INTERVIEW: Telling stories that matter – Nyasha Kadandara on film that transcends borders

The moment Nyasha held a camera, she knew this was what brought her joy.

Through various mediums – from virtual reality to feature films –

she tells stories that foster a sense of camaraderie and connection.

By marmaladecollective.com

Nyasha Kadandara is an award-winning Pan-African director and cinematographer whose work spans various storytelling mediums, including documentaries, virtual reality, and fiction. Hailing from Zimbabwe, she has garnered international recognition with her films, such as Through the Fire, Le Lac, and Matabeleland, which have premiered at major festivals like SXSW, DOC NYC and CPH DOX. Her expertise behind the camera has taken her across continents, and she has worked with leading media outlets like BBC, CNN, and Vice as she continues to highlight African stories, revealing deeper truths about the continent’s history, politics, and people.

In this conversation, we explore Nyasha’s journey from finance to filmmaking, her passion for stories that challenge the status quo, and how she’s using her platform to empower African women. Her drive to create immersive narratives often centred on Africa, sheds light on the power of storytelling in inspiring change and through her work, Nyasha reflects on what it means to lead with compassion, authenticity, and a relentless pursuit of progress.

My first question is about your background and how you got started. I know you transitioned from finance to filmmaking and storytelling, so could you explain how that happened? Was this something you always wanted to do?

No, this wasn’t always what I wanted to do. I was studying finance at the University of Cape Town and started working as a features writer for the student newspaper in my second year. By my final year, I became the editor, and I loved it – the storytelling, the rush of getting the paper out, it was all so fulfilling. After graduation, I worked as a consultant for two years but wasn’t truly happy. My mom challenged me to think about what I really wanted to do, and that’s when I decided to pursue journalism, specifically documentary filmmaking. I applied to Columbia, got accepted, and completed my program there. Since then, I’ve been making films, and the rest is history.

That makes a lot of sense. Your work spans across multiple mediums. I’m curious—why did you choose to focus on documentaries? I know you mentioned being a features writer, but what drew you to storytelling in this form?

I consider myself a very visual person, and I don’t think writing is my strongest skill. I’m much better in person, especially when interacting with people. But when it comes to visuals, that’s where I truly connect. Initially, deciding to work in documentary felt like a bit of a gamble, but the moment I held a camera, I knew—this is it, this is what brings me joy. Even now, production is still the best part for me. Filming, being on the ground, and seeing people through the lens—that’s always the highlight of my career.

I see. But what pushed you to experiment with these different formats like fiction and virtual reality, and what drives you to tell the type of stories you do?

When it comes to formats, I’ve learned it’s best to use the one that enhances the story the most. For Le Lac, a virtual reality documentary, I wanted to explore how the lake was shrinking and impacted by the insurgency, but through the perspective of the lake itself. I thought about this because, as humans, we tend to focus on how things affect us first. But what if we flipped that? Especially since Lake Chad is so remote, unlike places like Lake Victoria, it’s difficult to access unless you’re working in the humanitarian sector. It’s cut off from most of the continent and the world.

I wanted to make the experience as immersive as possible since it’s not easy for people to visit, and that’s why virtual reality felt like the strongest medium to tell the story. I wanted people to feel like they were right there, in the heart of the place, to see it for themselves. This is important, especially in conversations about climate change where there’s still disbelief and denial about how bad things really are. That was one of the driving factors for Le Lac—to ensure no one doubted what was happening.

That said, virtual reality has its limitations. There’s only so long someone can sit in a headset, and there are constraints on the types of storytelling elements you can incorporate. So, it’s not a format that works for every story or documentary. With other films, sometimes the medium evolves as I’m figuring out the best way to tell the story.

In my film that just premiered, Matabeleland, which actually started as a multimedia project, I was collaborating with two other creatives—one working on text and the other on photography. I was handling the video. The original plan was to create a short seven-minute story focused on life a year after Robert Mugabe stepped down following the coup. But eventually, it evolved into a feature film. This shift happened after consulting with others, including my producer, who encouraged me to explore the story more deeply. What started as a short video within a larger multimedia piece turned into a feature documentary, which required much more time to tell the story properly.

Instead of just one shoot focused on a single event, we ended up filming over six years. The story now delves into the broader themes of trauma, love, and faith. I’ve realised that sometimes the way you tell a story or the medium you’re working with can change as the project unfolds.

