When my father died in the early 1990s, my mother and my two siblings moved to Kisii in Southwest Kenya. Widowed in her early 30s, my mother inherited about four acres of my father’s ancestral land on which to eke out a living for her young family.
Mother proved to be an effective farmer from the outset. My father was buried in January, the beginning of the planting season. Eight months after his burial, my mother brought in from the fields a bumper harvest of maize and beans. I remember several donkeys ferrying the maize from the farm that was about a mile away from home. The harvest was big enough to fill two granaries with the long cob maize variety that was then common. A well-stocked granary held about ten 90-kilogramme bags of maize and two would hold roughly two tonnes of maize, enough to last a family of four an entire season with a surplus to sell at the nearby Riochanda market where both Kisiis and Luos trade.
Following a typical planting season, the same piece of land could yield a tonne of beans or groundnuts. In the mixed system of farming that was practiced then, sorghum and cassava were planted in sections of the land, and it was not uncommon to also find legumes and potatoes (sweet or Irish) growing wild. As kids, we were encouraged to go after the morogoto, or what agriculturalists call “imperfect produce”: odd-shaped potatoes, bananas that are smaller than the rest of the crop, rotten or rotting grains (that would be sold to chang’aa brewers) and other harvest not suitable for the market. We would sell the morogoto to our parents or to millers of cattle feed. It was a way of instilling a sense responsibility in the young.
Even though in the 1990s land was becoming an issue as the Kisii population ballooned, each family could still harvest enough to fill two granaries on average, besides the extra produce that was also harvested from the farm. A typical family was therefore able to live on the produce grown on their piece of ancestral land.
What distinguishes the 1990s and the preceding years from the present is the variety of foods that were available back then. Besides the cereals and legumes, there were assorted wild mushrooms (enokitate), wild fruit, and avocadoes. Kitchen gardens produced enough varieties of vegetables for domestic consumption and for sale at nearby markets. Of the cash crops then common, only tea remains; almost all the coffee plantations have been uprooted because of poor earnings and land pressure, while pyrethrum is all but gone.
Some 30 years later, if my father were to resurrect, he would not recognise the land of his birth. Almost all the natural springs that he must have drunk from are gone. Dried up. Rivers and streams that were big enough to be described as permanent rivers are now a pale shadow of their former selves, reduced to seasonal streams.
On the food front, the wild fruits have become rarer. All the delicious mushroom varieties are gone. Granaries have disappeared from homesteads. Bumper harvests have been unheard off in the last two decades. In fact, the entire farming system has changed drastically. Even the donkeys that were used as beasts of burden are no longer a common sight. Rural Kisii has undergone a quiet transformation, unnoticed, but the effects reverberate in every homestead.
The disappearance of finger millet: A metaphor for changing times
While researching this essay, I asked various farmers what had changed in the last three decades. There was a consensus that the disappearance of finger millet from nearly all farms illustrates how farming has drastically changed for the worse in Kisii.
Finger millet, best known as the key component of brown ugali and porridge, is held in high cultural regard among the Abagusii. Long before it was found to be a wonder food for diabetics, the Abagusii reserved millet ugali for elders, for culturally important functions like bride-price negotiations or for visiting in-laws. Finger millet was also used as a source of yeast in alcohol production and for other medicinal purposes.
Finger millet farming was an intricate science passed from one generation of women to another, with each family dedicating a substantial chunk of their land to its production, both for use and for sale at the market since it fetched good returns. Today, less and less of the grain is farmed.
Wycliffe Onduso, 44, a farmer in Kisii and Transmara, says that land subdivision has rendered the production of finger millet untenable. Among the Kisii, the reasons for farming finger millet are cultural before they are commercial, and traditionally this labour intensive grain was farmed by women on ancestral land. However, Onduso’s ancestral land in Kisii is only large enough to hold his three-bedroom bungalow and little else; he does most of his farming on land leased in Transmara where there is a preference for high yield crops like maize and sugar cane.
Rural Kisii has undergone a quiet transformation, unnoticed, but the effects reverberate in every homestead.
In her 1998 study, Re-conceptualising Food Security: Interlocking Strategies, Unfolding Choices and Rural Livelihoods in Kisii District, Kenya, the late Prof. Mary Omosa explains that, “A typical Gusii farm consists of a long (and wide) strip of land running from the top of a ridge to a valley bottom and it includes the homestead.” In the customary land tenure system of the Abagusii, only men can inherit arable land while grazing sites and forests are shared by kinsmen.
Nearly all the land has been gobbled up in the space of two generations, and in the case of Onduso’s family and virtually all his extended family, his is the last generation to inherit a stamp-sized piece of land; his children will inherit nothing.
A mass exodus of Kisiis began in the early 1990s, with many first settling in the Rift Valley. However, fear of election-related violence saw many Kisiis settle permanently as far away as possible from the Rift Valley, with some moving to other parts of Western Kenya, to Makueni and Kitui in Eastern Kenya, to Taita Taveta and to the Coast.
Land subdivision in Kisii has limited farming, with two dire consequences.
First, where in the 1990s my mother had the luxury of practicing crop rotation and could afford to “rest” a whole acre, readying it for the next planting season, this is no longer possible. Crop rotation is practically impossible in present-day Kisii and Nyamira counties.
Secondly, as the size of land diminished, the variety of crops grown has also been reduced to maize and beans at most. Coffee plantations have been uprooted, and tea plantations may follow suit, partly due to the dwindling space for farming and housing and partly due to dwindling earnings from tea.
A mass exodus of Kisiis began in the early 1990s, with many first settling in the Rift Valley.
The little arable land remaining is over-farmed. To borrow from Chinua Achebe’s No Longer at Ease, when villagers contribute measly gifts to Obi Okonkwo to send him to England to study and come back to get into formal employment, it is because in the village, “men and women toiled from year to year to wrest a meagre living from an unwilling and exhausted soil”.
That is where Kisii is at presently; after being farmed season in, season out without a break, the soil is unyielding.
Soil fertility has gone down significantly; the portion of land that could fill a granary can no longer fill even a third of it. Whatever people harvest directly from the farm is too little to store; it is dried and taken directly to the millers. Besides, we no longer have the long cob maize variety. “Lately it is small cobs that don’t yield much,” observes Onduso. The harvest used to last two planting seasons (February to August and August to February). Those who did not harvest enough resorted to buying grain in mid-season, which was highly frowned-upon. Now, buying food, or ogotonda, is the norm, as more people have to buy maize from places like Kitale.
Petty theft has become increasingly common. “Stealing of bananas or other ready produce, including chicken, is common across Kisii,” notes Onduso, a testament to the underlying poverty as more people find themselves with little to no land to farm to meet their nutritional needs.
Changing Dietary Patterns
Since Kenya’s independence, the diet of the Abagusii has remained relatively constant. It consists of one part starch, usually ugali made from maize meal, and vegetables, mostly kales as well as the common African traditional vegetables such as manage (black nightshade), chinsaga (spider plant), egesare (cowpea) and emboga (amaranth). For families with cattle, fermented milk is a common delicacy.
Contrary to popular belief, Kisiis do not hold bananas in high regard. A culinary joke that ran for the longest time was that if someone had eaten banana stew for supper and you asked them shortly afterwards if he or she had eaten, the standard response would invariably be, “No, I have not eaten, just banana stew,” a testament to the pre-eminence of ugali as the staple food of the Abagusii. For breakfast, bananas, sweet potatoes, and cassava were the preferred accompaniment for tea, taken black or white.
