is poised to become one of the most terrifying horror stories of the year. The Audible Original follows an African American family vacationing together at a luxury game reserve in Zimbabwe, but a trip meant to help them reconnect instead unearths familial and local trauma—and turns into the stuff of nightmares. Caleb McLaughlin of Stranger Things stars, playing Dashon, the family's teenage son. In our conversation, creator Nyasha Hatendi reveals the personal influences behind his story, what Black Panther has to do with it, and what, in his opinion, is the scariest sound of all.
Sam Danis: What is this story about, in your own words? What compelled you to write it?
Nyasha Hatendi: This story is really about family and the bonds that hold a family together. It’s about truth and lies and how grief and the trauma of loss, when not fully processed, can destroy not only a family, but an entire community by denying them the opportunity to grow. It’s also about roots and identity and the complex relationship we all have with it.
I was compelled to write it after the Black Panther phenomenon. I loved what it represented but I felt like something was off—there was an aspect of it that felt like appropriation. I think because in America, we are always used to seeing Africa through an American lens, and so for many Africans, it was wonderful to be celebrated, Dashiki Day in Congress, etc., but it was coupled with a sadness in realization that we rarely get to tell our own stories and see ourselves authentically represented in mainstream Western or global media. So, I saw this piece as an opportunity to complicate and deepen the bonds between the African and the African American identity.
By telling a story through the microcosm of an imperfect and dysfunctional family dealing with their own grief and unspoken trauma, we were entering a reality that I felt we could all relate to. I also really wanted to tell a story set in Zimbabwe, to hear Shona being spoken and actively alienate an audience accustomed to being at the center of the narrative, giving a platform to Zimbabwean artists, because that is where my own roots are and I know how much it means to be seen.
In essence, I wanted to find a fun and entertaining way to reconnect while having those difficult conversations we tend to shy away from, because that is where the power lies, where community lies. If there’s one characteristic I find most inspiring about the Wallaces it is that even though they feel alone in their individual struggles, there is a very real love that binds them together as a family, an ancient bond that is ultimately the key to their survival, and I wanted to tell a story that explored that.
In this story, the Mbirwi is a vengeful spirit that was born to defend the locals from colonial settlers and still protects them today. What was your inspiration for the legend of the Mbirwi? What did your research process look like?My inspiration came from the stories I was told as a child, from Zimbabwean folklore. When I was young, I spent a lot of time in the Eastern Highlands, which is a very beautiful and mystical part of Zimbabwe. My “kumusha,” or ancestral home, is near there, in Rusape, so these stories had a particular significance.One in particular was about a group of foreign children who had disappeared; while on a hike, they had insulted the local flora and fauna and the spirits had enough. Just the idea that there was a spirit, a protector of sorts—so powerful it could eliminate those that dared to upset the natural balance—was really frightening, but fascinating. It was also empowering. Particularly with Zimbabwe’s long and tragic relationship with colonialism (the consequences of which continue to this day), it took on added significance—that nature itself would rally to protect its own.
"In essence, I wanted to find a fun and entertaining way to reconnect while having those difficult conversations we tend to shy away from, because that is where the power lies, where community lies. "
So, my research involved reconnecting with these stories, and reading papers around the historic relationship between spiritualism and folklore in Zimbabwe and the history of colonialism in order to create an original myth that was informed by history and ancient folklore. but completely new and original.
Folklore is still very potent in Zimbabwe. You can read numerous articles in local newspapers that are still reporting on supernatural activity within the community; often it's very tongue-in-cheek, but it speaks to an underlying belief system. These stories are very visceral, they’re a form of oral history. I was fascinated by that and wanted to tell a story and evoke a mythology that would resonate specifically for a Black audience and in particular a Zimbabwean, African, and African American audience, but in so doing hoping it would resonate universally.
We all know that family, we’ve all suffered loss, we are all at the mercy of nature, and we all are desperate [to] belong. We all also bury the truth to avoid facing our fears. So, hopefully, it becomes a story about all of us.
Horror is such an interesting genre for audio because it can be highly visual—but sound and atmosphere contribute just as much if not more to the sensory experience. What does horror mean to you, and why did audio feel like the right format to tell this story?
