Paraphrasing one of the younger subjects of Andrew H. Brown and Bea Wangondu’s documentary Kikuyu Land (fresh from screening at Sheffield’s DocFest), a young man who has probably seen far too much far too young notes that, like any country, there’s the version the world sees and the version kept under wraps. To many outsiders, Kenya is a destination of affluence, safaris, and—among a particularly scummy minority—illicit hunting. But that isn’t the version Brown and Wangondu are concerned with. The opening frames are a visual treat, presenting the Kenya that has long captured the hearts of the international tourist class: a panoramic vista that immediately signals this is a documentary where the cinematographer is stretching their muscles and this is no tepid procession of inane talking heads. That beauty is quickly corrupted by a recording from the 1950s, featuring the minister supposedly responsible for the betterment of the Kenyan people — at least according to his job description. For the politically inclined, the arrival of a posh, clipped accent and the title of “Lord” can only mean one thing, and it’s never the advancement of wider society. Even so, I didn’t expect it to run this deep.
Coming from one of the least‑trusted national media landscapes in Europe, it’s all too easy, as a British viewer, to forget the power of real investigative journalism — and that is exactly what Kikuyu Land delivers: a piece of toweringly powerful reporting. Of the two directors, Bea Wangondu is the film’s driving force, fearlessly pursuing multiple strands built on a single premise: who owns the vast Kenyan coffee farms? Farms that the Lord in that opening recording claimed would transform locals into artisans and lift them out of poverty. To the surprise of no one, he lied. Across the documentary’s 90 minutes, Wangondu moves from coffee farms to small Kikuyu settlement towns to major international HQs in London, searching for answers and receipts. While the pacing may sag in the middle, the film and its makers remain consistently burdened with glorious purpose — and within the documentary form, few ambitions are more noble or more watchable than cinema forged to enact change.
“Few ambitions are more noble or more watchable than cinema forged to enact change.”
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Several strands run through the project’s depiction of modern Kenya. Wangondu is trying to find out who her father was. There is the investigation into who owns the farms — stolen tribal lands whose rightful restoration is championed by an elderly local man terrified that the fight will die with him, as the younger generations lack his attachment. There is the 2022 Kenyan presidential campaign. And most powerful of all are the sit‑down interviews with people who no longer spend their days picking tea leaves. Through the picture they paint of their experiences, anyone who buys from the implicated companies (with receipts) after watching this must have a heart of stone. They speak of corporate slavery, horrific sexual abuse, and the role field managers play — men patrolling otherwise picturesque plots of land with machetes, threatening women to keep up their quotas. In one instance, a woman runs away from the farm, leaving her child behind. That child inherits her debt, and the words that come out of their mouth have the same heartbreakingly devastating power as the kids seeing death and struggling to survive Gaza.
Brown and Wangondu’s documentary is a powerful piece of journalism, especially as it escalates into genuinely dangerous territory for everyone involved. Credit is due to the composer, who makes that danger feel palpably real. These moments are particularly pertinent to understanding the film and how it summarises the corruption running rampant in the upper rungs of African power — especially in a whistleblower‑style interview where someone warns the filmmakers they are asking questions they shouldn’t be. Some of his quotes will change the way you look at governmental corruption in the less affluent corners of the world, but I’ll leave them for your discovery. Other noteworthy quotes come from a young boy, who can’t be much older than eleven or twelve, says, “It’s easy to keep secrets if the world overlooks you.” One of the climactic revelations sees Wangondu state, “White lies make better stories than black truths.” A presidential candidate says “enough is enough” when asked how much aggressive land acquisition is enough. And the most heartbreaking quote of all comes from the young boy whose mother ran away: “There comes a time when to have dreams is to lie to yourself.” It’s devastating and I’m barely scratching the surface.
Kikuyu Land is a stylishly lensed, confident, and fearless documentary about the true evils of colonialism that feels essential in these increasingly politicised times. It isn’t beyond criticism: as mentioned earlier, the pacing gets muddled, as do the strands of the story, and the quality of some sound recordings leaves a lot to be desired. I’m glad I watched a screener, as I could rewind thirty seconds to revisit what was said; even if the inconsistency is a stylistic choice, it becomes difficult to square when most documentaries are watched at home. But these are small grievances, minor in an otherwise excellent piece of work.
KIKUYU LAND SCREENED AT SHEFFIELD DOCFEST 2026
ROB’S ARCHIVE – KIKUYU LAND (2026)
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