“What’s Left of Us” Is a Raw, If Unsteady, Portrait of Marriage and Autonomy

In one of Andrea Dworkin’s most provocative critiques of marriage, she offers that the institution of marriage offshoots from the practice of rape, “Marriage as an institution developed from rape as a practice. Rape, originally defined as abduction, became marriage by capture. Marriage meant the taking was to extend in time, to be not only for use, but also for possession and ownership.”

Like many feminist and historical theorists, Dworkin drew a direct line between marriage and the institutional subjugation of women. Her stance may seem radical, but it reflects an enduring truth: marriage origins are entangled with misogynistic traditions, traditions that, in various forms, continue to shape how gender roles and power are negotiated within intimate relationships. 

Dworkin’s framing of marriage rooted in ownership echoes through What’s Left of Us, the debut film from Zikoko’s anthology, created in collaboration with Bluhouse Studios and producer Blessing Uzzi. Co-directed by Victor Daniel and Olamide Adio, the short film lays bare the crisis of a woman grappling with the suffocating realities of marriage, her fight for autonomy, dignity, and ultimately, her life.

The story follows a couple, Mariam (Tolu Asanu) and Aliyu (Caleb Richards). It opens in media res, with Mariam waking beside her husband and taking a morning-after pill, immediately plunging us into a personal conflict. Throughout its 27-minute runtime, the film gradually exposes the emotional, psychological, and ideological strain Mariam endures. The inciting incident lands early: when Aliyu discovers the pills, he throws Mariam out of the house in the middle of the night. What follows is his misguided attempt to win her back, armed not with remorse, but with the same misogynistic entitlement that fractured their relationship in the first place.

What’s Left of Us confronts three interwoven crises: bodily autonomy, patriarchal oppression, and most importantly, the erosion of individual identity. At its heart, the narrative asks: Who is Mariam outside of being a wife? A mother, perhaps? Her identity has been so thoroughly subsumed by her role as a wife that her first attempts at self-assertion feel disorienting, even to herself. The film doesn’t veil these themes in ambiguity; they are clearly articulated from the outset. Mariam’s struggle is grounded in her everyday decisions: deciding to take the morning-after pill, whether to seek a job, whether to stay or leave.

Given the film’s short runtime, there’s limited space to develop character motivation in the conventional sense. Instead, the story leans on emotionally charged dialogue and implication to fill in the gaps. Tolu Asanu’s performance as Mariam captures a woman who has long internalized her own erasure, one who is only just beginning to claw her way back to selfhood. While not all of Mariam’s emotions are fully fleshed out onscreen, Asanu delivers a restrained yet palpable sense of desperation. Still, this restraint occasionally works against the film, leaving some emotional beats underdeveloped.

The film operates through strategic omission, trusting viewers to make inferences. We’re left to assume, for instance, that Aliyu has sent Mariam out of the house multiple times, or that her desire to work has been simmering for years. We might even conclude that his infidelity is long-standing, reinforced by his portrayal as a familiar stereotype—the entitled, philandering Hausa Muslim husband. Yet What’s Left of Us complicates this reading: in a conversation with a friend, Aliyu reveals that this marks their first separation since courtship. This contradiction raises new questions. If this is indeed the first separation, why does Mariam move with such practiced efficiency toward independence? Why does she seem to have been rehearsing this escape long before the opportunity arose? 

Aliyu himself remains opaque, a character sketch where a full portrait might have elevated the entire work. His desire for more children is hinted at but never examined. A visit to their Imam hints at cultural pressure or masculine insecurity, but the film ultimately defaults to a vague shorthand: “because patriarchy.” A deeper exploration of his entitlement or fear of losing control could have added weight to the conflict. The story cries out for a more surgical exploration of what drives his need to possess and procreate, what specific fears fuel his controlling behavior. 

The film’s climax unfolds across three tension-filled scenes that form one extended confrontation. During the EbonyLife screening weeks ago, director Victor Daniel revealed that he instructed the actors to imagine themselves as boxers in a ring, each scene a different round. It’s a striking metaphor: a psychological sparring match where no one emerges victorious. But unlike a real fight, the emotional blows don’t always land with impact. The dialogue is heavy—at times overwrought—and the lack of physical or visual dynamism makes the confrontation feel static.

By this point, the film has established Aliyu as a flawed man. Yet his underdeveloped motivations result in the fight losing momentum. When he asks Mariam to leave the house towards the end, the moment falls flat; we’re not shocked, moved, or convinced. The scene should carry the weight of finality or devastation, but it registers more as repetition.

Still, there are bright spots. As a couple, Caleb Richards and Tolu Asanu present a believable portrait of a young Muslim marriage. They speak the Hausa language freely and ground the film in their cultural reality. The sound design is effective, never overbearing. The direction, while not without its stumbles, doesn’t get in the way of the story. And Asanu, naturally, carries the film.

While the film’s execution occasionally falters, it’s worth emphasizing that What’s Left of Us marks Zikoko’s first attempt at adapting real-life narratives for the screen, stories sourced from their Love Life, Sex Life, and Naira Life series. Crucially, the 3 stories in the anthology center on women, granting visibility to experiences often marginalized or ignored. Though it may take time to perfect the tone and structure of short films like this, the effort to portray Nigerian women in all their complexity is both timely and essential. As Dworkin argued, marriage has long been a structure of possession masquerading as partnership. That notion remains relevant in a world where, like Aliyu, many men still see their wives as property, controlling their bodies while claiming sexual freedom for themselves. 

At just 27 minutes and 48 seconds, the film may not fully unravel the full weight of this conflict, but it doesn’t need to say everything to mean something. If nothing else, What’s Left of Us offers a call to action: a reminder that it’s possible to leave, that autonomy is worth fighting for, and that women’s stories deserve space, told on their own terms, in their own voices.