Absolutely, horror is the perfect genre for audio because it’s so immersive, and the mind is a very powerful thing. When you engage an audience’s imagination and invite them to fill in the gaps, they become complicit, and so audio storytelling can become even more vivid and personal than film or television, because on some level the audience becomes the storyteller.
Sound and music are uniquely effective at conveying tension and atmosphere. The team at QCODE—Randy Torres and Ben Milchev, the sound designer and mixer, and Deron Johnson, the composer, are true masters of the medium. They did such an incredible job. Try watching Jurassic Park without the sound and you get what I mean. It’s everything. We all agreed we wanted to create something so viscerally terrifying [that] it would be unforgettable. It’s not all about gore and scares, it’s about creating psychological tension and atmosphere—the silences, which can be even more terrifying. It’s often subliminal; sometimes, we don’t even realize what we’re listening to but we know how it makes us feel.
"But if we’re going with horror, to me, it is a genre that invites us to confront the most uncomfortable truths—not passing through the moment, but daring an audience to sit in that discomfort, and experience all the terrifying emotions that come with it."
Deron Johnson and I spoke a lot about gradually wanting the entire experience to feel like a piece of music, like you’re watching a beautifully scored movie in your mind that is personal to you. It engages your fears, your prejudices, your pain, your truth, and that’s what we were trying to get to—and why audio is the perfect medium for horror. I guess I’ve come to understand horror, which is not how I originally thought of Sacrilege. For me, it is a family drama that becomes a horror or thriller. But if we’re going with horror, to me, it is a genre that invites us to confront the most uncomfortable truths—not passing through the moment, but daring an audience to sit in that discomfort, and experience all the terrifying emotions that come with it.
It’s a really clever device to help us confront our deepest fears, and so at least for me, it is the most challenging genre to “enjoy.” I often start watching a horror [film] in the cinema and wonder why the heck I chose to do this to myself, but it’s also the most cathartic, and in the end I always walk away feeling relieved and strangely hopeful. Which is exactly what we are trying to do with Sacrilege. But you've got to be brave enough to get through it, to the end, and allow it to all come together.
You’re a multi-hyphenate talent: actor, writer, producer. You’ve done everything from film to theater and even voice acting for video games and radio. How did your experience as an actor, especially in audio, inform how you approached writing Sacrilege?
As an actor I often felt that I was rehearsing to be a writer/director. In fact, when I was starting out, a very famous National Theatre director said to me, “You’re one of those actors that thinks they’re a director.” It was meant as a put-down and felt like one, and I didn’t get the job—but I guess it was what I needed to hear, because it planted the seed.
But really, because of my love of acting, I can only come at it from the actor’s perspective; it is their unique relationship with the audience that is at the core of all performance. They are the human element, the living embodiment of the characters we write, so I like to give actors the opportunity to live dangerously. To explore the most dangerous emotions or complicated truths in the way I have always craved as a performer is the holy grail for any actor worth their salt, because it’s so cathartic. It’s also something which actors are rarely asked to do in film and television, especially actors of color.
But in audio and in horror we can go even deeper because it’s acting without distraction, pure and distilled, for an audience of one, so it is intensely intimate and very rewarding because you become distinctly aware of your capacity to communicate truthfully with an audience. The microphone is as unforgiving as a camera, and when I was writing, effectively readapting a script intended to be a film, I basically replaced the camera with the microphone, gave each character very specific wants and needs, and trusted the actors to bring it all to life.
We didn’t have time to [do] rehearsals, but I had individual sessions with every actor about their character, gave them as much information as I could, and sometimes we just spoke about life and how the issues affected us personally, so that on the day when it was time to perform, they each had something personal that they wanted to express, and in so doing elevated the script far beyond my own expectations. For me, the most satisfying thing is to witness an actor discovering an aspect of themselves through performance—it’s a sort of radical vulnerability, which is so powerful when it’s not contrived or sentimental, and I saw it as my job as a director to protect them from crossing that line. Luckily, I had a cast that didn’t need me much
Did you learn anything new about yourself as a writer?
Yes. I learnt how writing is a continual process. How even when you aren’t physically writing, you’re still writing. Everything goes in, you’re like a sponge, things just go in, often to emerge in ways you can never predict, and that’s really exciting. I never thought of myself as a writer. I always believed that the term referred to much smarter, brainier, well-educated, well-read people. So, I guess if I learnt anything new about myself as a writer, it would be the fact that that’s bullshit! I write therefore I am…
"Understanding that failure is writing was a huge lesson and very liberating, because suddenly it becomes clear that failure is nothing to be afraid of."