However, given the shrinking farms, plants such as bananas that need large spaces to grow have become rare, and poverty has driven most families to sell their banana crop to predatory buyers from Nairobi rather than consuming it themselves. The result is that people have slowly embraced bread and other wheat products as a breakfast alternative. And while they can still buy sweet potatoes from Luo Nyanza, the cost has gone up considerably.
Scholars such as the aforementioned Prof. Omosa and Mario Schmidt (writing for the Food, Culture and Society Journal), have noted the dilemma most small-scale farmers face: should they consume the food they produce from their small farms or should they sell in the local markets or to buyers from Nairobi? Often the latter choice carries the day, compromising dietary choices, which partly explains the malnourishment that is prevalent in Kisii despite the region’s deceptively green landscape.
Mass exodus and generational interdependency
According to the Economic Survey 2021, Kisii had the highest frequency of emigration of all of Kenya’s 47 counties. Those who leave Kisii do so with the aim of seeking better opportunities while those who remain behind, usually retired or aging parents and younger siblings, depend on them to send back money. And if things do not work out for those who leave for the city, they may find themselves relying on parents to send food to them from the countryside.
Poverty has driven most families to sell their banana crop to predatory buyers from Nairobi rather than consuming it themselves.
Typically, the young men and women will do all manner of odd jobs, sending a portion of their wages to their parents, which they use to buy seeds for planting. In return, after the harvest, their parents send them food using the services of couriers such as Transline and Ena Coach. This trend peaked during the COVID-19 pandemic when many living in urban areas lost their jobs.
Even so, farming has declined as wealthier families move their parents to the city or outside the country. And for those parents who remain in Kisii, well-off children send money to buy food, since it is no longer economical to farm on the little available land. Rice and wheat products have slowly been embraced as middle class families are likely to afford a more versatile diet, rather than one limited to ugali.
The climate change factor
In early 2018, I went back to South Kisii where I had spent my teenage years and where one of my objects of fascination was River Kuja (Gucha in Kisii), a big permanent river, often classified alongside River Sondu, Nyando, Yala and Nzoia as the main tributaries of Lake Victoria.
When I arrived in Ogembo, the headquarters of the former Gucha District, I was shocked to see that the riverbed was almost completely dry. Most springs have dried up in the once wet and fertile Kisii, and River Kuja was no exception. During the same period, the notorious River Nyando, whose floods often wreak havoc on those around Nyando, had also dried up completely.
When my family settled in Kisii in the 1990s, the climate was steady and predictable; a dry January enabled preparation of the land for the February planting season that guaranteed a harvest come August. February and March brought short rains for the planting and weeding season. April-May brought the long rains that enabled a richer growth of the produce. June-July were dry months, enabling harvesting in August, followed by the short rains that enabled planting for the short season that ran from August to February. Rinse, repeat. With a few notable exceptions, such as the 1997-98 El Nino rains and the occasional prolonged dry spell, the climate remained largely friendly and predictable.
Farming has declined as wealthier families move their parents to the city or outside the country.
However, this weather pattern is no longer guaranteed — in Kisii or anywhere else in the country. Sometimes, as happened in early 2018, the country can go without rain for five months. And droughts can alternate with floods, leaving farmers extremely vulnerable.
“A number of studies indicate that climate change has affected agriculture and food security by shifting spatial and temporal distribution of rain, biodiversity, and terrestrial resources like water, and eventually impacting heavily on food security,” says Bernard Moseti, a Social Development, Policy, and Governance expert.
Evidently, more and more Kisii no longer follow the traditions of the past. Even the crop varieties have been modified to meet the current planting cycle. This means food security risks have multiplied because of the frequency and intensity of climate change-related disasters and extremes.
This article is part of The Elephant Food Edition Series done in collaboration with Route to Food Initiative (RTFI). Views expressed in the article are not necessarily those of the RTFI.
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Hip hop’s Enduring Echo: From New York’s Streets to Global Beats
In the second of a two-part series, Richard Wanjohi traces the rise and rise of the hip hop genre from humble beginnings in the Bronx to the exalted halls of academe.
In the heat of a summer afternoon on the 11th of August 2023, echoes of the origins of hip hop swept through the bustling avenues of New York City, traversing five decades to awaken the present. The Hip Hop museum relived the original block party, an event aptly christened “Hip Hop’s 50th Birthday Jam” that transcended mere celebration and instead served as a living testament to the very essence of this genre-defining movement. The city that had birthed a cultural revolution watched as its legacy reverberated across continents. The month of August unfolded as a tapestry of events and tributes, a worldwide celebration of hip hop’s indomitable spirit. Taking root in humble neighbourhoods, hip hop has ascended to paramount prominence both in the commercial realms of music and in societal discourse.
Donald Glover’s This is America was released in May 2018, on the same night that Childish Gambino (Glover’s stage name) was hosting Saturday Night Live, an American late-night live television sketch comedy, political satire, and variety show. The song’s lyrics and powerful music video capture the essence of the Black Lives Matter movement, delving into the heart of systemic racism.
Tackling the themes of prejudice, racial violence, the ghetto, and law enforcement in the US, the song resonates with the movement’s spirit. It also touches on the broader concerns of mass shootings and gun violence, painting a vivid picture of the challenges facing the United States.
This Is America was the first rap song – and Gambino the first hip hop artist – to win Record of the Year and Song of the Year, Best Rap/Sung Performance Award and Best Music Video at the Annual Grammy Awards.
Another contemporary artist on the hip hop landscape is Kendrick Lamar, a maestro of words whose lyrical prowess has earned the critical acclaim of a generation. In 2017, his anthem to social consciousness, Humble, resonated with a world craving authenticity. With an infectious chorus that implores, “Sit down, be humble”, the track is an call to humility, a repudiation of the ostentation that has occasionally veiled the essence of rap culture, and indeed, global popular culture.
Yet, beneath the surface, Humble delves deeper, summoning African American men to introspection, challenging them to grapple with their roles and power within their communities. This call to self-examination arrives in an era marked by a rising “cancel culture” where movements like “Me Too” have spotlighted a demand for accountability. Lamar’s artistry embodies this moment, peering through society’s lens etched with pain, yearning for collective humility, and a society unified by values.
As he asserts his individuality, Lamar fearlessly points fingers at the counterfeit, the insincere, those failing to meet his measure of authenticity. A truth seeker himself, Lamar’s artistry becomes a mirror, reflecting the world’s complexities, capturing the zeitgeist with unwavering intensity.
A milestone was reached on the 13th of February 2022, at the Super Bowl LVI Final, a night electrified by the presence of Kendrick Lamar alongside luminaries like Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Eminem, Mary J. Blige, and 50 Cent. In the midst of the halftime show’s dazzling spectacle, the heart of hip hop pulsed, paying tribute to its West Coast origins, a homage to the crucible of hip hop that transcended time zones, a reminder of its roots.
Lamar’s narrative speaks of more than just stardom; it encapsulates a struggle for hip hop’s essence amidst the onslaught of commercialisation and global expansion. The genre navigates its identity, steering between the twin tides of mass appeal and authenticity, struggling to remain true as it extends its reach to the world stage.
