New Music on the Radar JUL 4(Ochiko & Mbithi, Mnaya, MASTAR VK and Wakadinali)

Welcome to the July 4 edition of our music deep-dive, where we explore the beats, bars, and brilliance defining Kenya’s ever-evolving soundscape. From fearless street anthems to introspective protest psalms, this week’s selections remind us why Kenyan music remains both a mirror and a megaphone for society. Whether it’s Wakadinali’s sharp urban commentary, Mnaya’s spiritual defiance, or the playful yet defiant wordplay of MASTAR VK and Toxic Lyrikali, these songs push the boundaries of genre and storytelling. Let’s dive into each track and unpack the lyrical layers and cultural ripples they’re sending through the streets and beyond.

Mama Milka by Ochiko & Mbithi

Mama Milka finds Ochiko and Mbithi at their most daring and playful yet deeply introspective, weaving a rich tapestry of themes against an unexpected sonic backdrop. The song opens with Ochiko’s stirring lines, “And we’re made of more and now you better know/we walk through fire now we’re more than gold,” setting the tone for a piece that refuses to be one-dimensional. While the prelude suggests a soul-soothing ballad—enhanced by a lone acoustic guitar—the track quickly pivots, bursting into a lively amapiano beat courtesy of German producer Jopee. This subversion of expectation becomes a metaphor for the journey the song takes: from personal resilience to collective uprising.

Mbithi jumps in with a bravado-laced verse, twisting everyday hustles and political jabs into poetic punches. His line, “hater anakatwa na wembe/ dictator ananyongwa na sembe,” deftly merges the street’s raw talk with national frustrations, a technique that reveals his mastery in flipping between serious commentary and playful barbs. The interplay between the artists resembles a ngonjera—an East African poetic exchange—giving the track a communal, performative feel. The repeated chants, “Mama Milka/Milka Bonyo/Bonyo Waru, Waru Simsim/ Simsim Njugu,” not only draw from childhood rhymes but also transform into a rallying cry, creating a hypnotic rhythm that refuses to leave your mind.

Ochiko’s second verse pushes the narrative of resilience further, “asubuhi oyawore, mayowe kwa wingi/ Vijana wamejikaza wanavuruta kamba,” echoing the current Kenyan youth’s steadfast fight against economic and political hardships. Mbithi imagines a “new age,” seeing hope in the crowds marching in protest, warning power-hungry leaders that “King is naked and running, the villagers hungry and coming.” These vivid images of exposure and uprising build into a climactic vision of transformation.

On the production side, Jopee’s genius lies in allowing moments to breathe. The minimalist sections, particularly under Mbithi’s meditative bars about a “new season,” highlight the song’s reflective core. Layered vocals, tension-building drops, and reverb effects push the emotional charge without drowning the message. The beat transitions, from gentle acoustic plucks to chest-thumping amapiano basslines, mirror the lyrical journey from introspection to collective celebration. Culturally, Mama Milka resonates beyond just catchy hooks and dance-ready beats. As young Kenyans take to the streets demanding better governance and accountability, this song becomes both a soundtrack and a salve. It reminds listeners that resilience is not merely about survival but about shaping a future worth living for. Moreover, it demonstrates the fluidity and courage of Kenyan music today—where a soulful singer like Ochiko and a genre-melding rapper like Mbithi can merge seamlessly on an amapiano track helmed by a German producer. In Mama Milka, the dance floor and the picket line meet, proving that protest and joy can, and perhaps must coexist.

Chanua Ma Namble — MASTAR VK featuring Toxic Lyrikali

Chanua Ma Namble is a charged manifesto from MASTAR VK and Toxic Lyrikali that lays bare the codes of respect and authenticity in Kenya’s rap scene. Opening with “Wanacopy kila kitu si hufanya kama ka tailor/ wanapiga maji Wana float kama sailors,” MASTAR VK sets the stage by calling out “ma namble”  a term for the uninspired, the fake, the trend chasers that is derived from the older sheng word mbleina. By the time he lands the line, “hawa ma namble tunawawachia tremor,” it’s clear he has no patience for anyone who isn’t genuine. The chorus, “chanua ma namble,” echoes like a street sermon, transforming the song into an aggressive schooling session for those lacking vision and drive.

