Zambian-Welsh filmmaker Rungano Nyoni’s sophomore feature On Becoming A Guinea Fowl is a surrealist look at the tensions between a dead family member and their living secrets. The film follows Shula (Susan Chardy) as she navigates the grand Bemba funeral of her uncle, Fred. As aunts, grandmothers, and cousins buzz around her and work themselves into a frenzy preparing for the ceremony, Shula and her irreverent cousin Nsansa (Elizabeth Chisel) try to process some difficult truths about the deceased. Early in On Becoming A Guinea Fowl, the pair happens upon Fred’s cold body in the middle of a road. The discovery doesn’t shock Shula, who was returning from a fancy dress party, or Nsansa, who drunkenly stumbles upon the scene moments later, because they are among a handful of people who don’t believe Fred’s death is a sorrowful occasion.
The notion of otherness typically exists within the context of dominant and subordinate groups, in which the imposing body stigmatizes a physical or ideological difference between itself and individuals who lack certain traits. Nyoni seems to be drawn to “othered” characters—the ostracized, the atypical. In her BAFTA-winning debut film, I Am Not a Witch (2017), the director’s lens observes a young girl cast out by her village on suspicion of being a sorceress. Shula, played by Maggie Mulubwa, is taken to a camp populated by elder witches forced to labor for a corrupt government official. She’s told she can’t escape and is subsequently paraded around the county and used as a glorified tourist attraction. I Am Not a Witch explores gender-based discrimination and otherness in non-familial communal spaces.
Nyoni expands and complicates these themes in On Becoming A Guinea Fowl by making women a part of both the dominant and othered groups and situating the dramatic action exclusively within a matriarchal familial space. Unlike I Am Not a Witch, where men were overtly complicit in the ostracizing, On Becoming A Guinea Fowl allows us to observe the formation of a “them vs us” dynamic devoid of overt patriarchal interjections from men—save for the critical, catalytic death of Uncle Fred. Shula, Nsansa, their younger cousin Bupe (Esther Singini), and Fred’s widow, Chichi (Norah Mwansa) share an unpleasant history with the deceased. Each has been sexually abused by Uncle Fred—some repeatedly and others with lasting physical consequences. While the aunties and mothers are aware, they do not believe his passing is the time to stir up past grievances.
This “othering” of characters is evident early on in On Becoming a Guinea Fowl through visual and narrative introductions of the characters. Shula, a prim and proper career woman, is not emotional or traditional enough for her family’s liking. When she finds solace from the evening’s whirlwind in a hotel room instead of her family house—where the funeral is being hosted — her aunties are quick to drag her back home, peeved by the ease with which she abandons customary rites for work. Nsansa, more liberal and relaxed compared to her conservative kin, is mostly ignored by the family. She is possibly perceived as a bad influence because of her drinking habits. Uncle Fred’s widow, Chichi, who is only referred to as “the widow” in conversation, is tagged a bad wife for not supporting her husband through his gambling problem, extramarital affairs, and alcoholism.
When we’re first introduced to Chichi, she’s concealed by tree branches and blanketed by the darkness of the night. Shula confronts her during this late hour, and Chichi reveals that she is banned by the aunties from using the indoor toilet. It’s not until the next scene that we finally see the widow clearly, dutifully submitting to tradition by crawling around the family house. Bupe, still a university student, is also concealed by the night’s darkness when introduced on screen. Shula arrives at her university dorm to fetch her for the funeral. “I’m glad he’s dead,” Bupe whispers, sprawled on her bed, head buried in a pillow. She collapses on the floor as she tries to get up. Then, a quick edit transports us to a moment in which the young woman lies in a hospital bed. When we finally see her full visage, it’s in a confessional video about Uncle Fred’s abuse.
The atmosphere in which we’re introduced to these women plays a significant role in how the audience eventually sees them as “other.” Before we came to know them intimately, the narrative coaxes us into profiling them based on family perception. During a wailing session, the aunties express their displeasure with Shula’s inability to cry dramatically. “Why are you cold-hearted?” one whispers to Shula. Later, these same women withhold food from Chichi and her children until Uncle Fred is laid to rest, reinforcing their belief that his widow doesn’t deserve basic hospitality. While Bupe’s mother shows concern, she is not willing to address the gravity of her daughter’s confession and later hospitalisation. She merely dismisses the events, perhaps as teenage tomfoolery.
By presenting these women as “flawed”—Shula as unfeeling, Bupe as only but a clueless child, Chichi as a defiant wife, and Nsansa as uncouth— before revealing them as survivors, Nyoni forces audiences to confront their preconceptions about the profile of sexual abuse victims. How is the pursuit of justice impacted when incriminating odds are perceived to be self-induced by the victims? Do these biases affect victims’ right to call out their abuser? Does it make it harder for us to believe them?.
Out of our four women, Chichi plays another role in challenging the internalized biases of abuse victims. She interrogates the myth of the perfect victim. Here is a girl of 16 or 17 years old, a mother to six children, respectful, quiet, mindful of cultural traditions, and subservient to the fragility of patriarchy. And yet, she doesn’t receive support from Fred’s sisters: despite being a teenager and enduring her husband’s infidelity and violence, she isn’t spared from the dehumanizing widow rites.
Despite the judge and juror situation Nyoni elicits within the viewer, this othering of Shula, Nsansa, Bupe, and Chichi serves a greater purpose for them: a way to unite quietly. Many conversations between the four women take place in pantry closets, shadows, alleyways, and abandoned rooms. Tucking them away creates an atmosphere of vulnerability among characters. Nsansa opens up about being raped by Uncle Fred while she and Shula track down a coal seller late at night. Her laugh-laced, humorous retelling reveals her wit as a self-preserving tactic. It’s not until the final quarter of the film, with Shula and Nsansa cocooned in Shula’s car, that Shula’s encounters with Uncle Fred are laid bare. It is then that Shula realizes what she must do to protect them all.
With this revelation and sense of unity, the four women and other vulnerable family members approach the funeral ceremony the next day, clucking and screeching like guinea fowls. The final frame of On Becoming a Guinea Fowl is a clear portrait of this sense of how these women, despite being preyed upon and othered, band together to support one another.
