PAPA AJASCO & WALE ADENUGA PRODUCTIONS: WHEN DOES AN ACTOR GAIN RIGHTS OVER CHARACTERS THEY MAKE FAMOUS?
1. INTRODUCTION
There is a peculiar magic in film and television, one so powerful that it blurs the line between fiction and reality. Audiences do not merely watch characters; they experience them through the actors who embody them. Over time, this creates a cultural fusion where actor and character become indistinguishable. For instance, consider Henry Cavill as Superman, or Odunlade Adekola as Saamu Alajo. In both cases, the actor does not simply play the role; they become it in the public imagination. Thus, film and TV characters become cultural icons so intertwined that audiences can’t separate the two. We speak of Henry Cavill (Superman), or in Nigeria Odunlade Adekola (Saamu Alajo), as if the actor and role are one person. This is especially true in long‐running series. For many Nigerians, “Papa Ajasco” is not just a character name but the face of actor Abiodun Ayoyinka and several others. That fusion of actor and character raises an important question: When an actor makes a character famous, do they gain any legal stake in that character?
Legally, the answer is: seldom, unless a contract says otherwise. Intellectual property (IP) law draws a sharp distinction between the expression of a character and an actor’s performance of it. Copyright in the character and story generally belongs to the author or producer (the person “by whom the arrangements…for the making of [the film] were made”), and actors own only their recorded performances (often called “performers’ rights”). Succinctly, the law cares about who created and fixed the character, not who made it popular on screen. As one commentator puts it: “Absent an express contract, actors do not acquire proprietary rights over the characters they portray.”
This article explores this rule and its exceptions in depth. It explains how film copyright works, who the author is, and who owns the character,. It explores what the actor’s perspective is: whether they could claim part‐ownership based on labor and identity; Why the law, as written, resists that claim; and the exceptions and contractual considerations. Also, it examines how the Nigerian Copyright Act treats performers, the industry realities, and the reform proposals.
2. WHO REALLY OWNS THE CHARACTER?
To see why actors lack automatic rights in characters, it helps to recall the basics of film copyright. Films and TV episodes are “audiovisual works” – legally distinct from mere ideas. They are fixed expressions protected by copyright. Under Nigerian law, an audiovisual work includes a sequence of moving images (with or without sound) shown as a moving picture. The Act is clear and provides that “copyright and ownership of an audiovisual work are vested in the creator of the work.” It then defines the author (creator) as “the person by whom the arrangements for the making of [the work] were made,” unless the parties contract otherwise. In practice, this means the film’s producer (or production company) is the author. The default is that the person who organizes the production (e.g., Wale Adenuga of Papa Ajasco) “makes the arrangements” and therefore holds the film’s copyright. Other creators keep rights in their contributions (e.g a scriptwriter keeps the story copyright unless assigned), but the film as a whole is owned by the producer. It can be summarized thus:
1. Character creation is part of the screenplay or script or the film itself. That creative input is owned by the author(s) and, consequently, by the producer as “author” of the film.
2. Performance is something different;: it is the actor’s embodiment of the character,; a live act that gets recorded in the film. Under the Copyright Act, once that performance is recorded (fixed), the performer obtains exclusive rights in that recording. The Copyright Act gives performers rights to control fixation, reproduction, broadcast, etc. of their performances. Importantly, these rights cover their acting itself, not the underlying character or story.
3. THE ACTOR’S CLAIM: LABOUR, IDENTITY, AND CREATIVE INPUT
That legal line may feel counterintuitive. After all, actors do labor creatively on their roles. They infuse a character with voice, mannerisms, and even improvisation that go beyond the page. Voice actors, comedians, and character actors in particular often change or embellish lines, invent catchphrases, or add backstory on set. In that sense, an actor does “mix their labor” with the character. Some even invoke Lockean labor theory, asking whether the effort an actor pours into a role should yield ownership in it.
These observations fuel the intuitive counterargument: if an actor’s performance transforms a character, shouldn’t they share ownership? Just like John Locke’s theory: "I poured my soul into this role, therefore I should own a piece of it." Thus, at what point does contribution rise to co-authorship? For example, one commentator notes that the actor’s embodiment can be so integral that it creates value in a character. In the US case Anderson v. Stallone, a court found that Sylvester Stallone’s distinct physicality and emotion made Rocky Balboa a distinctive enough character to warrant copyright, partly based on his portrayal. In plain terms: Rocky’s creators never imagined him as campy and emotional, but Stallone’s performance gave that depth, enough that the court treated Rocky as “sufficiently original.” Similarly, if an actor’s flair turns a minor role into a breakout star, one could argue they helped write the character.