In Childish Gambino’s This is America, the song represents an unfiltered mirror reflecting the complex realities of modern America. With pulsating beats and enigmatic lyrics, the track takes listeners on a visceral journey through the nation’s darkest corners. Gambino delves into the psyche of a nation teetering between euphoria and despair, beckoning us to question our complicity and the façades we build.
As we dissect every lyric and decode every visual cue, we realise that this song isn’t just entertainment – it’s an urgent call to action, a demand for introspection, and a stark reminder that America’s story is still being written, one fraught note at a time. And isn’t a similar tale told in so many other countries across the world?
The genre navigates its identity, steering between the twin tides of mass appeal and authenticity, struggling to remain true as it extends its reach to the world stage.
Beyond the beats, hip hop retains its vocation as a megaphone for society’s voice. From the corners of Europe to the Americas, it weaves together lyrical tapestries that tackle inequality, racism, and the brutality of the badge. The legacy of protest that stirred its early days courses through its veins.
Globally, hip hop’s resonance remains potent, a conduit for artists to unleash their messages onto the world’s stage. In Kenya, the return of Kalamashaka heralds a renaissance, echoing the struggles of the late 1990s and early 2000s, a stark reminder that society’s battles persist across time and borders. When the group embarked on their journey, guided by their producer Tedd Josiah, they began by mirroring their American counterparts, belting out verses in English and slang. Yet, as artistic instinct led them to the crossroads of self-discovery, their sound underwent a transformation that would leave an indelible mark on the country’s musical fabric.
From the corners of Europe to the Americas, it weaves together lyrical tapestries that tackle inequality, racism, and the brutality of the badge.
Shifting gears, they embraced the lyrical tapestry of Swahili and the street-smart slang of Sheng. This linguistic pivot birthed Tafsiri Hii, etching the track into the annals of Kenyan music history as the first commercially minted hip hop anthem. With each beat and syllable, they pioneered a new sonic frontier, infusing local vernacular into a genre that was once an import.
The resonance of Tafsiri Hii went beyond the lyrics; it captured a cultural shift, a declaration that Kenyan hip hop would forge its path, distinct from its American roots. It wasn’t just a song; it was a manifesto, a clarion call for artists across the nation to celebrate their own linguistic heritage.
Yet, amidst these triumphs, shadows persist. Misogyny and the debasement of women stain hip hop’s narrative. Critics’ voices rise, dissecting the art form’s dichotomy, questioning its role in perpetuating inequality and disrespect.
As we stand amidst the beats and rhythms, we recognise that hip hop’s journey is complex, a symphony of triumphs and challenges, a vessel for the voices of the marginalised, an amplifier of truth. The legacy of August’s jubilant celebrations propels hip hop forward, igniting a global conversation that echoes in the streets of New York, Nairobi and New Delhi, etching its imprint on the world’s soul.
Global grooves: Unveiling the current currents of hip hop music
As the global pulse continues to syncopate to the rhythm of urban beats, hip hop music stands firm as the heartbeat of our modern age. From the gritty streets of its Bronx birthplace, the genre has morphed into a kaleidoscope of influences, mirroring the diverse tapestry of our planet. Hip hop has become the most popular genre in the United States since 2017, surpassing rock and pop. The genre has grown from a small underground movement to a multibillion-dollar industry.
In the digital age, the hip hop landscape expands without borders. A digital symphony of trap snares, Afrobeat rhythms, and lyrical poetry reverberates across continents. International collaborations have been breaking sound barriers, proving that language is no obstacle to the universal resonance of a catchy hook – testament to our interconnected era, a striking chapter recently unfolded on the world stage.
Enter the phenomenon that is Calm Down, an undeniable chart-topper that encapsulates this moment in time. A merger of Afrobeats and pop music, this musical marvel stands as an emblematic blend of two distinct talents – the prodigious Rema from Nigeria and the charismatic Selena Gomez, a true American gem with Latin roots intricately woven into the rich fabric of her sound.
Gone are the days when hip hop was confined to block parties and underground clubs. Today, it headlines festivals that span the globe, igniting crowds with the energy of a thousand firecrackers. The evolution of hip hop visuals transforms music videos into cinematic epics, pushing creative boundaries to new heights.
Yet, as the genre evolves, it confronts paradoxes. At a time when hip hop’s global influence is undeniable, its connection to authenticity is a burning question. Commercialisation threatens to dilute its essence, but many artists stand as sentinels of truth, using their verses to amplify the voices of the marginalised.
International collaborations have been breaking sound barriers, proving that language is no obstacle to the universal resonance of a catchy hook.
The lyricism has matured, becoming a megaphone for societal critique. From South African townships to the bustling streets of Tokyo, hip hop lyrics dissect systemic injustices, demand change, and refuse to be silenced. In this era of global protests, the genre surges as an anthem for those yearning for justice.
As we traverse cultural boundaries, we uncover a mosaic of regional sounds. In South America, Andean instruments blend seamlessly with boom-bap beats. The Middle East fuses traditional melodies with trap basslines. In India, hip hop becomes a canvas for lyrical storytelling, painting vivid portraits of everyday life.
It’s a world where pioneers like Public Enemy and newer voices like Burna Boy share a stage, reminding us that hip hop is a symposium of generations, a living testament to resilience, and a bridge connecting diverse narratives.
In this era of global connectivity, hip hop resonates as the universal language, a harmonic thread weaving tales of struggle, triumph, and dreams. It’s not just music; it’s the pulse of a generation in sync, turning the globe into one sprawling, rhythm-driven metropolis.
But what problems does hip hop music still face, and what does it need to fix?
Writing for the Billboard magazine in an article titled, Hip hop’s No.1s Shortage: Is it Actually a Crisis or ’Is It all Cyclical?, Elias Leight noted that there has been a shortage of hip hop number 1s or chart-topping hits for both the Billboard 200-topping album and the Billboard Hot 100-topping single in 2023. Music executives were, however, quick to observe that while there may be no chart-topping songs, the “use of genre-related statistics is increasingly ill-suited to describe a world packed with blurry genre-hybrids”.
According to Chartmetric – a data firm that focuses on artists and the music industry –hip hop currently makes up around 16 per cent of the most streamed songs on Spotify’s top 50 list. In contrast, in 2020, it accounted for over 40 per cent of songs streamed in the United States. Critics are quick to note that, just like other music genres, hip hop is currently undergoing an evolution of sorts.
Hip –hop in academia: From the streets to the classroom
The influence of hip hop has not been confined to the world of music; it reverberates in classrooms, is discussed in research papers, and in intellectual conversations, finding its place in higher education. The first academic course on hip hop was offered in 1991 at Howard University, a historically black college in Washington, D.C.
Scholars dissect its rhythms, analyse its lyrics, and contextualise its impact on society. From socio-political commentary to examinations of its influence on language and identity, the study of hip hop cuts across disciplines; it can be analysed as music, as literature, as history, as sociology, as anthropology, and more.
Here are some of the key milestones in the history of the study of hip hop in universities and institutions of higher learning:
In 1994, the very first academic journal devoted entirely to the study of hip hop, The Journal of Hip Hop Studies, made its debut. This marked a significant milestone, creating a platform for in-depth analysis and research within the realm of hip—hop culture. Two years later, in 1996, Droppin’ Science: Critical Studies in Rap Music and Hip hop Culture by William Perkins, became the first book dedicated to hip—hop studies. This publication provided an academic lens through which to scrutinize the art form, its origins, and its societal impacts.
