There is a quiet rustling in On Becoming a Guinea Fowl, a noise not of wings but of memories, secrets, and the ancestral silence that coats grief like dust upon roadside shoes. Rungano Nyoni’s latest film opens with a sudden and spectral death—an uncle lying still on an empty Zambian road under a moon that seems to weep. From this death blooms a wake not only of mourning but reckoning, where family rituals unfold alongside buried truths, drawing us into a space that feels less like cinema and more like oral testimony, told in whispers around firelight.
Susan Chardy carries the role of Shula like a bundle of ancestral bones—fragile, complex, aware of the weight they bear. Her performance is the film’s heartbeat, subtle and unwavering, navigating grief with a quiet interiority that refuses spectacle. Alongside her, Elizabeth Chisela’s Nsansa exudes a sharper energy that counterpoints Shula’s silences with flashes of rage and sorrow. Henry B.J. Phiri, as “Dad,” is the most elusive—perhaps intentionally so—but there are moments where his presence, like thunder before rain, hints at the generational trauma beneath the family’s polite facades.
The plot unfolds not in linear bursts, but in rhythmic echoes—like footsteps in a rondavel, circling the truth. The film risks fragmenting its emotional throughline as secrets unravel through whispered confessions and ritual confrontations. Yet this fragmentation mimics real grief: it doesn’t move cleanly, it stumbles and revisits itself. Sometimes, the narrative falters, especially around secondary characters like Roy Chisha and Blessings Bhamjee, who feel more like shadows than flesh. While presumably symbolic, their roles yearn for greater depth to ground the ensemble thoroughly.
Where Nyoni succeeds most is in her direction of tone. This story is told with folklore’s cadence—not exaggerated, but steeped in wisdom. Her camera lingers with care, often framing characters against vast landscapes that dwarf their turmoil, reminding us how tradition and loss echo far beyond the living. Moments of ritual—genuine and performative—are handled with reverence, though occasionally the pacing slows to a crawl, risking viewer detachment.
The theme of grief in African middle-class families is rarely explored with such layered nuance. Nyoni doesn’t sanitize it nor romanticize tradition. She allows discomfort to breathe. The rituals surrounding death, from washing the body to the silent stares across dinner tables, build a tapestry that is both personal and collective. Yet some thematic strands—particularly the intersection of modernity and tribal obligation—feel underdeveloped. We are shown glimpses but not always given pathways.
The film’s title is metaphorical: the guinea fowl, elusive, communal, loud yet vulnerable. Shula’s journey mirrors that of the bird, caught between flight and rootedness, navigating the cacophony of family expectations and the solitude of personal grief. Like a folktale, her revelations come not with fanfare but through subtle transformations, though the ending leaves some threads frayed, provoking more questions than resolutions.
Stylistically, On Becoming a Guinea Fowl is rich in lyrical imagery. Chardy’s expressive face, landscapes painted with dusk, and sound design using silence as punctuation coalesce into a somber visual poem. There is beauty here, although not all viewers will find closure. Those wanting a tidy resolution may discover the experience elusive, like grasping feathers mid-flight.
Streaming on Max, the film may find audiences divided—some drawn to its poetic melancholy, others yearning for more narrative clarity. It is not a perfect work, but it is a sincere one. Like the oral traditions it channels, it resists easy consumption and demands presence. It asks to be listened to, not simply watched.
And in listening, perhaps we, too, become guinea fowl—wandering through familial echoes, pecking at truths beneath the dust.
Letter Grade: B+.
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