Thank You for the Rain – A Response by Orphée Kashala

I recently attended a screening of the documentary Thank You for the Rain, organised by the Department of Media, Communications, and Cultural Studies at Goldsmiths, University of London. Officially released in 2017, the film was produced by Hugh Hartford and directed by Julia Dahr. However, some promotional materials—including posters on campus and the university’s invitation—also list Kisilu Musya as a co-director. As I’ll explain, that detail is significant.

Despite garnering critical acclaim, multiple awards, and a 7.8 rating on IMDb, Thank You for the Rain exemplifies a broader issue: the disconnect between well-intentioned Western-produced content and the deeper colonial structures it inadvertently (or sometimes overtly) reinforces. When these surface-level accolades fail to address the foundational flaws, we must ask ourselves: Are the persistent colonial tropes simply invisible—or are we, as a global audience, so accustomed to them that we view them as secondary?

Thank You For The Rain Poster

Film Synopsis (from the official website)

“Five years ago, Kisilu, a Kenyan farmer, started using his camera to document the lives of his family and village, as well as the devastating effects of climate change. When a violent storm throws him together with a Norwegian filmmaker, we see him evolve from a father and community leader into an activist on the global stage.”

Right away, the synopsis is misleading. The author suggests that a violent storm was responsible for bringing Kisilu Musya (the Kenyan farmer) and Julia Dahr (the Norwegian filmmaker) together. In reality, she was already on site before that storm hit. Kisilu did not spontaneously begin filming his community, either: he specifically requested the camera so that his own perspective would be included in the documentary.

While Kisilu’s footage provides powerful glimpses of life in a rural Kenyan village, it’s clear he received little to no formal training in filmmaking nor was he aware of the technical roles involved in the production of the documentary. So when promotional materials list him as a co-director, it can come across as a strategic effort to legitimise the production. At the most listing him as a c-producer would have been a more appropriate title considering his contribution. However, these claims appear to be an attempt to counteract the obvious “white savior” framework by showcasing a supposed African co-director. Unfortunately, the final product still reflects a pervasive colonial gaze: Kisilu becomes an object of Western curiosity, a victim to be saved, rather than an empowered voice at the centre of his own story.

This point is especially poignant in scenes where Kisilu appears overwhelmed and disoriented—such as the film’s depiction of him wandering the corridors of the United Nations General Assembly Hall in New York. The filmmakers highlight these moments, including a scene in which Kisilu is asked, “Where are we going?” in a tone more suitable for someone marveling at a circus than addressing a capable speaker journeying to a major international event.

Stoking Exoticism

The film is ostensibly about climate change, but there are plenty of dramatic flourishes that do little to advance its core environmental message. Overdramatising the conditions that lead to Kisilu and Julia’s encounter—implying they were serendipitously “thrown together” by a violent storm—fetishises the setting as a dangerous, exotic place. It also obscures the reality that their meeting was part of a structured research and filming trip.

Moreover, while climate change undeniably affects marginalised communities, the film leans heavily on depictions of poverty, malnutrition, and underdevelopment—images that echo centuries-old Western portrayals of Africa. These scenes are never contextualised by the narrator in relation to colonial histories or the lasting impacts of imperialism. By highlighting starving children on straw beds and then pivoting to a narrative on climate change, the documentary reverts to the well-worn “help the poor Africans” script without sufficiently examining the systemic causes that contribute to such hardship.

Missing Critical Context

We’re never given a comprehensive explanation that situates Kisilu’s family within the broader socio-economic and historical context. Kenya remains a nation grappling with post-colonial challenges and ongoing neo-colonial influences. The film chooses not to draw explicit lines connecting colonial exploitation—so intrinsic to the Western industrial revolution—and its direct relationship to climate change.

Similarly, when the narrative follows Kisilu to Norway, viewers are greeted by a jarring contrast: supermarket aisles overflowing with soft drinks and neatly arranged pastries. The film lingers on these images, raising questions about what exactly it’s trying to convey. Moments later, the narrator remarks she “tried to hide” these disparities from Kisilu while in Kenya, signalling an unconscious (or conscious) denial of her own privileges. As Kisilu continues on to Paris for the COP21 conference, he becomes “the Kenyan farmer” paraded in front of officials, but ultimately not heard—something Julia Dahr criticises the UN for, even while her own filmic style reproduces the same dynamics.

The Power of Storytelling

The media and the arts have a vital role in reshaping how we understand each other across cultural divides. Yet artists and filmmakers must be held accountable for the narratives they choose to present. African communities deserve to tell their own stories, to be shown in their full complexity. Western filmmakers who undertake projects on the continent should be wary of perpetuating colonial-era tropes, whether intentionally or not, and must strive for authenticity over dramatisation.

Thank You for the Rain is a well-meaning production with its heart set on highlighting the realities of climate change. Yet the final result underscores how easy it is to slip into paternalistic storytelling. When genuine narratives of resilience are overshadowed by exoticism, poverty porn, and a denial of historical culpability, we replicate the same systems that have marginalised African voices for centuries.

Africans have every right to decide how their stories are told—and we will continue to speak up when films like this fail to do us justice. If Western creatives want to tell Africa’s stories, they must be prepared to engage honestly with the complexities of colonial history and structural inequality. Otherwise, they risk producing work that looks progressive on the surface but still reeks of the same paternalism that has characterised these exchanges for far too long.