In this era of global connectivity, hip hop resonates as the universal language, a harmonic thread weaving tales of struggle, triumph, and dreams.
Fast forward to 2002 and the birth of a pioneering establishment, The Center for Hip Hop Studies at Temple University, the first research center wholly devoted to the exploration of hip—hop and its cultural significance. The Hip Hop Studies Association Conference was held two years later, in 2004, the very first academic conference focusing solely on hip—hop studies. This event brought together scholars, researchers, and enthusiasts, fostering a community of hip—hop scholars.
Finally, in 2010, the New York University launched the very first PhD program in hip hop studies, opening doors for advanced academic pursuit in the field and further solidifying the place of hip hop in scholarly circles. From Ivy League institutions to community colleges, the reach of hip hop in academia is diverse and widespread. The journey of hip hop from the streets to academe testifies to its enduring power – it’s not just music; it’s a mirror reflecting the complexities of the world.
What is the future of hip hop?
In a seismic cultural shift, the world will look to embrace the pulse and groove of hip hop like never before. With the 2024 Paris Olympics looming on the horizon, the limelight will cast its glow on a new addition that is set to redefine the notion of sportsmanship: breakdancing. Yes, you heard it right – breakdancing, that urban dance movement born in the streets and thriving on hip hop beats, is poised to captivate audiences on the global stage.
The Olympic movement has long been known to be a mirror of our times, and with the ascension of breakdancing, it is embracing a phenomenon that transcends boundaries and unites generations.
And this isn’t just another nod to trends; it’s an epochal recognition of hip hop’s indomitable spirit and its unassailable influence on culture. Breakdancing, an electrifying expression of rhythm, flow, and physical prowess, finds its way into the Olympic marquee as part of the dazzling, daring tapestry of urban sports. But breakdancing isn’t just a sport; it’s an ode to creativity, a celebration of individuality, and a showcasing of unity through movement.
Hip hop is a genre that has always been about pushing boundaries. Artists from all over the world are always experimenting with new sounds and styles. These artists keep blurring the lines between genres, incorporating elements of everything from electronic music to traditional African sounds.
One such artist is Little Simz, a British rapper of Nigerian origin who has been praised for her unique blend of hip hop, soul, and jazz. Her latest album, Sometimes I Might Be Introvert, was a critical and commercial success, and she was recently nominated for a Brit Award for British Album of the Year.
It’s not just music; it’s the pulse of a generation in sync, turning the globe into one sprawling, rhythm-driven metropolis.
In the world of underground hip hop, one of the most interesting new subgenres is Drill, music that originated in Chicago in the early 2010s and is characterized by its dark, aggressive sound. Some of the most popular drill artists include Chief Keef, Lil Durk, and G Herbo. Central Cee, a popular British rapper took drill, repackaged it in London and exported it to the US, saying on TikTok, “In London I’m verified; in New York I’m valid.”
Another up-and-coming subgenre is Afrobeats, a music genre that originated in Nigeria in the early 2000s. It is a fusion of West African sounds and hip hop, dancehall, and pop. Some of the most popular Afrobeats artists include Wizkid, Davido, Burna Boy and the music prodigy Rema. A subgenre of Afrobeats that came on the scene in the 2010s, Afroswing is characterized by its upbeat, danceable sound. Popular Afroswing artists include Kojo Funds, Juls, and Not3s.
These are just a few of the many emerging artists and subgenres that are pushing the boundaries of hip hop. It is an exciting time to be a fan of the genre, and it will be interesting to see what new sounds and styles emerge in the years to come.
Southern Africa’s rich cultural tapestry has gifted the world a medley of hip hop sub-genres, each a vibrant note in the symphony of regional identity. Kwaito, a fusion of house, hip hop, and traditional mbaqanga, emerged as a joyful celebration in the 1990s. Its catchy melodies, repetitive rhythms, and uplifting lyrics infuse dance floors with energy. Other sub-genres include Motswako which appeared in the early 2000s and delivers rapid-fire rhymes and incisive social commentary. AKA, Cassper Nyovest, and Khuli Chana shine as its luminaries, their verses echoing with insight. Amapiano, a fusion of house, jazz, and mbaqanga, sets a mellower mood. Slow, melodic beats blend with soulful vocals, creating an atmosphere of musical indulgence. Coming out of Durban, Gqom captivates with its dark, electronic sound and weighty basslines. DJ Lag, Mpura, and Distruction Boyz dominate this realm, bringing dance floors to life.
In Southern Africa, the tentacles of hip hop extend far beyond the mainstream, each sub-genre a testament to the region’s depth and diversity.
American Travis Scott’s song K-Pop features Canadian sensation Weeknd and Bad Bunny, a Puerto Rican who raps in Spanish and is one of the most streamed artists on Spotify. While fans may think the title pays homage to the Korean pop sound, the name actually refers to ketamine, a prescription drug used to treat depression that is abused as a recreational drug. The song also samples funk carioca or bailes funk – a sound from Latin America’s favelas that is closely related to hip hop.
In the heart of Kenya’s musical legacy, Kalamashaka, a group fondly referred to as K-Shaka, ignited a spark that would set ablaze the nation’s hip hop scene. With time, the group underwent a metamorphosis, giving rise to a new entity – Ukoo Flani Mau Mau, a name that pays homage to the valiant freedom fighters who fought for Kenya’s independence from British colonial rule. The transformation was more than just a change of name; it was a declaration of allegiance to the nation’s history and struggle.
In the ranks of this collective were luminaries like MC Kah, Wenyeji, and Warogi Wawili, their coming together a testament to the power of unity and creative evolution. Recently, the fires of K-Shaka have been rekindled, with the group regrouping and reworking some of their former hits and producing new work. Their resurgence is a reminder that the legacy of hip hop is one that continually reinvents itself, breathing life into narratives old and new.
But breakdancing isn’t just a sport; it’s an ode to creativity, a celebration of individuality, and a showcasing of unity through movement.
Yet, Kenya’s hip hop story doesn’t rest solely on the shoulders of veterans. Enter Wakadinali, an outfit that champions an alternative sound – a fusion of hip hop, drill, and gengetone. Their genre-blurring approach resonates with an audience that connects deeply with their style. Their journey, however, hasn’t been without its share of controversies. Their lyrics, at times lewd, and their open embrace of the drug culture have drawn criticism. Still, their tracks find airplay on mainstream media and streaming platforms, a testament to the genre’s audacious spirit.
From K-Shaka’s evolution to Wakadinali’s genre fusion, Kenya’s hip hop scene is a testament to the genre’s global ingenuity and adaptability. It showcases how hip hop serves as a canvas for cultural evolution, a space where artists reinterpret the past while carving paths towards the future. In a nation where history and innovation dance side by side, the beat goes on, resonating through the streets and stories of Kenya.
In the crucible of creativity, where beats collide and verses weave tapestries of truth, hip hop thrives as a genre that continually reshapes itself. As artists and producers tinker with sonic alchemy, the hip hop genre reinvents itself with every beat.
