OPINION: How ‘Call of My Life’ Heals Our Perception of Gender

Squeals, screams, and loud laughter have filled cinema halls in Nigeria and Ghana, as young people troop to watch Call of My Life, directed by Dammy Twitch. The romantic comedy stars Uzoamaka Power (Soluchi), Andrew Yaw Bunting (Eli), and Zubby Michael (Kalu) as main leads in a love triangle that asks: what does love look like for an unconventional woman? 

The film itself is unconventional. Although in a classic genre, it inspires a sense of novelty because the main character, Sol, is whimsical, passionate about life, and intent on loving fully. The film tells a story in which love remains the main topic, rather than serving as a channel for a broader conversation about class, social perception/obsession with marriage, cultural excesses, or sex. For Ahmed*(29), who saw the movie with a friend, this storytelling choice was refreshing. “I think this movie is necessary. I’m tired of blockbuster Nigerian movies. I want films with other kinds of stakes. A love story that leans into itself.”

While the plot is as predictable as any rom-com, Call of My Life is unique in the way it makes narrative choices that reinforce personhood while sidestepping gender stereotypes that are as popular as they are harmful. Stereotypes are often oversimplified versions of what we experience in people. While they can be true, they also create pigeonholes we are socially conditioned to put people in, or expect people to already operate from. 

In film, gendered stereotypes create flat characters like the wicked mother-in-law/uncle, the long-suffering woman awaiting her savior, or the abusive male partner. When they appear, these characters are taken as a statement of fact. Their motivations are not interrogated but left to be filled by the audience’s recalling of similar experiences in their own lives, often linked to personal and collective trauma. And with every film that sinks into these stereotypes, wounds are reopened.

In Call of My Life, things are different. Uzoamaka Power writes characters who heal rather than reopen wounds tied to our perception of gender, and, in doing so, expands our appreciation of personhood and agency. The most significant of these portrayals revolve around three themes: women’s consent and bodily autonomy, masculinity and rejection, and parent-child relationships. 

In the first place, Soluchi is repeatedly affirmed as mistress of her body and intimacy. Several stereotypes of femininity draw from rhetoric where a woman’s body is social property she must remain a pure custodian over, until ownership is passed from her family to a life partner. Anything else elicits heavy shame. This shame lurks in a scene where Soluchi’s mother (Patience Ozokwor) asks if she’d slept with Kalu, because such jeopardizes chances of marriage; and Sol replies that not everyone can be a virgin bride “like you, Mummy”. Her father (Nkem Owoh) doesn’t lean into the notion of shame; instead, he laughs at the idea of his wife as a virgin at the start of their happy marriage.

In this lighthearted moment, the rhetoric that bruised women — if you are not pure, you will never be loved enough — is healed over with laughter. For Doyin (24), who saw the film in Ibadan: “The scene was very freeing. In reality, the father would have supported the purity culture shame thing.”

The other portrayal of bodily autonomy is more subtle. It’s written into the build-up to Sol and Eli’s first kiss. There are three scenes where they almost kiss but don’t, because he is waiting for her permission. The wait for consent almost seems ‘unnecessary’, since both characters are clearly smitten. Yet, they wait until Soluchi explicitly decides to make the first move. In these times when women’s consent is incessantly debated as something implied by signs or wonders, this writing choice–intended or not–meant a lot to Doyin:

“I love that Eli wasn’t passive-aggressive about all the times she said no. In the restaurant scene, he wanted a hug, but she held out her hand. He respected that. There were many things she did that men in reality would capitalize on and call consent. But he didn’t because it wasn’t.. I need more men to watch it.”

Chinua (29), who saw the film in Lagos, agrees with Doyin, “It was also about the emotional autonomy of choosing herself until she was ready to choose him.”

Beyond the Stereotype: Kalu's Vulnerability

Concerning a healthier portrayal of masculinity, Kalu is surprisingly a better subject than Eli the heartthrob. Unfortunately, Eli is less a person and more the flat idea of a man who is crazy in love. But Kalu is a favorite for fans like Ahmed and Chinua because he could have easily been one-dimensional, but wasn’t.

“He is an Igbo man, socialized to love in a way that prioritizes economic care. Then he meets this girl who wants balloons! But we see him morph in the story. To quote Chimamanda, it’s not about a stereotype being untrue, but showing a person as a full human being. We get to see Kalu in a new, vulnerable way. So, his character goes beyond the stereotype,” says Chinua.

For Mo, Kalu’s evolution also makes a special point on masculinity and rejection. Commenting on the final scene between Kalu and Sol, he says, “There was no vindictiveness. Even when he mentioned the ring, it came off as a comment on the measure of how much he had thought of her.”

Perhaps the most healing aspect of the film was Soluchi’s relationship with her parents. Both treated her like a person and held a nonjudgmental space for open conversations. Ozokwor as Sol’s mother) is tender and affectionate, contrary to her usual roles as a wicked mother. In one scene, she tells Sol about her own experience with love, hugs her, and calls her ‘bestie.’ Jay (24) got emotional recalling this scene:

“I always say when I have a child, I’ll treat them like a human being, not just my child. Someone I want to get to know. Once, I wanted to have a proper conversation about men with my mum. But she just said something about understanding when I’m married. That scene with Sol’s mother was beautiful. Nigerian parents aren’t expected to be affectionate and expressive.” 

Doyin was equally pleased with Sol’s father: “He didn’t infantilize her. He explained his concerns about Eli, but gave her space to make her decision. He treated her like a person. ”

Call of My Life is exciting to young people for many reasons, and the way it handles gender and relationships is one of them. In a media economy where trauma sells, the reception of this film exists as an important message to filmmakers about what young people enjoy: stories that are easy and light. Stories that heal wounds created by gender rhetoric, by focusing on what a more wholesome reality can look like, not on how painful or deep the wounds are. Because young people also deserve stories that spark joy for its own sake.