Toxic Lyrikali enters with his signature humor, painting a scene where he can enjoy lavish rides with beautiful women but still lick the plate clean — a raw yet relatable nod to his hustler mentality. Lines like, “ka Diana me sitegemei bahati/no lucks just works, si unajua mziki ndio kazi,” double as wordplay and life philosophy, stressing self-reliance over luck. His verse cleverly warns about the dangers of pride and the violent metaphors emphasize the rough edges of street life: “namble before tumchanue alambe surface,” and euphemistically  references gunshot sounds ,“kelele za popcorn huku mtaa.” In the final verse, MASTAR VK’s flex is unmistakable, turning personal boasts into cultural shots that touch on mainstream rappers, among them Breeder LW: “Me nadiss hao ma Big Baba mimi ndio nawalea/tuko biz, hii ni big banger me nakuchezeshea.” His melodic bridge feels like a royal decree, underlining Mboka Doba’s dominance in the rap game with lines like, “risky na niko at the top, haufiki/ chanua huyo namble chomoa kabambe/sumbua nakuja na panga kuwapanga”

The production, crafted by Beat Kidd & Jojay Bless, is a thunderous orchestral hip hop tapestry. A leading violin leads an ensemble of wind instruments, producing an imposing, almost baroque soundscape that mirrors the grandiosity of the rappers’ claims. The melodic structure evokes the spirit of Beethoven or Mozart, yet the trap 808s and heavy drum patterns ground it firmly in Nairobi’s streets. This collision of classical and hip hop sensibilities feels like a defiant statement, a bold crown atop the heads of these rappers claiming to be cultural royalty.

Culturally, the joint is a bold reinforcement of the current rap pecking order in Kenya. The orchestral elements are a knowing nod to the global trap wave of the 2010s, where artists like Migos, Young Thug and Travis Scott embraced these textures to embody power and finesse. By fusing this with distinctly Kenyan sheng and swagger, the track asserts a new wave of local rap dominance. While MASTAR VK has always enjoyed respect among hardcore hip hop fans, this track is a crucial showcase of his role as a kingmaker, particularly in boosting Toxic Lyrikali, the breakout star from Kayole whose raw energy has made him impossible to ignore. Together, they don’t just chant “chanua ma namble,” they force a cultural awakening, making this song a fiery chapter in the ongoing story of Nairobi’s streets and the restless, rising creative spirit pulsing within them.

Fear No Evil — Mnaya

Fear No Evil is not just a song rather a visceral cry from the heart of Nairobi’s restless streets, where protest and prayer walk side by side. Mnaya, hailing from Eastlands and shaped by early loss and musical exposure, stands as the vessel of this message. The line “Wanadai kuni mur… wana shoot to kill” repeats like a haunted chant throughout the track, capturing the chilling reality that has become a daily threat for Kenya’s youth. By borrowing “I will fear no evil” from Psalm 23, Mnaya weaponizes spiritual language into an anthem of fearless resistance. These words, traditionally a comfort in grief, here become a battle cry against a corrupt system and its violent apparatus.

The production, handled by longtime collaborator Zenny Beats, is deliberately restrained compared to mainstream amapiano bangers. A soft keyboard melody carries the spine of the instrumental, while airy synth flutes drift through, echoing the ghostly presence of lost friends and unseen dangers. Trap 808s appear in tight, sporadic bursts, amplifying tension rather than urging dance-floor euphoria. Zenny Beats’ masterful layering of street sounds — sampled chants, news reports, echoing sirens — places the listener both in a studio and amid teargas-filled demonstrations. This duality makes Fear No Evil immersive and unsettling, yet strangely comforting in its unwavering courage.

Mnaya weaves economic hardship into the narrative, lines like “Harakati za ku saka bread / Napatana na blue Boys eh” and “Mimi ndio muscle shift ya leo ni double” laying bare a life where hustling for basic needs coexists with the fear of never returning home. He attacks the political class unapologetically: “Ma leaders wa corrupt / Vitambi zina burst,” painting images of bloated power and empty stomachs. Through code-switching between English, Swahili, and Sheng, he mirrors the real Nairobi — fluid, unpredictable, yet deeply interconnected.