The innovation isn’t just in the beats; it’s in the very essence of hip hop’s DNA. Genres fuse like chemical reactions, birthing sub-genres that dance on the edge of convention. From trap’s hypnotic cadence to lo-fi’s introspective embrace, each sub-genre is a testament to hip hop’s restless spirit.
Technology fuels this evolution, giving artists tools to craft beats that echo across digital realms. Producers sculpt soundscapes that blend nostalgia with futurism, creating tracks that traverse time and cultures. Autotune, once a divisive tool, now bends and shapes voices into new dimensions, pushing the boundaries of sound and identity.
Lyricism, the backbone of hip hop, also continues to evolve. Rappers craft verses that delve into social justice, mental health, and human experience. The mic becomes a platform for storytellers, poets, and provocateurs, painting narratives that resonate beyond the studio. Verses become manifestos, igniting conversations that spark change.
In the era of streaming and social media, hip hop’s influence amplifies. Songs spark viral dances on TikTok, creating global phenomena overnight. Social platforms become the stage for artists to engage with fans, breaking down the barrier between star and spectator. In this digital age, every beat drop is a cultural event, every album releases a collective experience.
The charts themselves mirror the genre’s evolution. Numbers from Chartmetrics showcase how hip hop’s kaleidoscope of sounds – from drill to alt-rap – dominates the scene. Streams surge, artists rise, and conversations flare across the digital landscape, a testament to hip hop’s evergreen relevance.
So, as the genre embarks on each new sonic voyage, let’s revel in the symphony of evolution. Hip hop isn’t just a genre; it’s a living, breathing entity that thrives on change, resilience, and the magic that happens when a beat hits just right. It’s a revolution of rhythm, an evolution of expression, and a journey that keeps us on our feet, grooving to the unstoppable beat of hip hop’s future.
From Harry Kĩmani to Kwame Rĩgĩi, the Rise and Rise of Kikuyu Soul Music
Kenyan folk fusion artists are crossing the bridge that Harry Kĩmani built, reviving the spirituality and soulfulness of Kikuyu music that had been all but crushed by the dominance of Mũgithi.
To many, Kenyan-born musician and composer Harry Kĩmani’s 2006 hit song Haiya pioneered a sub-genre of Gĩkũyũ popular music that blended African soul with Gĩkũyũ lyrics.
Yet, what Kĩmani did was merely bring back what had for years been taken away from the original Kikuyu soul creators by an era of Mũgithi madness. Haiya built a bridge across a rift in the terrain of Kikuyu music that had appeared in the early 90s as Mũgithi began dominating the Gĩkũyũ music soundscape. Seventeen years later, many have been crisscrossing that bridge.
Haiya has given rise to a growing list of contemporary folk fusion artists who, inspired by Kĩmani’s unique sound, are returning to the soulful side of Kikuyu music by way of samples, renditions and fusions to restore authenticity to Kikuyu popular music.
But, it’s not where Kĩmani’s Haiya left off that has made all the difference – musically, spiritually and culturally; it’s where Kwame Rĩgĩi’s Mwene Nyaga began.
Mwene Nyaga and Retracing Kikuyu Soul Music
When Kenyan contemporary folk musician Kwame Rĩgĩi’s 2017 rendition of Mwene Nyaga (God) – a Mau Mau folk song in the form of a deeply spiritual prayer – went viral following its release on Youtube, it rekindled the embers of a spirituality and soulfulness to Kikuyu music that had for over two decades been reduced to a dying whimper by the onslaught of the Mũgithi genre with its bawdiness and sexual innuendo.
Mwene Nyaga is a song whose words the pre-independence generation knew by heart. The song traces its origins to the heart of the Nyandarua mountain range, sung by the Kenya Land and Freedom Army, also known as the Mau Mau, during the 1952-1960 rebellion. As Rĩgĩi tells me in a telephone interview,
“The song notes were with Gen. Mwariama, they then went through Gakaara wa Wanjau. The songwriters picked up from there, then Maranga wa Gatonye did the first recording. The tune that you hear from his and Kamaru’s version is from the original Mau Mau folk songs.”
Rĩgĩi is knee-deep in preparations for a cultural event to mark the 6th anniversary of Tũrĩ A Mũmbi, a cultural centre he founded in 2017 in Tigoni, Limuru. The celebration will feature only two artists: Rĩgĩi and his musical progenitor Harry Kĩmani.
To many who were hearing his voice for the first time in Mwene Nyaga, and to others like me who had heard him in Aki Wewe, Kwame eerily reminded us of Kĩmani who, by then, had gone on an indefinite hiatus.
“When the song came out, people were shocked, because in their hearts they knew it but not in that way,” says Kwame. He tells me that Mau Mau veterans started reaching out to him. All they wanted was to see him, touch him and give thanks to Mwene Nyaga for his timing and for bringing the voice back to remind them of all that they had not heard in so long. For many of the veterans, that song had brought closure, and with it, peace.
Then there were the Athuri a Kĩama (elders) and other cultural affiliates who, feeling affronted by this 28-year-old, questioned whether he had even been accepted in the of Kikuyu Council of Elders. “Who are you and are you certified to even talk [sing] of our spirituality in such depth? Nĩ ũrutĩĩte mbũri? [Have you undergone the required rites?],” he sighs.
Mwene Nyaga sprung from the depths of despair. For over a decade, Kwame’s soul was a desert wanderer in search of an oasis and he was battling deep disillusionment with his musical gift following some considerable musical success with his hit song Aki Wewe from the 2015 album of the same title; success as a soulful RnB artist had come at great cost to Kwame’s spirit. As he tells it, Kwame kept begging God to reveal Himself to him.
Mwene Nyaga sprung from the depths of despair.
Released in 2009, Mĩhũmũ was Kwame’s first attempt at seeking to find his true self but it turned out to be only a mirage. With the thirst in his soul still unquenched came Haraya in 2011, but this too proved to be yet another mirage. He released Gĩkũyũ in 2014, which he tells me brought him closer to Mwene Nyaga. These songs paved the way for the Tũrĩ A Mũmbi Dream, later to become the Tũrĩ A Mũmbi Experience.
Mwene Nyaga, Kwame tells me, was his search for something greater than his 2014 release Gĩkũyũ. “I had completely decided to seek for a voice to articulate how I felt about my spirituality… Still, I felt it was more of an individual prayer and affirmation. What more can I offer, I kept asking myself.”
It is then that a song that his late father – the fine artist and sculptor Karanja wa Rĩgĩi – used to sing to punctuate his stories about the Mau Mau came back to him. “The essence of the song is a prayer; the song is about their prayers to our God, Mwene Nyaga.”
This is how God finally revealed himself to him. He had found his oasis.
“While I knew that Maranga wa Gatonye was the first to record, when I did my rendition using my own arrangements, it is the late Kamaarũ that I first went and played my version of the song to.”
After a fruitless year of knocking on doors for airplay – “They did not know what this was. No one responded or played it for a whole year.” – Kwame decided to release Mwene Nyaga on YouTube; it was an instant hit.
“The essence of the song is a prayer; the song is about their prayers to our God, Mwene Nyaga.”
Despite the countless turndowns, Kwame tells me, he felt that his work was done. Singing and recording that prayer in the way that he did gave his life meaning and his career a higher purpose. He has felt his conviction in God, his reverence for Him, his self-love and a sense of fulfilment grow.