No, but seriously—the most important lesson I learnt and am still learning—is to let go of the fear that it needed to be any good. I learnt to start each day with the thought, “This is going to be terrible”—and often it was—“but that’s okay,” and that’s when I started to have fun, and gradually each day, each draft, got better and better until bish, bash, bosh, it’s done. Understanding that failure is writing was a huge lesson and very liberating, because suddenly it becomes clear that failure is nothing to be afraid of.
What’s the scariest sound in the world, in your opinion?
Silence. Because in silence you can hear the truth, which can be terrifying—because it amplifies what we least wish to confront. That’s why Silent Hill is the most terrifying video game I have ever played. Or Doom. Silence opens up the darkest corners into which the mind can wander—with no guarantee of ever emerging again. Silence is fucking terrifying!
But if we’re going for an actual sound—it would be nails on a chalkboard, that always gets me, or the sound of a child crying. I guess I’m more frightened of the emotion that the sound evokes rather than the sound itself.
What did you hope Caleb would bring to this performance and character, and was there anything that surprised you about his interpretation?
I remember watching an interview with Caleb many years ago, sitting alone on a stage at Comic Con and talking about the racism he had experienced from some of the fans of Stranger Things,and it always stuck with me. He was brave and grounded in truth very much like Dashon, learning to become a man, and Caleb was going through a very similar evolution, but in the public eye. So I already had a deep respect for him, and it was kind of kismet when his team reached out to say he was interested. I knew he would be perfect for the role.
When we first spoke, it immediately became clear that he understood the underlying purpose of the story, and more importantly, that it resonated with him personally. We were both trying to replace the dysfunctional narratives we might have about each other, that hold us back from connection, with the functional narratives that bring us all together and enable us to grow, as a community. That was our purpose.
What I wasn’t prepared for was just how subtly and beautifully he was able to explore the nuances of Dashon‘s character and how unafraid he was to go to those darker places. Caleb is a gem of an actor. He’s a Believer. I don’t know if it’s a generational thing, but his ability to bring that level of sensitivity, truth, and insight to his performance is a blessing and was really inspiring to work with.
Horror often offers us a safe way to explore the bigger things that scare us the most, both externally and within ourselves. What kind of personal experiences did you aim to bring to this story?
It’s painful to acknowledge dysfunction in your own family, that’s something I can definitely relate to on a personal level. There’s a kind of cognitive dissonance which we are all guilty of—we shy away from narratives that go against the image that we want to present to the world, often because the wounds of the past haven’t been allowed to heal, sometimes deliberately, [and] because acknowledging the truth would require a fundamental shift in our identity, and that means a shift in power and for some people, that’s terrifying.
I remember listening to it and feeling uncomfortable at how far I was going, I felt like I was letting my inner demons run loose, my rage, but gradually I learned that that was the point. Grief is a devastatingly powerful emotion, but as terrifying as it can be, it’s also an opportunity for monumental change. It is an opportunity to find a deeper understanding of what it means to be alive, what it means to have family, and ultimately, it is a golden opportunity to fully experience the terrifying power of love.
"That’s the beauty of horror; it offers us a safe way to explore the things that scare us the most, both externally and within ourselves, and in so doing affords us the opportunity to grow."
But far too often we are afraid to feel because we are afraid of being overwhelmed and losing control. I lost a brother, I lost a father, and in some ways a mother, and the wounds that those traumas have caused have never been fully resolved. There’s that old adage that Black people don’t do therapy—that’s a sickness. Telling this story is my way of starting the conversation and trying to mend old wounds by getting to some form of truth. Which will be terrifying for some. But that’s the point.
We all know what it feels like when the truth is actively ignored. It’s a form of abuse, self-inflicted or otherwise. Africans and African Americans and many others in dysfunctional societies around the world continue to suffer that abuse, and instead of shying away from it, this was my way to confront it and encourage us all to speak our truths, without shame.
That’s the beauty of horror; it offers us a safe way to explore the things that scare us the most, both externally and within ourselves, and in so doing affords us the opportunity to grow. It’s far better than living a lie.