Another frame is identity rights and personality. Actors (especially celebrities) often have rights to their own likeness and name. A character can become part of an actor’s brand. In franchise culture, actors sometimes try to monetize their connection to characters (selling merchandise, appearances, etc.). Some actors have successfully trademarked aspects of their performances (signature costumes or catchphrases) under personality rights. In Nigeria, it went viral reported that the original Papa Ajasco actor lamented that the character was trademarked by Wale Adenuga Productions, meaning he couldn’t legally use the name in other ventures. This underscores the tension:. Culturally, we see an actor owning a role, but legally, the company owns the trademark.
Philosophically, one could view a character as a jointly developed work: writers give the skeleton, actors provide the flesh. When an actor improvises or origin-tests a scene, some might call that collaborative authorship. But courts and statutes usually draw the line differently.
Therefore, actors contribute creativity and labor, shaping characters in important ways. Intuitively, it feels like they should have a stake. However, some schools of thought argue for extending co-authorship in extreme cases, but traditionally, the line has been: the writer/producer creates the character; the actor enacts it. Any move beyond that has been through contracts or special doctrines, not default law.
4. WHY THE LAW STILL SAYS “NO.”
Despite actors’ intuitive claims, the law generally resists awarding them character rights. Why? Several policy and practical reasons underlie this approach of the law. They include:
Avoiding Fragmented Rights: Imagine if every actor (and crew member) had partial copyright in a big film. Any sequel, spin-off, or global release would require dozens of permissions and royalty negotiations. The industry consensus is that it would be unworkable. Instead, simplicity demands a single owner per work. Once actors consent to filming, the producer needs certainty that she controls the output. While international treaties reflected this, the WIPO background brief also notes that under older conventions (like the Rome Convention) “performers in audiovisual works…had no rights over their use” after initial consent. Thus, the norm has been: sign the contract, trust the maker, and move on.
Difference Between Character and Performance: Legally, a character is an abstract element of a story (e.g., the idea of Papa Ajasco in the script). A performance is the concrete recording of an actor playing that role. Copyrights protect the fixed expression, not the nebulous idea. Actors’ rights (often called “neighboring” or “performers’” rights) thus protect the recording of the act, but not the underlying character. The 2022 Nigerian Act enshrines this by giving performers exclusive rights to reproduce, distribute, or broadcast their performance, but it never grants them rights in the character or screenplay. Put succinctly: the law prioritizes creation and fixation, not interpretation.
Existing Rights Adequately Protect Performers: The law already grants performers important protections for their work. In Nigeria, a performer has an exclusive right to control fixation of unfixed performance, and to control reproduction, broadcasting, rental, etc., of that fixed performance. They also have moral rights (credit and no derogatory treatment). However, crucially, these rights extend only to the performance itself. They do not extend to the character or script, which remain the copyright of whoever created them.
Commercial Necessity: Producers argue, often convincingly, that giving actors ownership of characters would stifle the creative economy. Imagine needing Odunlade Adekola’s permission (and possibly cut of revenue) for every new Papa Ajasco script, movie deal, or merchandise. Or if he could block a new storyline he didn’t like. That would chill investment. A stable system where one entity holds the character copyright makes sequels, licensing, and adaptations straightforward. Policy-makers tend to favor this stability over extending incremental rights to interpreters.
Unless an actor has a contract saying otherwise, the law will view the actor as just a performer, not a co-owner of the character or film. In short, fame does not equal ownership.
5. EXCEPTIONS AND CONTRACTUAL ROUTES
Of course, the saying goes that “where there’s a will, there’s a way.” While the default law says no, there are exceptions. In practice, savvy actors (and agents) negotiate terms up front to capture a share of the IP pie. Some of the main avenues are:
Contracts and Work-for-Hire Agreements: In many film industries, actors sign contracts granting the producer a broad license or even assignment of performance rights. For example, the Copyright Act 2022 presumes that if a performer consents to filming, they automatically grant the producer the exclusive rights in that performance, absent any contrary agreement. In effect, this makes the producer the de facto owner of the fixed performance as well, a statutory work-for-hire rule. However, contracts can also flip the bargain: an actor might negotiate that their participation will yield them a portion of profits, back-end points, or a share of future uses (like home video and streaming revenue).