Mwene Nyaga has since become an intergenerational spiritual anthem and a clarion call for the Gĩkũyũ community. To the older generation, the arrangements give the song a soulful somberness that is not present in the versions of their youth. To those of Kwame’s generation and younger, the song restored pride in their culture and gave them a sense of belonging.
But Kwame has not always sung in Gĩkũyũ.
Harry was passing the baton
Kwame’s musical beginnings are to be found in the PCEA church at Gaitumbĩ, Kanyarĩrĩ, some 15 kilometres from the capital. He was the lead singer in the youth choir where he sang in English and remembers doing cover versions of artists such as Nicole C Mullen and Don Moen. This was back in 2003, he was 16 years old and still in high school.
Kwame mostly sang at events and would experiment with the cover lyrics by translating them into Gĩkũyũ. His singing always received varying reactions and some even discouraged him from singing in Gĩkũyũ, telling him to just stick to English as that is what the youth were known to prefer.
Towards the end of 2004, Kwame recorded Jesus, his first song. The first part was in English, the second in Gĩkũyũ. The song elicited different reactions and unsolicited advice, some of which he tells me was not genuine.
Excited to now be writing his own music and with one song recorded, Rĩgĩi was electrified when he heard Haiya. “All of a sudden, I heard a song I’d never heard before. I hadn’t been there but I instantly recognised what he was doing and I knew how to do it.” He tells me that when heard the first verse, his immediate reaction was shock. “I said ‘Haiya!!’ even before I’d heard the chorus.”
Until he heard Harry’s Haiya, Kwame tells me, he thought that he was the only one to write in that way.
“From that point on, it felt like I was in a relay. It felt like, here was Harry passing the baton; he had raced all the others and had won. So I felt I needed to perform better, run faster and further beyond Harry who had passed his baton to me. From then on, I never sang in English.”
This put him at odds with the church.
“I was very vocal during my youth church days and a champion of Traditional and Folk music as a writer, tutor and Kĩgaamba [musical rattle worn below the knee] player, helping my fellow church mates to win dozens of trophies which to this very day are still on display at the Presbyterian offices in Kanyarĩrĩ.”
“All of a sudden, I heard a song I’d never heard before. I hadn’t been there but I instantly recognised what he was doing and I knew how to do it.”
Despite the certificates and trophies, Kwame was expelled from the church at 21-years-old for being too deep into his language and for what he describes as “bringing back words that were not for ‘church’ music”. But Kwame was unfazed; he had found his path.
“Without him knowing it, Harry gave me the light that I needed. He shone the light in the dark for me to walk. I no longer doubted what it was that I was doing because it had been done.”
Nineteen years later, Kwame has produced three EPs and countless singles, including hits such as Mũnoti, Macegera, Cama Wendo, Malkia and Aki Wewe.
He was the Harry then
When did he first meet Harry Kimani and what was it like, I ask him? “For me, the need to see him wasn’t very big. We were worlds apart as Harry then was in another league of his own.”
But, as fate would have it, while at Lodwar Records in Kileleshwa sometime in 2007, Kwame heard that Harry Kĩmani was coming to the studio. He laughs uproariously as he recalls that moment. “I was excited but kept my cool. Then Kĩmani shows up with these huge shades. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. I never spoke to him. I didn’t even linger. Whatever I had thought, I was not wrong, he was the Harry then.”
A second encounter six years later would mark the genesis of a brotherhood that has lasted to this day. Kwame was rehearsing with his band at a studio in downtown Nairobi when he saw someone walk in.
“He came and sat. Looking closely, I saw this was Harry Kĩmani. I was excited because he was watching us rehearse. Meeting him then was on a level of brotherhood. He told me, he’d heard someone rehearsing and came to see who this was. He stuck around.”
Harry spent the next two hours with Kwame, at one point even giving him advice about how to handle the microphone. “To me, he was a big brother now showing me the ropes. We interacted, spoke about all the things that we knew. From that day, we became friends and have been friends since then.”
In what ways did Harry’s musical style influence Kwame’s, I ask him.
What Harry did was to use the same guitar that Mũgithi popularised as “one-man guitar” to reclaim what had been taken away from the original soulful creators of Kikuyu music. In so doing, he paved the way for Rĩgĩi and many others who have come after him. Harry bridged that gap between his time and the time of Kikuyu benga music, Kwame explains.
The golden era of Kikuyu benga music
Often regarded as the father of central Kenya benga and the king of Kikuyu love songs, it was Daniel Kamau Mwai, alias DK wa Maria, who first used percussions and drums in his music and in the process introduced this new beat to Kikuyu music. This was the mid-60s and Nairobi had become the region’s musical hub. As the home of the region’s first vinyl pressing plant and with mushrooming independent labels and recording studios, pubs and clubs were blasting Congolese Soukous, Jazz, Soul, and benga quite literary hot off the press.
It was in this hub that DK released his first record in 1968. But it was his 1970 smash-hit Mũrata/I Love You with its rumba beat and benga-style climaxing that catapulted him to instant regional fame; DK’s Mũrata became the first Kikuyu pop recording to break into the rigid Luo-Nyanza market. But despite DK’s early success, it is the late Joseph Kamaarũ who would, in time, take the King of Kikuyu benga crown.
What Harry did was to use the same guitar that Mũgithi popularised as “one-man guitar” to reclaim what had been taken away from the original soulful creators of Kikuyu music.
As Megan Iacobini de Fazio writes, “Amid Kenya’s optimistic yet complex post-colonial years, it was [Kamaarũ’s] sobering themes that set him apart. Expressing himself through ambiguous metaphors and Kikuyu proverbs, the young musician sang about sexual harassment, morality, love, and – most strikingly – about politics.”
In explaining why Kamaarũ took the crown, Fazio notes, “[His] unique sound, which merged traditional Kikuyu melodies with the distinctive bass guitar riffs and high-pitched vocals of benga, quickly became popular among the city’s revellers.”
The benga beat dominated the Gĩkũyũ music from the ’60s until the early ’90s when Mũgithi began to dominate the Gĩkũyũ music soundscape.
Post-Mũgithi, a fusion of folk, culture and love sessions
When contemporary Kikuyu folk musician Ayrosh founded Folk Fusion in 2016 – a bimonthly live music concert and cultural event that takes place in Nairobi – he brought full circle a movement that had up to then been thriving online.
Seven years on, what started out as just a niche fun event at a nondescript venue along James Gichuru Road has spawned a cultural movement whose ethos is to bring a generation in search of their heritage to artists like Ayrosh whose music draws from their traditional folk roots (initially, the event only featured Kikuyu artists but it has since grown to incorporate other folk fusion artists from across Kenya) blended with benga, rhumba, neo-soul or R&B.
From Wanjine, Muringi, Mutoriah, Kinandi, Gachago, Mr Mistariful, Ythera, Kuiyu, and Nyawira, this wide range of contemporary Kikuyu Soul musicians is drawing from both their ancestry and their musical forefathers. As for Ayrosh, doing cover versions of popular Kikuyu Benga music has endeared him to an older generation of music fans who then discover his other music at his Folk Fusion events. For Wanjine, videos of his renditions of popular Kikuyu songs on his Tiktok channel were his breakthrough into the Kikuyu music genre.
Despite DK’s early success, it is the late Joseph Kamaarũ who would, in time, take the King of Kikuyu benga crown.
