When History Burns: A Review of The Fire and The Moth

Not every story needs to shout to be heard. Some whisper, some hum. And The Fire and The Moth, directed by Taiwo Egunjobi, is a slow, quiet burn about the noise that greed brings into peaceful places.

At the center of this moody, atmospheric film is the theft of a sacred Ife bronze head. It’s a theft that feels more like a curse, because once it leaves its rightful place, everything begins to spiral. What begins as a simple smuggling job unravels into chaos, and the sleepy western town that houses the story slowly turns into a nest of betrayal, corruption, and ruin.

Taiwo Egunjobi has always made it clear that he’s not here to follow the Nollywood playbook. From A Green Fever to this latest film, his visual language speaks louder than any dialogue. He uses silence and space with intentional weight, letting the environment become part of the storytelling. The wind through the trees. The calm of a town just before it falls apart. He doesn’t force drama, he invites it to creep in.

But this isn’t a thriller that rushes. It’s more art film than action. Pacing is slow, almost meditative, and that can lose certain audiences. Dialogue often feels stiff, with exchanges between characters lacking rhythm, as if more energy was spent ensuring clarity than capturing naturalism. Still, when the film hits its moments, they stay with you.

Saba, played by Tayo Faniran, carries the exhaustion of a man who’s been surviving too long. His delivery falters in parts, but his presence lingers. Opposite him is Ini Dima-Okojie as Professor Abike, and she does what she always does: disappear into the role. From sorrow in Kill Boro to cold precision in Blood Sisters, here she brings a layered stillness. Her face does the work. Her scenes with Saba build a relationship that’s neither romantic nor hostile, but quietly transactional and that nuance is rare.

Then there’s Teriba, played with conviction by William Benson, the only character motivated by justice in a place where that word barely means anything. The rest are playing games for power or money. The contractor played by Jimmy Jean Louis adds an eerie colonial undertone, operating in the shadows with the kind of detachment that makes your skin crawl.

The real theme, however, is greed—not as loud hunger, but quiet, devastating ambition. Everyone wants something. Everyone is willing to look the other way. The bronze head becomes a spiritual object as much as a symbol of violence. Wherever it goes, someone pays. It moves hands like a curse. It’s a piece of history being handled by people with no reverence for it, and the film doesn’t let that go unnoticed.

And yet, it never feels like a sermon. It feels like a slow warning. That some things were never meant to leave home. That colonial theft, both old and modern, always leaves scars even if it’s dressed in quiet cinematography and tasteful lighting.

The final act is messy, but fitting. People die. People change. Nothing returns to normal. And in that small town where trees outnumber people, the story of the bronze head will be retold in whispers.

The Fire and The Moth may not be for everyone. It’s patient. Quiet. At times, too still. But if you listen closely, it says a lot. And Taiwo Egunjobi continues to prove he isn’t just making films. He’s building a body of work, one whisper at a time.