Prosper Light’s Till Death Do Us Part doesn’t try to mask what it is. A first film, made with drive, made with what was available. You can feel that. It’s not here to perform mastery. It’s here to speak. And through the rough patches, it does.

The Interfering Guest

From the start, sound becomes its own character. But not the helpful kind. The voices aren’t clear. Sometimes you have to guess what’s being said. A phone beep competes with the score. A song turns on, but the autotune makes it feel distant. The sound is trying to do what it’s supposed to do—carry emotion—but it doesn’t always reach.

And yet, underneath the uneven delivery, there’s intent. The soundtrack leans into grief. It wants you to pause and feel what’s been lost. The issue is, the songs don’t stay long enough. One fades out, another fades in, each pulling you into a different emotional space. You’re just getting into one, and you’re being nudged into another. That pattern repeats. So when the final emotion does hit, it arrives late. Not because the story lacked depth, but because the sound kept interrupting its own flow.

The Crime, Then the Quiet

It starts with absence. A man calling. In a tuxedo. No answer. Where is his bride? That unanswered phone leads us into the core of the film: the absence of the bride-to-be. And just like that, you’re not watching a wedding story. You’re watching its shadow. The rest unfolds like memory—fragments, retellings, versions. Each character steps up with their part. The fiancé. A bridesmaid. Later, someone who gets pulled into the story for entirely different reasons. But..

The sound shifts.

One moment you’re trying to make out what someone is saying, the next a phone beep or some background score is blasting at the same level. There’s autotune. And not the kind that hides. It sits there, loud and proud, while you’re trying to feel something.

There’s an effort to centre the emotion. And even in that chaos, there’s intent. The music is sad, mournful, reflective. You’re beginning to settle into the sadness of one track, and then suddenly, a different shade of sadness cuts in. Start over. Again. Maybe that’s why it feels like nothing touches you until the very end— where it’s message shins through. Because the film keeps starting and stopping the connection before it holds.

And, then…

The light dims.

The structure leans toward investigation. The lighting tells us when we’re in that space. Dark. Confined. But it’s not the kind of investigation that opens doors. It closes them. It shows us what happened, more than it asks us to question it. The film isn’t interested in creating suspicion. It’s more interested in observation.

There’s a CCTV. It blacks out. Then returns just in time to give us something, though not enough to figure out what’s really going on. A man is brought in. He’s bloodied, forced to explain. His story has another twist. But that’s when the sound becomes a wall again. Crucial parts are barely audible. What we catch is that he didn’t kill her. And they don’t believe him.

Drama Wears the Mask of Mystery

Till Death Do Us Part is a film dressed like a thriller. A few things suggest it: the mystery, the crime, the silence around the motive. But it doesn’t invite you to solve anything. It simply shows you. This happened. Then this. And then this. There’s no breadcrumb trail. No hidden meaning waiting to be pulled out. Instead, it leaves you with a single direction: watch.

There are clues. A CCTV clip that blacks out at just the wrong moment. A man dragged in, tortured, made to confess. Denial. Even a prostitute thrown into the mix. But we’re not being drawn in to solve anything. No one’s asking us to play detective. There’s no bait for suspicion. The film just shows. You either catch it or you don’t.

This isn’t a story about catching a killer. It’s a story about the truth making its way out. Each character believes something about Nkem. Some see her as a victim, but someone reveals the contradictions. In the end, no one fully knew her. What they each had was a version.

So all that mourning we started with, all that softness painted around her character, gets complicated. And that’s where the film does something. Because it’s not just showing us what happened. It’s showing how people want to remember others. How we clean up their stories, even when they were still hiding something.

Something You Can Feel, Even When You Don’t

For a short film, Till Death Do Us Part moves fast. But not because there’s no space. There’s enough time for emotion to breathe. The problem is it doesn’t stay in one place long enough. A beat starts to build, and then we’re off to the next. What we’re left with are pieces that almost landed. Almost hit. Almost held. There’s time to feel, but the film doesn’t always stay long enough in one emotion. Still, the effort to say something personal is there. Even when the transitions cut short the emotion, even when the rhythm is off, the message presses through.

And yet, there’s something about the pace that fits the message. This is not a film about figuring it out. It’s a film about truth—how it hides, how it leaks, how it eventually slips out when no one’s watching.

In the End, the Message Holds

Till Death Do Us Part ends simply. At home. The TV plays. A report says someone saw the killer. A knock follows. That’s the final note. Not dramatic. Just a reminder.

Then a line from the director: “In the end, truth finds its way out, no matter how dark the path.”

There’s no big twist hidden in that. It’s the film’s spine. Every sound choice, every scene, points toward it. The film isn’t trying to impress with plot. It wants you to sit with the fact that people lie, stories shift, but truth lingers, waiting.

The sound might cloud it. The lighting too. The scenes might move faster than they should. But the story is there. The feeling is there. If you sit with it, you’ll see it. Maybe not all at once. But it stays.

You can see the movie below: