. It operates on agreements.
What did the contract say?
That is the first question any serious lawyer will ask.
In most entertainment arrangements, especially in earlier decades of Nollywood and television production, actors were engaged on a per-episode or per-project basis. Many of these contracts did not include provisions for royalties, residual payments, or profit participation. Once the actor was paid for the performance, that was the end of the financial relationship.
Meanwhile, the producer retained ownership of the intellectual property, the story, the character, the brand.
As the years pass and the show continues to generate value through reruns, syndication, digital platforms, and brand recognition, the imbalance becomes more visible.
The actor remains tied to the original compensation structure.
The owner continues to benefit from the expanding commercial value.
It is not necessarily illegal. But it can feel deeply unfair.
Now, can anything be done at this stage?
The answer is cautious. It depends.
The first port of call is always the contract. If there are provisions for renegotiation, review, royalties, or residual benefits, those clauses can be activated. If the contract is silent, the actor may still attempt to renegotiate based on the continued commercial relevance of the character.
In some situations, where the terms appear excessively one-sided, there may be arguments around unconscionability or inequitable bargaining power, although such claims are not easy to sustain under Nigerian law without strong evidence.
But one thing is clear. As long as the trademark remains valid and subsisting, the actor cannot commercially exploit the character independently. Any attempt to do so may expose him to legal action for trademark infringement.
This is the hard truth many young creatives do not want to hear.
Talent is not ownership.
Visibility is not control.
Fame is not property.
In law, ownership belongs to the person who creates, registers, or contractually secures the rights.
Let us bring this closer to everyday Nigerian life.
A young skit maker creates a funny character on Instagram. A producer approaches him and says, “Let us make this big. I will invest. I will produce.” Excited, the creator signs a contract without reading the fine print. Years later, the character becomes a national sensation. Brands are calling. Money is flowing.
But then he discovers that the name, the image, the brand, all belong to the producer.
He is now a performer in a brand he originally brought to life.
This is not fiction. It is happening across Nigeria’s creative industry.
And that is why this conversation matters.
Before you step into a role.
Before you sign that contract.
Before you celebrate the fame.
Ask the difficult questions.
Who owns the character?
Is the name registered as a trademark?
Am I entitled to royalties if the show succeeds?
Can I use this character outside the production?
What happens in ten years?
These are not questions for later. They are questions for the beginning.
Because by the time success arrives, it may already be too late to renegotiate from a position of strength.
For producers and companies, there is also a lesson.
While the law protects ownership rights, sustainability in the creative industry requires fairness. An actor who embodies a character for decades contributes more than labour. He contributes identity, consistency, emotional connection with the audience. Ignoring that contribution may be legally permissible, but it raises ethical and commercial questions about long-term industry growth.
A balanced structure, one that combines ownership protection with fair compensation, is often the wiser path.
In the final analysis, the story of Papa Ajasco is not just about one actor. It is about an entire generation of Nigerian creatives who built iconic characters without fully understanding the legal architecture behind them.
It is a reminder that in today’s world, creativity must walk hand in hand with legal awareness.
Because in the end, the law does not reward who is most loved on screen.
It rewards who owns the rights behind the screen.
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