“My Body, God’s Temple” Is a Tender, Unflinching Look at Purity Culture and Self-Discovery

The third installation in the ‘Zikoko Life’ YouTube anthology, My Body, God’s Temple presents a tender, yet unflinching portrayal of a young marriage, carefully intertwining purity culture, societal expectations and bodily autonomy to deliver an intimate reflection on a woman’s right to fully know herself. Written and directed by Uzoamaka Power, the film is centered around a newlywed husband (Zion, played by Andrew Yaw Bunting) and wife (Omasilu, played by Uzoamaka Power) whose sexual relations are strained, if non-existent. This turbulence is as a result of Omasilu’s visceral discomfort with sex in its entirety, due to her strong Catholic beliefs. 

The film opens with Omasilu and Zion in bed the morning after their wedding day. Omalisu giddily kisses her husband and settles into the mattress as their interaction becomes more intimate. At the point where Zion tries to initiate penetration, however, she becomes visibly panicked, and this pushes him to gently ask, “Do you want to unclench your knees?” With this scene, we are thrown into the internal conflict faced by Omalisu, alongside its external implications. Though she appears genuinely eager to please her husband, she is fighting a personal battle that overwhelms her. 

Unlike the previous portrayals of marriage in this anthology, Zion and Omalisu’s relationship appears free from the toxic power imbalances and societal pressures that plague many Nigerian marriages — Zion is faithful, consistently loving and considerate of his wife. He didn’t pressure her into having sex before they were married, and still doesn’t pressure her now. It is perhaps this seemingly endless patience that fuels Omalisu’s fear of losing him to a woman more willing to engage in the sexual intimacy she feels he deserves from her. She says this much kneeling at the altar in her church, cajoling God in a wave of despair. 

A feat worthy of note is the subtle consistency with which this anthology has depicted the Nigerian society’s centering of men in women’s stories. Centering, which is often carried out by women themselves, without overt influence from the men they centre. Although Omalisu’s husband, to our knowledge, has never been unfaithful to her, she immediately reverts to the age-old Nigerianism that conceptualizes men’s sexual appetite as so uncontrollable that sex denied by a wife will ultimately be found elsewhere. Omalisu doesn’t stop to interrogate whether or not sex is something she wants, doesn’t examine why she seems unable or unwilling to engage in it, she simply wants to fulfil her role as a good wife to keep her husband.

The film does a superb job of presenting a curious situation softly, empathetically. Sex is something fundamentally dirty to Omalisu — she can’t stomach porn (as she and Zion discover during a particularly comical attempt at foreplay), she can’t even say the word “masturbation”. The dilemma is extremely difficult to discuss, even with her circle of evidently supportive, progressive friends. In this era of sexual liberation, sex positivity, and more nuanced discussions around sex, My Body, God’s Temple reminds us that we must make room for conversations like these — messy, vulnerable conversations that go beyond swapping salacious details of sexual encounters. The goal should be for people (women, especially) to feel comfortable enough in themselves to talk about sex and sensuality in all its forms, freely. 

The film also puts a spotlight on a key feature of patriarchal societies — erasing parts of women that make them full human beings, including complex, intimate parts like sexuality. Religion is a huge champion of this phenomenon, aptly captured when Omalisu confesses that she had always been taught that her body was God’s temple, not her own, to which Zion reassuringly responds, “Your body is my temple, and my body is your temple. We can do whatever we want, and God won’t mind.” 

As stated by mental health counsellor Hannah Mayderry, “Women are often taught [that] their sexuality is something that should be bottled up and shoved down. That encompasses everything from the way that they dress, the way that they interact with men, the way that they speak, the way that they view their own bodies, and their own sex drive.” These pervasive effects of purity culture are refreshingly explored by the film — the storytelling shows, and doesn’t patronizingly spell out the internal crisis faced by Omalisu. From the story, the audience is left to infer that purity culture robs women of the opportunity to explore themselves, their bodies, and the intimacy of knowing themselves fully. We see clearly how this culture robs women of the right to experience pleasure on their own terms and of the tools to confidently navigate sex in romantic relationships.

Although My Body, God’s Temple presents a moving retelling of a sensitive issue, the film’s writing is plagued by scattered pacing and bathos in several places. In a scene where Omalisu receives a sex toy from her friend as a gift, she is almost giddy at the chance to use it. An odd storytelling choice, as this scene follows her threatening to report her husband to God after catching him masturbating. Similarly, her reaction to her first orgasm (from the sex toy) is so out of character that it is almost jarring. With a runtime of 37 minutes, the longest in the anthology, the film should have been able to unravel the story of Omalisu’s self-discovery without rushing through it. How did one orgasm do away with years of religious indoctrination? It was unfitting for the previously clueless Omalisu to become so comfortable with and so ravenous for sex almost immediately after experiencing such an overwhelming sensation for the first time. With the level of naivete she had embodied (brilliantly, might we add) throughout the film, she should have at the very least been confused by the experience. 

All in all, while its pacing and tonal shifts occasionally undercut the emotional gravity of the protagonist’s journey, My Body, God’s Temple ultimately succeeds in gently prompting urgent conversations around the silent burden many women grapple with and often carry into marriage. It is a nuanced reminder that healing from deeply rooted self-deprecating beliefs is neither linear nor easily resolved but is necessary and worth portraying.