Sampling Kamaarũ’s Ndũmĩrĩri Cia Mihũni (the first song recorded where he is playing the accordion), Mwanake Millenial is a collaborative track by Ayrosh and Mutoriah featuring on Mutoriah’s Dive in album that fuses the authenticity of Kikuyu music – from the lyrics to the instruments – with modern sounds. This is the template that Waithaka Entertainment – the force behind the new crop of Kikuyu soul musicians – has been using to revolutionise Kenya’s music scene. Founded by Kenyan producer Mugo Ng’ang’a, the US-based record label is largely responsible for fashioning this distinct sound and for producing most of the artists in the genre, including Wanjine, Ayrosh and Kwame Rĩgĩi.
Although Waithaka Entertainment helped with his sound quality production, Moses Njoroge is responsible for almost 60 per cent of Kwame’s recorded work. For over 10 years, Moses has been the man producing Kwame’s music, with Waithaka handling the mixing and mastering of the final product.
Considered as uptown
A growing demand for music by this new crop of musicians is upsetting the status quo and does not augur well for many gatekeepers in the Kikuyu media and entertainment industry. Still beholden to the one-man guitar’s winning formula, the stalwarts see Kwame and his ilk as young, rich, starry-eyed uptown types whose music is nothing more than a fad. “Many of us who are going back to our ancestors are not being supported. We are considered uptown, being given gigs in Tigoni.”
Despite a growing market demand for their music, these musicians have struggled to get airplay – not just on the Kikuyu TV and radio stations but across Kenyan media. Kwame tells me that mainstream media wants to appeal to a wider market and “this weird sound”, as they refer to it, needed to be cut off. The Internet and concerts have, therefore, become a lifeline for this crop of musicians and now, thanks to social media, music audio and video streaming platforms and events such as Folk Fusion, they can directly connect with their audience demographic.
Of finding their place in this culture
For a music legend who took the music industry by storm in the aughts, it’s difficult to find Harry Kĩmani’s discography online or on the shelves of the few remaining music stores in Kenya. But Kĩmani is a phoenix.
In a conversation with Thomas Rajula last year, Kĩmani spoke about finding himself again, about his new focus and his first love – music. Even in the midst of his life’s tribulations, Kĩmani’s friendship with Kwame has endured; his vocals can be heard in Kwame’s song Gĩkũyũ for which Kĩmani recorded the harmonies.
A growing demand for music by this new crop of musicians is upsetting the status quo and does not augur well for many gatekeepers in the Kikuyu media and entertainment industry.
And just like Kwame who went in search of meaning for his life after he plunged into the abyss following the success of Aki Wewe, his long road to recovery from addiction and depression led Kĩmani to seek God and, in 2022, he released Hariwe (Return Me To You Lord), a Kikuyu gospel song co-written with Harry Writho.
As we come to the end of our telephone conversation, I ask Rĩgĩi what informed the decision to feature Kĩmani in the upcoming Tũrĩ A Mũmbi anniversary celebrations. “It has taken us 19 years to be on one poster; we will finally see the two share a stage,” he says, adding, “He has been very instrumental to me knowing and finding my place in this culture and the decisions I have made. I feel like he has not received the well-deserved treatment for what he did for us.”
I ask Rĩgĩi if there are any plans for a collaboration, “All things are possible. Not just a collaboration. You never know, we might be doing an album together.”
Botched Boyz II Men Concert: Event Organisers Can Do Better
For holders of regular tickets to one of the year’s most anticipated live music concerts, the event was an unmitigated disaster. However, that Kenyans are willing to fork out over US$60 for quality performances is a welcome surprise for event organisers.
It was a Friday afternoon and Abi was desperate for a ticket. The Boyz II Men concert was happening the following day and tickets had sold out two weeks prior. Someone was selling a regular ticket for US$100 on the Kenyan Twitter timeline. Just weeks before, the same ticket was selling at US$57.
With just hours to one of the year’s most anticipated and most hyped live music concerts, Abi frantically worked her contacts until she found someone who had bought a regular ticket but could not attend. It was going for US$61. She didn’t think twice. These were desperate times.
All she needed to do now was show up at Uhuru Gardens for the time of her life singing along as one of the boy bands of her youth serenaded her with On Bended Knees, Four Seasons and One Sweet Day.
The excitement that had been building for months was palpable, especially for Twitter A & B, the hoi oligoi of Kenyan Twitter. Even as Twitter C & D, the hoi polloi aka watuz made fun of the A & B set – often referred to as “NSSF Twitter” folk (those who joined Twitter circa 2000) and how they would need to carry leg warmers, tea flasks and duvets for a nap between performances – little else was capturing the collective imagination of Kenyans online.
Organised by Stanbic Kenya in partnership with Radio Africa Group and dubbed Stanbic Yetu Festival, the concert was advertised by Sauti Sol, one of Africa’s top boy bands, and by famous media personalities and social media influencers.
Tickets cost up to US$215 for VVIPs and US$108 for VIPs. Within 72 hours of tickets going on sale, all 600 VVIP tickets had sold out. In six days, the 1,200 VIP tickets were gone. Two weeks to the event, the remaining 4,200 regular tickets selling for US$57 also sold out.
Guests who bought tickets were promised luxury and opulence. The event was being curated for affluent high-net-worth individuals and the organisers wanted to give them a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
In spite of many feeling that the tickets were overpriced, Kenyans were willing to spend that much for the experience of a lifetime.
The makings of a Fyre Festival
Instead, those who had bought regular tickets showed up to an event that had all the makings of a Fyre Festival. There were no seats for them, not enough tents – umbrellas went up against the downpour that fell halfway into the concert – and the few mobile toilets provided were not lit, leaving revellers at the mercy of pickpockets in classic Nairobbery style, and later would not flash. Worse, they could only watch the concert on a single screen that kept malfunctioning, prompting intermittent shouts of “Fix the Screen” from the crowd.
For Abi and the other 4,199 revellers who bought regular tickets, the Boyz II Men Kenyan concert was a disaster, an appalling experience of poor sound quality, shoddy event organising and botched logistics.
For the 1,800 VVIP and VIP ticket holders, it’s like they were at a completely separate event. Looking at how demarcated their seating was from shared photos of the layout of the venue, it’s easy to understand their bewilderment at the online bashing that was going on on Twitter days after the event. The VIPs and VVIPs were placed right next to the stage, in front of the media, sound and DJ desk that were also stationed in front of the area reserved for regular ticket holders.
Those who had bought regular tickets showed up to an event that had all the makings of a Fyre Festival.
For the VIPs and the VVIPs, the sound was perfect. They had couches. They had a buffet complete with bottle service. They had all the amenities. They could stretch out and touch Wanya Morris’ feet as he handed them red roses. As far as they are concerned, it was the best damn concert ever!
As for Abi, she could hardly wait to get home. On the night of the event at 2:44 a.m. she tweeted, “I have too much to say about Boyz II Men.” It was the first of a series of tweets in a thread that would go on to capture many of the sentiments shared by those who attended the concert.
Whitney Wanderi, a communications consultant in Nairobi was also in attendance. When she woke up at 12:31 p.m. the following day, she hoped that “that shitshow” by Stanbic and Radio Africa events had been “just a bad dream”. Just like Abi’s, Wanderi’s Twitter rant goes on to describe the hot mess that the concert turned out to be.
For weeks now, the bashing of the event organisers on social media by both those who attended and those who didn’t but are happy to join in the mob lynching has been unrelenting despite statements from both partners and an apology from Radio Africa Events.
Kenyan revellers have seen worse
From insecurity to stampedes to horrible sound to flooded grounds, Kenya has had its fair share of disastrous concerts. “There have been worse concerts in the past in Kenya,” says Dickson Ngunjiri, Director at Dent Group & FOMOTV, a media and event production company. One particularly stands out: In 2004, three young revellers were killed and scores injured in a stampede at the much-publicised Smirnoff Experience party at the Carnivore Gardens.
In 2018, American rapper Desiigner was robbed of his sneakers and undressed by a frantic female fan who pulled down his trousers as he tried to mingle with fans during a concert in Nairobi.
From insecurity to stampedes to horrible sound to flooded grounds, Kenya has had its fair share of disastrous concerts.
In 2019, Jamaican Chris Martin’s event in Nairobi was marred by violence and theft as several intoxicated fans tried to fight their way to the stage to “meet” the artist. The same year, organisers of the HYPE Fest concert that featured Jamaican dancehall star Konshens failed to control the over 10,000 revealers leading to a stampede and runaway theft.
In 2021, Nigerian Adekunle Gold’s concert was tainted by reports of rowdy attendees, theft, sexual violence and claims of harassment and rape.
But it wasn’t always this bad.
The ‘80s and ‘90s were the golden age of live concerts in Kenya. The country was the first stop of any international act’s African tour. Musicians such as Coolio, Lost Boyz, Barry White, and Shabba Ranks all held concerts in Nairobi while at the peak of their careers.
From the 2000s, however, the quality of concerts featuring international acts was on the decline. In an interview with the Nation in 2006, renowned Kenyan promoter DS Njoroge who brought nearly all the big names during the golden years revealed that unprofessional players in the business who “had not even promoted a birthday party” were soiling the reputation of the industry.
Although all these past botched concerts pale in comparison with the Smirnoff Experience which still takes the prize for the most disastrous Kenyan music concert ever, they continue to give the country a bad reputation as a concert destination, with many global music stars shunning Kenya for South Africa, Nigeria, Ghana and Ethiopia.
So why did the vicious bashing of the recent Yetu Festival continue unabated?
“The only reason for the backlash with this recent concert is the fact that the ticket price, which was unprecedented, superseded the value that was delivered. If you tell people to pay X shillings and make promises about the kind of experience they should expect, then you ought to give them the value and experience that matches that. I think the move by the organisers to charge that much coupled with their failure to deliver on their promise is what drew the ire of many,” Dickson explains. “If they had paid less, few would have complained.” He explained that two weeks before the Boyz II Men concert, Jamaican Reggae singer Richie Spice had also held a concert in Nairobi. The quality of the sound at the Richie Spice concert was just as bad yet it did not elicit the same complaints online, he notes.
Dickson has been in the industry for over 23 years now, having started out as the Director of True Blaq Entertainment Group, a company that was founded by the late Kevin Ombajo (Big Kev), and he too has had his fair share of concert disasters.
Kenyans are willing to pay for quality concerts
“It’s just unfortunate what happened,” says Kavutha Mwanzia, a Jazz vocalist and events, entertainment and production consultant. “Nobody sets out to do a bad gig. I genuinely believe that,” she said.
Kavutha was at the helm of MoSound – the force behind the production and organising of the Safaricom International Jazz Festival, an annual event featuring international acts that ran successfully for seven years and that included Jimmy Dludlu, Jonathan Butler, Dianne Reeves, Kirk Whalum and Norman Brown, among others. She, however, declined to give any further comment on the Boyz II Men concert or her own experience running the jazz festival.
Dickson shares Kavutha’s sentiments, “While it is standard practice to always have a production checklist – your bible so to speak – when it rains, it pours.” He was not just speaking figuratively. In 2019, his company was a CapitalFM partner for the 28th Koroga Festival edition held at the Bomas of Kenya grounds. A heavy downpour turned the event into a mudfest on the first day of the two-day event, forcing the organisers to move the Sunday programme to the auditorium.
I also reached out to June Gachui, an IP lawyer and Radio host, musician, MC, event organiser and show producer, seeking to understand the major factors that determine the success or failure of a live music concert.
June has produced events such as Motown in Nairobi, The Heng and The Tribute series among others. She was also one of the curtain raisers for the inaugural Stanbic Yetu Festival in 2022 featuring American Soul RnB artist Anthony Hamilton.
“While it is standard practice to always have a production checklist – your bible so to speak – when it rains, it pours.”
“Think of a concert as an experience. What kind of an experience do you want to give your target audience? That then helps you get the location right, the facilities, e.g. what kind of tents? Do they change the sound of the music?” says June.
As she explains, experience has taught her to always go for partners as opposed taking on service providers. “Have event organisers as partners, that way, they become as accountable and invested in delivering the same experience as you. Cash is king but it’s not everything. I have also learnt that contractual obligations are not enough. However, when your partners’ logos are on that ticket and the audience knows who is providing what, there is more at stake for them as well,” explains June.
Dearth of security and seasoned sound engineers
Security at live music concerts in Kenya has become a mirage; the brightly coloured, luminous yellow jackets are everywhere present. However, when the literal push comes to shove either at the entrance as crowds become impatient, or on the grounds as they surge forward to the main stage, those brightly coloured luminous yellow jackets are nowhere to be seen and the event degenerates into mayhem, runaway theft and stampedes.
Can event organisers ensure safety and security at events? In a 2019 interview with Nation Media Group, George Chege, founder of Blem Entertainment – a Nairobi-based alternative music booking agency – spoke on the need for organisers to invest in adequate security both at entry points and within the crowd. He also emphasised the importance of booking venues that have multiple entry points, that enable organisers to coordinate and to put in place effective crowd control mechanisms, and that have emergency services.
But as June said, at the end of the day, it all boils down to: “Are you working with partners or just some guys you have hired? More often than not, this makes all the difference.” But it often feels like the concertgoer has to choose a struggle: insecurity, lack of standard amenities or bad sound.
A few DJs I spoke to on condition of anonymity said that it had become common practice for some sound production companies and event promoters to just buy gear and hire DJs for all manner of gigs instead of taking on properly qualified sound engineers.
“It’s not enough to just put speakers in front of people at an event,” explains June when I ask about what affects sound quality. “From experience, I have learnt that plastic A-frame tents keep people warm and they are ideal for weddings. However, they are not good for a music concert where you need sound. Understanding the science behind sound and how it moves is the work of a sound engineer.”
Despite the mishaps that have left a bad taste in the mouths of the regular ticket holders who attended the Boyz II Men concert, June and Dickson both agree that it has set a precedent. “Kenyans can and are willing to pay for quality performances,” says June. “When I first heard how much VVIP tickets were going for, I thought, well, maybe about 150 people will show up. Imagine my shock when I saw all 6,000 tickets going for not less than $60 selling out! This event has set a new precedent and we as event organisers are all the happier for it.”
Both Dickson and June believe that despite the uproar, Kenyans will attend the next live music concert featuring an international act. They do, however, agree that organisers can and should do better.
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