Another project I’d mention is Come Sunrise We Shall Rule, which is a feature currently in late development. This is a fiction project that I began writing during the pandemic when travel and work were limited, forcing me to rethink how I tell stories. The story is set in the 1970s in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. Given the lack of archival footage from that period, it didn’t make sense to approach it as a documentary. I wasn’t sure what we’d show. Instead, I leaned on my journalistic tools—interviewing people who lived through that time, were involved in the struggle, or academics who’ve researched it—and used those insights to write a dramatised version of the story. Fiction gave me the creative freedom to shape the narrative as I wanted.

In this case, Come Sunrise We Shall Rule felt right as a fiction film rather than a documentary because it allowed for more flexibility in how the story is told.

What I really appreciate about you using different mediums is that it shows you’re truly focused on the story. You’re not just putting it out there for the sake of it, but thoughtfully considering how it will resonate with the audience.

You mentioned Matabeleland, a deeply personal project for you, which has evolved from a single shoot to a full feature film about Zimbabwe. I’d love to dive deeper into the story behind it and explore the hope it brings to the audience.

This film is very personal, set in Matabeleland, where I grew up. It’s also home to the main character, Chris Nyathi, a man in his 60s who is struggling to reconcile his current life and relationships, particularly with his partner, Dumi, who loves him deeply and wants to marry him. But something holds Chris back. As we follow him, we see him struggle at work and in life, believing that unresolved issues in Matabeleland are the cause.

Chris’s father, Julius Mvulo Nyathi, was killed in 1983 during the Gukurahundi genocide, in which over 20,000 people lost their lives. His father was left in a shallow, unmarked grave, and as Africans, the way we bury and honour our dead is deeply important. Chris feels haunted or cursed because his father’s burial was not done properly, and this weighs heavily on him.

When Robert Mugabe stepped down in 2017, there was a sense of renewed hope across Zimbabwe. For the first time, I found myself filming there, after having worked in other regions. It felt like a new beginning for many, including Chris, who finally had the chance to search for his father’s remains and bury him properly. He enlists the help of Shari Eppel, a forensic anthropologist from Matabeleland, who has dedicated her life to exhuming and re-burying victims of the Gukurahundi genocide.

This film is also a love letter to Matabeleland, a region that has endured so much trauma since Zimbabwe’s independence. Chris and I are both immigrants, and that shared experience is one of the things that bonded us.

The film explores Chris’s relationships, particularly with his charismatic and loving partner, Dumi, who is incredibly supportive despite Chris’s internal struggles. Watching their relationship is heartwarming. Dumi’s unconditional love shines through.

What I hope this film brings to audiences, especially Africans, is a sense of visibility. The story is deeply personal, not overtly political, despite touching on the genocide. It paints a portrait of what it’s like to be a Zimbabwean from our region, and I think many will find Chris to be a relatable character. His vulnerability, especially in his interactions with Dumi, is something we rarely see on screen.

For African viewers, my hope is that they watch this film and feel a connection — whether to Chris, Dumi, or their situation — and see themselves or their families reflected in the story. That’s something I strive for in all my films: to give us more airtime, to have stories where viewers can say, “I identify with that.”

Additionally, I hope this film sparks conversation and action, particularly in Zimbabwe, about the ongoing effects of the genocide. By showing how Chris is still impacted by his father’s unresolved death, I hope it encourages support for the victims and their families, helping them to find their loved ones and bury them properly. This is something deeply important to all of us, as we honour the wishes of our ancestors.

Thank you so much for sharing that. I think it’s a beautiful story, and I’m glad you’re telling it, allowing people to feel seen. It’s relatable to several countries across Africa, which share similar experiences.

You also mentioned schooling in South Africa, coming from Zimbabwe, and being based in Kenya. These are all places where community plays a significant role, not just generally but personally. Could you share how your own community—your friends, the people closest to you—impacts your work and life?

Being in Kenya has been life-changing for me in terms of finding a film community that has helped me grow and be ambitious. I know it’s rare and special. But every once in a while, a friend will visit from somewhere like London, New York, or Berlin, places with seemingly bigger and more developed film industries. And they’ll say, “Wow, you guys have such a cool network here—supporting each other, promoting each other’s work”. Especially when you’re the only two Black filmmakers at a festival overseas, we’re often determined to rally together and make enough noise for ten.