Co-authorship or Joint Creation: If an actor truly co-develops a character (for example, by improvising story beats or by originating the character concept on set), they might claim to be a co-author. This is rare, but it can happen if, for instance, a character is unscripted or jointly fleshed out live. Some jurisdictions,such as the United Kingdom and the United States also recognize joint authorship if multiple creators intend their contributions to merge. In the absence of a written contract, courts would ask: “Did the actor contribute any original, independent or copyrightable material to the character?”
Profit-Sharing and Merchandising Clauses: Recognizing actors’ value, some agreements give actors a cut of revenue from merchandise or by-product featuring their character. For instance, an actor might get royalties if their character’s image appears on toys or if sequels are made. Such clauses effectively give them a de facto interest in the character’s exploitation, though legal structures, such as contractual payments, not copyright.
Personality/Passing-Off Rights: If a character is closely identified with the actor’s own persona, there may be additional remedies. Some countries (or U.S. states) allow celebrities to control endorsements or likeness uses. An actor might not own the character copyright, but they could argue that the producer’s commercial use of that character without the actor’s consent violates personality rights or creates a false endorsement. This is a different legal theory (trademark or privacy law), but it can give an actor some leverage over how their famous character image is used.
Territorial Variations: The strength of performers’ rights varies by country. While performers' rights are stronger in one country than in another, no major jurisdiction gives actors default copyright in characters.
Contracts Are Not Strictly All-or-Nothing: Often, a hybrid approach occurs: an actor assigns all copyright but retains some specific rights. For example, New Act commentary notes that in Nigeria, a performer who allows filming, licenses performance rights to the producer, but even then, the performer is entitled to share in broadcasting revenues. And commentators have pointed out that the Copyright Act “may entitle” a performer to a share of the audiovisual work’s proceeds, though the details depend on implementing regulations.
There is no magic right apart from the contract. Producers generally secure character IP by employing the actor under “work-made-for-hire” or assignment terms. Actors should never assume they own any part of the character just by portraying it. If an actor wants a stake, it must be explicitly bargained for in the contract.
6. THE PAPA AJASCO SAGA: NIGERIA IN FOCUS
These issues are not abstract for Nigeria’s entertainment industry; they are real and pressing. Papa Ajasco & Company has been on air for decades, with its characters (Papa Ajasco, Pa James, etc.) beloved nationwide. Yet from a legal perspective, the situation is straightforward: Wale Adenuga Productions created and owns the characters and story. Any right an actor has is only in their own performance. The Copyright Act (2022) would treat Papa Ajasco’s script and show as the producer’s copyright. An actor like Abiodun Ayoyinka (Papa Ajasco) is seen as a performer who has assigned his performance rights to WAP by virtue of working in the film.
In practice, this translates to a power imbalance. Veteran cast members have publicly complained that Adenuga holds trademarks on the character names, preventing them from using those identities for their own gain (endorsements, spin-offs, etc.). This is a common story: a performer pours years into a role but contractually has no claim to it. Unless the actor or union negotiates otherwise, the producer reaps the benefits of any merchandise, international sales, or spin-off revenue.
Under the Copyright Act, actors do gain certain protections. For example, Section 68(2) effectively says that if an actor allows filming, the default result is that the producer owns the performance rights. Section 68(3) also entitles actors to some share of broadcast revenue. And Section 63 gives them exclusive control over any unauthorized reproduction of their performance. These rights allow Nigerian actors to insist on royalties from reruns or to sue for unauthorized use of their filmed scenes. But crucially, none of this lets an actor claim the character or story. The actor can prevent someone from pasting their face into a commercial without permission, but they cannot legally refuse to be written out of Papa Ajasco or demand a co-writer credit on the script unless previously agreed.
Industry practice magnifies this effect. Nigeria’s film/TV sector often has weak formality: Some productions proceed with minimal contracts. That can leave uncontracted actors with no legal recourse if disputes arise. There have been calls for stronger unions or guilds (as in Hollywood) to negotiate standard residuals. Meanwhile, producers emphasize investment risk: WAP has poured resources into Papa Ajasco for over 30+ years, building up those characters. The law, therefore, aligns with Adenuga’s claimed rights: he “made the arrangements” for the show, so he owns it.
