Belief kills and belief cures—whatever you believe is what will happen
For centuries, Jamaica has carried a spiritual inheritance it was taught to fear — the African traditions colonisers outlawed not merely on religious grounds, but because they recognized in them the seeds of resistance. Filmmaker Sosiessia Nixon's suspense thriller Stew Peas brings this suppressed world into the open, centering on obeah and the intimate ritual of binding through food, asking whether power lives in the practice itself or in the belief that animates it. Released as the island recovers from Hurricane Melissa's devastation, the film arrives as both cultural reclamation and quiet proof that Jamaica's creative spirit endures.
- A centuries-old colonial ban on African spiritual practice remains active Jamaican law today, criminalizing a tradition that never actually disappeared from daily life.
- Nixon's film forces into public view a practice — adding menstrual blood to a partner's food as a love charm — that most Jamaicans know of but few will openly discuss.
- Scholars warn that African spirituality has been so thoroughly erased from Caribbean education and consciousness that people have been conditioned to fear their own heritage.
- Hurricane Melissa has battered Jamaica's film infrastructure, forcing the postponement of the Black River festival and severing key links to international networks like Canal+ and Netflix.
- Stew Peas is being read by industry figures as a signal of resilience — evidence that bold, culturally rooted work is still emerging and that Jamaica remains a viable destination for international production.
Sosiessia Nixon grew up in St Thomas, the parish Jamaicans sometimes call the 'obeah parish,' where African spiritual beliefs persist quietly beneath the surface of daily life despite remaining illegal. Her film Stew Peas channels that world into a suspense thriller: a detective named Tessa watches her marriage destabilize after their new maid, Marcia, begins secretly adding menstrual blood to her husband's food — a binding ritual rooted in West African tradition, concealed within the red of kidney beans in a classic Jamaican dish.
The practice sits at a charged intersection of belief and suppression. Cultural scholar Sonjah Stanley Niaah explains that colonisers banned obeah not simply out of religious objection but out of fear — they understood these traditions as bound up with resistance among enslaved Africans. The laws built to extinguish them were never repealed. Stanley Niaah is direct about the consequence: African spirituality is absent from Caribbean schools, and generations have been taught to regard their own inheritance with suspicion.
Producer and actor Ava Eagle Brown, who founded Jamaica's Black River film festival, sees the film as a homecoming for the diaspora — something unmistakably Jamaican in its texture and its tensions. She notes its lighter effect too: men across the Caribbean will likely eye their partners' cooking differently. But the deeper ambition is reclamation — bringing into honest conversation what colonialism tried to permanently silence.
The film's release carries additional weight because Jamaica's creative sector is still reeling from Hurricane Melissa, which destroyed infrastructure and forced Brown to postpone her festival entirely. In that context, Stew Peas functions as what Brown calls a ray of hope — proof that the industry is still producing work of cultural depth and ambition, and a signal to international partners that Jamaica remains open, resilient, and worth returning to.
Sosiessia Nixon, an award-winning Jamaican filmmaker, has made a film about something her country has spent centuries trying to forget. Stew Peas is a suspense thriller centered on obeah, the West African-rooted magic and spiritual healing tradition that colonisers banned in Jamaica during the 1700s—and which remains illegal today. The film follows a detective named Tessa whose life unravels when she discovers that her husband has fallen under the influence of their new maid, Marcia, who has been secretly adding her menstrual blood to his food as a love charm.
The practice at the heart of the story—using stew peas, a traditional kidney bean and meat dish, as a vessel for binding a man to a woman through the addition of menstrual blood—sits at the intersection of African spiritual belief and colonial suppression. Nixon grew up in St Thomas, a parish on Jamaica's southeastern coast sometimes called the "obeah parish," where such beliefs remain woven into daily life despite their illegality. She wanted to make a film that would force a conversation about this taboo practice and the belief system underlying it. "Jamaicans often say that belief kills and belief cures," Nixon explained, pointing to the paradox at the film's core: does this practice actually work, or does the power lie entirely in what people believe?