There’s a lot of camaraderie in that, and I’ve been so lucky to find a strong tribe of people to connect with—people I can bounce ideas off, ask to watch a rough cut, or get help figuring out a logline or scene. Kenya has so much potential and ambition in the film industry. Even though there are challenges, the ambition here has shaped me as a filmmaker.

But more broadly, as you mentioned, I’m from Zimbabwe. I lived in South Africa for seven years and have now lived in Kenya for eight. I also have this goal of travelling to every African country, and I’m almost halfway there—22 or 23 countries so far. Every time I visit a new country, people always think I’m from there, they ask, “Where are you from?” But generally, I feel like I fit in, and people are always welcoming. There’s a special warmth when they realise I’m not from the U.S. or elsewhere, but from Zimbabwe, and that I’ve come to visit them in, say, Dakar.

I’ve been lucky to travel a lot for work, but I’m also intentional about travelling for pleasure because I love Africa. We’re special, cool, and wonderful. When I go somewhere new, I love how it breaks down the stereotypes I’ve heard and also, in the funniest ways, fulfills them. I come back inspired, thinking about stories I need to tell, seeing connections between communities, and realising how interconnected we all are. It’s so important to understand that Africa isn’t a single entity—we’re diverse. A lot of the borders we have are constructs from over 100 years ago, and we’re doing ourselves a disservice by sticking to them. We need to travel more among ourselves, learn from each other, and grow together.

For example, you might go to Benin and see something in their border control that could be helpful elsewhere. Or come to Kenya and see how mobile money works and wonder why it hasn’t been implemented everywhere. Beyond filmmaking, as an African, I want to experience everything and find ways to connect us all. One of the things I’ve loved about working in Kenya is bringing a Southern African perspective to East Africa. Collaborating across the continent has been exciting, like working on a project about the Copper Queens in Zambia because football is life! I love sports—side note.

These cross-continental collaborations are becoming more common, and people are more open to them. We’re starting to look within Africa instead of always looking outside. Kenya has been a great launchpad for that, and I hope this growth continues. Even you guys reaching out to me from Nigeria—it’s so cool to know my work is being seen across the continent!

I was really happy to come across your work. It’s a tough industry, as you said. So, to find someone who’s doing it the way it should be done, telling important stories, and building a community to share them—it’s beautiful.

A lot of your work, as you mentioned, is intercountry within Africa, focusing on underrepresented voices. You’re blending artistry with activism, which is not always easy to balance. How do you manage to maintain that balance while staying true to the story?

I wouldn’t call myself an activist, to be honest, but there’s that quote—can’t remember who said it—about how all art is activism, and all art is political in some way. I think that’s true because even when you try to tell a simple, happy story, like I’ve tried, something always comes up. Conflict is just a part of life.

I also think it looks like artists are being activists because we want to say something, and with film, at least for me, it’s about sparking conversation. It’s not enough for me to just talk about it—I want the audience to engage and have those conversations themselves.

Sometimes, though, it feels like the work becomes political without even meaning to. Like when I did a film on sex trafficking, after that, everyone assumed I was only into investigative journalism. But the story landed in my lap, and I felt compelled to tell it. It became investigative because there were elements of danger and wrongdoing that needed to be exposed. I just felt people should know.

It’s a very human instinct, I think. If you see someone steal a purse, you’d shout ‘thief!’ It’s the same thing with art. We see something wrong or right, and instead of yelling about it in the street, we make a film. It’s just what anyone would do when confronted with the truth—they want to point it out and say, ‘This is wrong,’ or ‘This is right.’

I totally agree that art has always been and continues to be a platform for stories that people are often too afraid to speak about—especially those of underrepresented voices. With that said, you’ve created several films and documentaries focused on women and their experiences, particularly in Africa. I wanted to know what role you think storytelling plays in empowering women, especially within African cinema.

For me, a big part of why I make films is for myself. I come from a small country, and while we’re known, it’s often for the wrong reasons. When I travel, I meet people who have misconceptions, and it can feel so lonely, like you’re invisible, unseen.