In sum, under Nigerian law today, the Papa Ajasco characters legally belong to WAP. The actors, however iconic, are seen as having sold the physical enactments of those characters, nothing more, unless their contracts say otherwise. Audiences may see one person on screen; the law sees two contributions: the creation (Adenuga’s IP) and the performance (the actor’s IP).
7. SHOULD THE LAW CHANGE?
Given this apparent imbalance, should law reform tip the scales? There are arguments on both sides:
Arguments for Reform:
Fairness and Recognition. Actors invest creativity and often define characters culturally. Especially in collaborative media, one could argue that it is just that actors share in the value they helped create. Granting them some default royalties or partial ownership might acknowledge their contributions. It could also encourage actors to invest more in characters if they have a continuing stake.
Economic Equity. The Copyright Act 2022 does add some sharing mechanisms (e.g., broadcast royalties). Reformers might push further: for example, a rule that any character appearing in a new work by another party must get the original performer’s consent or payment. Or that iconic characters cannot be exploited without profit-sharing. These could protect actors from being excluded from new ventures built on their fame.
Arguments Against Reform:
Legal Uncertainty. Expanding actor rights to characters would create murky questions. How much improvised material does it take? What if two actors have shaped a role over time (think Papa Ajasco played by multiple actors)? Determining co-ownership could bog courts down in creative minutiae.
Transactional Burden. Producers warn that more parties with rights means more costs and delays. The current model lets one entity handle licensing. Changing that could scare away investment, particularly in a nascent film market.
Sufficient Alternatives Exist. One could argue that contracts already offer a flexible solution: if an actor deserves a cut, the actor’s agent or a union can bargain for it. Statutory change might disrupt negotiated balances without solving the underlying negotiation incentives.
Middle‑Ground Ideas:
Rather than a full overhaul, some suggest targeted tweaks. For example, Nigeria could require standard “equitable remuneration” for performers every time an old show is rebroadcast (beyond initial broadcast royalties). Or the law could explicitly allow actors to share in merchandising or sequel profits with a default formula. Others propose a presumption that significant creative input (measured perhaps by writers’ attestations) grants some rights. Another idea: is to establish a “character fund” where producers must pay small royalties for famous characters, to be distributed among the original cast or creators.
Any reform must balance incentives. But for now, Nigerian law remains producer-favored, but these debates continue in IP circles.
8. THE FINAL DIGEST
The core lesson is deceptively simple: the law draws a hard line between creation and performance. Characters on screen are the fruit of authorship, not of acting per se. Under both Nigerian law and other regimes, the producer (or author) owns the character, while the actor owns their portrayal of it. Unless a contract explicitly shifts rights, this allocation stands firm. Popularity, fan affection, or even an actor’s direct contribution do not by themselves create legal ownership. As one concise summary puts it: “Fame does not equal ownership” in copyright.
Thus, the audience may see one person on screen, but the law still sees two distinct creations. What we perceive as a seamless character is legally two layers: the character-creator and the performer. For Nigeria and the Papa Ajasco family, the practical takeaway is clear: unless WAP’s contracts explicitly grant them something, the actors must view their roles as paid jobs, not equity stakes. To gain more than that, actors must negotiate hard. The law will not automatically hand them those rights.
References
Nigerian Copyright Act, 2022 (Act No. 8 of 2023): see especially Sections 2 (originality/fixation requirements), 11 (definition of audiovisual works, protection), 63–66 (performers’ rights and moral rights), 68–69 (fixation by consent; transfer of performer’s rights), etc.
Nigerian Copyright Commission (NCC): Guidelines and press releases on new Act (e.g., performers’ royalties), and industry commentary (e.g., Banwo & Ighodalo article).
UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988: Section 9(2) (author of film = producer + director).
US Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. §101 et seq.: work-for-hire and performance rules; Anderson v. Stallone, 947 F.2d 1414 (9th Cir. 1991) (Stallone’s Rocky character).
WIPO Performances: See WIPO background brief on performers’ rights, which notes that historically, performers had no control over audiovisual use once recorded.
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