Sonjah Stanley Niaah, a cultural studies scholar and director of the University of the West Indies' Centre for Reparation Research, contextualizes the stew peas belief within a broader African understanding of natural elements—particularly menstrual blood—as inherently potent. The red beans serve a practical purpose in the ritual: they mask the blood so the man being charmed cannot detect it. But Stanley Niaah's larger point is about what obeah represents historically. European colonisers vilified African spiritual practices and outlawed them not out of mere religious conviction but out of fear. They understood that these traditions were tied to resistance and rebellion among enslaved Africans. The legislative architecture built to suppress obeah—designed to prevent gatherings, worship, and collective action—remains embedded in Jamaica's legal code centuries later.
Producer and actor Ava Eagle Brown, who created Jamaica's Black River film festival, sees Stew Peas as culturally resonant across the Caribbean diaspora. "There is so much of us in this film, the things that make us Jamaican," she said, noting that for people living abroad, the film carries the weight of homecoming. She also acknowledged the film's lighter dimension: it will likely prompt men to regard their partners' cooking with newfound suspicion. But on a deeper level, Brown and others view the film as a reclamation of African spirituality that has been systematically erased from Caribbean consciousness. Stanley Niaah was blunt about this erasure: "African spirituality has no attention, no substance, it's not being taught in schools, we are so afraid of ourselves, we are neglecting it."
The timing of Stew Peas carries particular weight. Jamaica's creative industry is struggling to recover from Hurricane Melissa, which devastated infrastructure and equipment across the island. Brown had to postpone this year's Black River film festival after the hurricane destroyed much of the town where it is normally held. The festival had become a crucial connection point between Jamaican creatives and international networks like Canal+ and Netflix. In this context, a film like Stew Peas functions as what Brown calls "a ray of hope"—evidence that Jamaica's multibillion-dollar creative sector is still functioning, still producing bold work that engages with the country's deepest cultural questions. Jamaica's film commissioner Jackie Jacqueline Jackson framed it similarly: such films demonstrate resilience and send a signal to the world that Jamaica remains open for business, which in turn encourages international productions to return and supports local jobs and spending.
What makes Stew Peas significant, then, is not just that it tells a gripping story about love, betrayal, and spiritual manipulation. It reopens a conversation that colonialism tried to close—about the legitimacy and persistence of African spiritual traditions in the Caribbean, about the laws that still criminalize them, and about the cultural inheritance that Caribbean people have been taught to fear in themselves. The film asks whether belief itself is the magic, or whether something deeper is at work. In doing so, it challenges Jamaicans to reckon with a part of their heritage that remains both alive and officially forbidden.
Notable Quotes
African spirituality has no attention, no substance, it's not being taught in schools, we are so afraid of ourselves, we are neglecting it.— Sonjah Stanley Niaah, cultural studies scholar and director of UWI's Centre for Reparation Research
There is so much of us in this film, the things that make us Jamaican—especially if you're in the diaspora. It brings you back home.— Ava Eagle Brown, producer and actor
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does a film about a love potion matter enough to write about now, in 2026?
Because the film isn't really about the potion. It's about a spiritual tradition that colonisers banned three centuries ago and that Jamaica still has laws against. The story is a way to ask: why are we still criminalizing African practices that our ancestors brought with them?
But obeah is just superstition, isn't it? Does it actually work?
That's exactly the question the filmmaker wants you to sit with. The scholar in the story says Jamaicans have a saying: belief kills and belief cures. So the real question becomes: does it matter whether it works in a physical sense if people believe it works? And if people believe it, what does that tell us about the power of culture and inheritance?
The film came out right after a hurricane. Is that just bad timing?
It's actually the opposite. The hurricane destroyed so much infrastructure and hope. A film like this—made by Jamaicans, about Jamaican culture, getting international attention—becomes a sign that the country is still creating, still thinking, still alive. It's resilience.
So this is partly a political film?
It's political in the way that all art about suppressed traditions is political. The laws banning obeah are still on the books. They were written to prevent enslaved people from gathering and resisting. Those laws never went away. The film is asking: why not?
What does the menstrual blood detail add to the story?
It's the most taboo element—the thing that makes people uncomfortable. That discomfort is the point. The filmmaker wanted to make people confront something they've been taught to hide and fear. It's not gratuitous; it's the core of what African spiritual practice means in a place where African spirituality has been made shameful.