Fear No Evil arrives at a time when Kenya’s youth are rewriting the country’s political script through unyielding street protests. By using a hybrid of gospel defiance and raw street poetics, Mnaya taps into a long tradition of protest music while pushing its sonic possibilities. His choice to mellow an amapiano beat into a reflective tapestry rather than an outright party tune underlines the seriousness of his message — that protest can be both a spiritual and a communal act. In Fear No Evil, Mnaya becomes the griot of Nairobi’s new resistance: part psalmist, part hustler, fully fearless. This is a song meant to echo in the streets long after the tear gas clears, a sonic monument to a generation that refuses to bow.

Mjanja wa Mjini — Wakadinali

Mjanja wa Mjini is Wakadinali at their most cunning and self-reflective, a sharp-edged exploration of urban survival that pulses with both humor and hard truths. Off their latest mixtape, Victims of Madness 2.0, the song cleverly redefines what it means to be a “trickster” in Nairobi’s labyrinthine hustle culture. Sewersydaa, who many know as a fierce drill artist, surprises with a masterful verse on a trap instrumental, drawing from the fable of the country mouse and the town mouse. He sets up vivid juxtapositions like “pizza huwanga tamu but matoke ni potent” and the Swahili proverb “unajua jogoo ya mashamba huwa haiwiki mjini,” highlighting the contrasts between rural innocence and urban sharpness. When he raps, “huku ukislumber unaeza itwa mwizi/ especially ka huna kazi na unakaa tu fiti,” he speaks to a common fear among Nairobi youth ,being criminalized simply for existing.

Another instance of juxtaposition, occurs when he highlights the choices made by individuals in their environment :”no jobs huku mtaa, tukiaingia mziki/ no dough, maarif wetu vwaakaamua Ni upini/nyongolo kwa street kila Maja amechimney/Sema scene ya pili kupatana na kipindi/ oh no amepatana na mjanja wa mjini“.. The song’s concluding line, “oh no amepatana na mjanja wa mjini“, reinforces the Swahili proverb “Pwagu hupata Pwaguzi“ ,serving as a proverbial warning against engaging in criminal activities. This nuanced portrayal actively challenges the misperception that Wakadinali’s music promotes crime, instead offering a realistic and critical perspective on the consequences of such choices.

Domani Munga kicks off the song with his trademark wry humor, wrestling with street machismo and the pressures of being seen as invincible. His rhetorical jab, “Ushai darwa kifo cha mende na uko ma unenge,” merges dark street realities with sexual misadventures, painting a chaotic portrait of life in the city. Scar’s verse, meanwhile, is a confessional balancing act of loyalty, greed, and restless ambition. He apologizes to his circle, “Roho ikona nyinyi aki niko biz,” but quickly defends his choices, explaining that money “ilifanyanga wasinihoji,” and “wife ashinde akini-forgive.” Scar also adds his cocky  braggadocio to flavor his verse, bragging about his spending habits,” kijana mjini anytime me hujam mukwanja hudingli” as well as his car,”hawawezi kunipata nina demio denge ndio guzzler ” before finishing his verse by declaring that the trickster habits are routine for “just another day of a hustler,”. The production by Nelson Koranje and Kaiser Onyango is a triumph in subtle menace. A Latin-style guitar forms the backbone, shifting from a slow, sinister melody during the chorus to a faster, more aggressive pattern in the verses. The high-pitched keyboard lines drift in and out like a teasing spirit, underscoring the uncertainty that shadows every move in the city. Trap 808s fuse with R&B drumming, creating a hybrid sound that mirrors the artists’ shifting personas — part poet, part street legend. This pivot to trap after their pioneering drill sound is emblematic of the mixtape’s restless energy, signaling Wakadinali’s refusal to be boxed in.

This Mixtape song lands as a potent reminder of Wakadinali’s mastery over both storytelling and street philosophy. The chorus chant, “Uliza hio Jina, I go by the name,” is a sly reference to Domani Munga’s alter ego, Yujiro, a nod that keeps fans guessing about his next artistic evolution. This album arrives at a time when Kenyan hip hop fans crave substantial projects — with only a few big albums from Kahu$h, 4MrFrankWhite, and Khaligraph Jones In the end, Mjanja wa Mjini isn’t just a street anthem; it’s a cunning reflection on the fragile art of survival in Nairobi, told by the city’s most street worthy narrators.

Written by Otieno Arudo