By Dr. Abigail Kabandula
For months, I had resisted watching “Becoming a Guinea Fowl,” a new Zambian film that had quietly gained international attention. Friends who saw it at the Denver Film Festival urged me to make time for it, praising its originality and emotional depth. But I hesitated. Zambian films, for all their artistry, are often too painful for me to face.
Their stories, truthfully told, mirror lives I know too well. They are suffused with grief that feels not merely observed but inherited, like a family heirloom one would rather not touch. When I watched Netflix’s Mwabi last year, I cried uncontrollably, overwhelmed by a grief I thought I had long suppressed after witnessing the harsh social norms faced by people who are different or appear different, whether in color or physical disability. The movie affected me deeply, not because it was strange, but because it felt painfully familiar.
As is often the case, a long-haul flight broke my resistance. From San Francisco to Hong Kong, I settled into my usual routine of passing the time during transit. I read work documents, fine-tuned presentations, and read a few chapters of a half-finished book. Eventually, the in-flight entertainment menu becomes a dare. Becoming a Guinea Fowl was part of the in-flight entertainment. Knowing I would eventually have to watch and discuss the movie with my friends, I reluctantly pressed play.
From its opening moments, I was captivated. The film introduces us to Shula, whose uncle has died under mysterious circumstances. Alongside her is Nsansa, her cousin—annoying, essential, and unforgettable.
The brilliance of Nsansa lies in her contradictions: she is the relative everyone loves and resents equally, who hurts and comforts, who pushes boundaries but is the first to show up when you are at your lowest. It’s rare for a character to feel so authentic, so clearly drawn from the personal dramas of family life.
What gives the film its power isn’t just its plot but its deep immersion into the textures of Zambian society. It is a work alive with the rhythms of speech, the unspoken rules of patriarchy, and the daily burdens that shape women’s lives.
Aunties who assert their will under the guise of care, patriarchs who extort before helping, the endless chores assigned to girls and young women, the silence surrounding sexual abuse, and the omnipresence of alcohol—each element feels less like a theme than a condition of life. The director doesn’t sermonize; instead, these realities arise naturally, as if captured in the flow of everyday life.
For me, watching was an act of recognition intertwined with estrangement. I have lived abroad for twenty years, yet the film reminded me of what persists, of what remains unresolved. Zambia has modernized, urbanized, and globalized, but beneath those layers lie the same unhealed wounds. The film acts as a mirror held up not just to individuals but to the nation itself.
The final scene, set at a funeral in Lusaka, pierced me most. The gathering is raw and straightforward, with grief mixed with blame. But more than mourning, it exposes a familiar social injustice: the dispossession of women. Property grabbing—where relatives of the deceased take homes, possessions, and even savings from widows and children—has troubled Zambian families for generations.
The film’s portrayal of this practice is not exaggerated; it is measured, direct, and thus profoundly impactful. For me, that scene was not just cinematic but personal. At four years old, I stood at my father’s funeral and watched as my mother was humiliated and stripped of everything. Pots and pans were taken away. My father’s clothes disappeared. Even the modest bank account was seized. When my uncle asked who would help my mother feed and educate seven children, no one stepped forward. She was left to carry not only us but also her sister’s children. It was not just grief; it was abandonment, played out in public. Watching Becoming a Guinea Fowl, I felt myself transported back to that day, reminded that I am not an exception but one of millions.
This is the paradox of the film. It is painful, yes, but also a form of testimony. By dramatizing what is typically hidden or minimized, it insists that these experiences be remembered. Its sadness contains its triumph. Becoming a Guinea Fowl achieves what the best cinema does: it transforms private anguish into collective recognition. It tells us, in effect, that these stories matter—that they belong not only to those who endured them but to a national memory that must be confronted.
The author holds joint fellowship appointments at the Josef Korbel School of Global and Public Affairs, University of Denver and University of Edinburgh Law School.