As a woman working as a director and cinematographer—roles that are typically dominated by men, especially white men—it’s isolating. No matter what story I’m telling, the job itself is lonely and alienating. I just want to feel less alone. It helps when I see others like me doing what I’m doing. When someone like Blitz Bazawule from Ghana directs The Color Purple, I think, Maybe I can do that too.

I’ve had people reach out to me anonymously—on Instagram, by email—saying, “Thank you for this. Something similar happened to me,” or, “This is my cousin’s story.” That’s the goal for me. To create that connection.

I remember working on a project about the Zambian women’s football team when they went to the Women’s World Cup for the first time. One of the players asked me why I was telling their story since I’m not from Zambia. Well, first, I have a deep obsession with sports—something that could fill its own podcast—but more importantly, your experience is my experience. You’re coming from a country that people barely know or, when they do, they reduce you to one harmful stereotype. Then you go into spaces where you’re one of a handful of Black people. Africans only have four slots in the World Cup—it’s like being the only one in the room. That loneliness, that frustration, I understand it.

And then, you’re still dealing with the patriarchy in African society, where many think women should just stay home and raise children. That experience is universal. Your wanting to play football is a universal story for so many women. Your story could inspire someone trying to cure cancer, for instance, because women aren’t encouraged to pursue STEM. They pigeonhole us into specific professions.

So, when I’m making a film about something like the football team, I’m thinking, This is one less thing people will believe we can’t do as women. That universal experience, especially for Black women, is so important. For those of us in the industry, that’s the mission: to make it just a little easier for the next person or the little girl at home watching TV and thinking, That could be me.

First of all, thank you for sharing such important stories. I was actually going to bring up the Zambian team, so I’m glad you mentioned it.

You had a podcast where you explored themes like ethics and representation. Will it be coming back, and what other conversations you think we need to be having in the industry?

I’m not sure if Repicture will come back—it was a project with Everyday Projects. It was really fun, especially because most of our conversations were with photographers. Photographers often work alone or with a writer, but it’s still a pretty solitary experience for them. In contrast, documentary or film tends to have more collaboration since you need a team to do multiple things. We had a lot of conversations like that, and it was interesting.

As creators, it’s so important to connect. I have friends who are authors, and they’re going through similar struggles with publishers, just like I deal with sales agents or distribution—questions of how we’re selling our work, where funding is coming from. A big issue for African creatives is that much of the financial support comes from outside the continent. How do we convince our own audiences to engage with our stories, watch our films, attend our events? That conversation needs to continue.

We can lean on each other for support during tough times, whether you’re stuck on a proposal or a scene, even if the person you’re turning to isn’t in the same field. It’s about understanding the journey. Those conversations are vital, and I don’t think we’re having enough of them, especially in the podcast space here on the continent. Hopefully, someone will create more opportunities for those discussions, because we have so much to learn from each other—and it’s just good to have that support.

Agreed. These are really important conversations, and it’s great to see more people starting to realise that and speak out. Hopefully, we’ll continue to see even more of that as time goes on.

I think my final question is, what’s next for you? I know you’re currently working on the fiction film, but generally, what’s on the horizon? What does progress look like for you?

As you know, we have other projects in the pipeline. I think real progress would be if making the next film isn’t as hard as making the first one, or the one before that. I want my work to speak for itself without constantly having to justify why someone should fund it, without all the grant applications and seeking validation.

I’m not sure what these future projects will look like, but I want to keep challenging myself and growing through the work. I just want to keep telling stories. Maybe one day, I’ll even do a TV series. It’s funny to say that now because it’s been so stressful trying to finish everything for Matabeleland. Yesterday, someone asked me what font I wanted for the credits, and I laughed—it’s all the little things you don’t think about. So when I talk about doing a series, I have to laugh because it feels like I must enjoy suffering. But, honestly, I love being challenged—that’s the reality.

Professionally, I’m looking to push myself more and also continue reaching wider audiences. But for me, Africa is always home. That’s the goal. If someone in Mauritania, Benin, Morocco, or Sierra Leone watches my film, I’d be overjoyed. Just getting my work to them would make me so happy. That’s something we’re working on—distributing African stories across different linguistic and geographic barriers: Anglophone, Francophone, Lusophone—you name it. It’s something I’m truly passionate about.

It’s lovely to hear that from you. That’ll be all from me for now. Thank you so much for doing this—it’s been really fun and inspiring listening to you talk about your work.