New Music on the Radar AUG 8 (Maandy, Savara, 8th Street Gang and Harry Craze)

Welcome to the August 8th edition, where the week’s playlist feels like a sonic kaleidoscope. 8SG return with a modern concerto that stitches together traditions centuries apart yet united by the same percussive heartbeat — a rallying cry for their self-declared mission to breathe fresh fire into Kenyan drill. Maandy, meanwhile, turns the mirror inward with a dose of uncharacteristic introspection, proving even the baddest can have soft shadows. On the pitch, football has come home, or at least to East Africa, with Kenya’s Harambee Stars kicking off their CHAN campaign rather satisfingly: a win over DR Congo and a draw against Angola setting the tone. And then there’s Harry Craze, whose folksy wisdom, draped in the warm textures of a Canvas Records production, adds another feather to the label’s cap — the same nest where an increasing number of gengetone acts now roost.

Maandy – Njia

Maandy takes an unexpected turn in Njia, dropping the playful, high-energy party girl persona that has defined her place in female Abarntone and leaning into a vulnerable, introspective side. From the first verse, she sets the tone with an unflinching openness about her emotional weight — “Roho nzito, na uchungu kilo kama 50/ overthinkers wanaelewa na maanisha nini” — letting listeners know this is as much about catharsis as it is about rhyme. Her pen becomes therapy, and she admits as much: “Ngoja nipange words nitulize akili/ vile nafeel nikiandika verse huwezi amini.” The verse wanders between personal philosophy and grounded priorities — “Napenda nganya but dream ki rangie/ lakini cha muhimu ni mokoro aishi fiti,” delivered with a maturity that acknowledges life’s slow pace: “kila kitu hutake time, but say vitu nachase ni kama haishikiki.”

Faith emerges as a quiet anchor in the track, culminating in a chorus that is essentially a prayer: “Mungu baba ni wewe nalilia” and the title line, “tuma pin na nitafuata njia / Kuna watu wanataka kunimaliza.” Here, Maandy’s voice softens, carrying the kind of spiritual vulnerability rarely heard in her discography. The second verse keeps the reflective current alive, opening with, “Wengine wetu hatuwezi bonga juu ya penye tumetoka / fraction ya pain na success ni improper,”before tipping her hat to the blessings she’s gathered along the way: “si complain sana nimeomoka na hii mboka / anxiety zimeniround kama blade za ki-chopper.” It’s in this verse she offers one of her most personal admissions yet, “Wali switch up iko sawa, bora nilijiokoa… nilisurvive juu ya Vanessa,” hinting at deep personal loss without breaking into full explanation. By the close, she’s offering resilience in quotables: “haijalishi ni mara ngapi umeanguka” even slipping in humor about “plate ngapi zimebondeka”  making Njia feel equal parts diary entry and pep talk.

The production matches the mood with a Latin-style cello motif softened by electric guitar, giving the track a calm, almost meditative pulse. A secondary synthesizer melody quietly fills the space, while the percussion shifts between light trap 808s in transitions and wider, spaced-out R&B drums to close out phrases. It’s an arrangement that allows Maandy’s voice to sit front and center without the beat competing for attention.

Njia marks a refreshing pivot for Kabaya , whose ghetto-bad-girl archetype was cemented in hits like Dem Mauru, an unapologetic anthem of Nairobi womanhood with infectious hooks and club-ready punchlines. That she can pull off something this reflective without losing her edge shows a versatility that fans and DJs alike can celebrate. It’s not just a one-off mood shift; the song’s depth hints at a possible project brewing, one that could push her brand of Abarntone into uncharted emotional territory. For a figure so associated with heat and hype, Njia proves she can command just as much attention with quiet strength.

PAMOJA – Savara, Phina and Elijah Kitaka

Some songs feel as if they are stitched from the very fabric of the moment they are meant to serve, and Pamoja is one such anthem. Rooted in the celebratory air surrounding the 2025 African Nations Championship (CHAN), co-hosted by Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania, its message extends well beyond football. From the first unifying chant of “forever we are winners” to Elijah Kitaka’s closing baritone swell, the song radiates an almost ceremonial warmth. Phina opens with a joyful declaration, “Ni furaha ni sharehe, ushindi ni wetu sote…magumu tuliyapitia wote”, pulling listeners into a shared victory that is as much about overcoming struggles as it is about scoring goals. Her repeated call “it’s our time”deliberately echoes the kind of continent-wide pride that once reverberated in Shakira’s World Cup rallying cry (its time for Africa), but now with a distinctly East African pulse.

Savara, ever the craftsman in both song and spirit, steps in with a bridge—“inasambaa mechi ina samba (vuyanzi)”—that flows into a joint declaration with Phina, before passing the baton to Elijah Kitaka. Kitaka’s entrance is textured with Luganda affirmations—“ndi munyenye, ndi w’aamanyi”—before he soars into the song’s thematic apex: “I am freedom, I am love, I am a warrior, I am hope / I’m the sun shining bright, I’m a winner winner winner.” This interplay between three distinct voices—Kenyan, Tanzanian, Ugandan—becomes the sonic embodiment of the word pamoja itself: together. The production mirrors this spirit, blending Afropop with deep roots in traditional East African rhythms—Isukuti drums, Swahili coastal Chakacha swirls, and Ugandan percussive patterns—arranged into a bright, percussive tapestry by Savara alongside collaborators Humpfrey Ngonidzaishe Domboka, Joseck Asikoye, and the Anyore Roots Band. It is the sound of nations shaking hands through melody.

But Pamoja is not simply a song; it is a cultural statement draped in harmony and drumming skin. In aligning its release with CAF’s broader Pamoja campaign, it becomes a tool of football diplomacy, seeking to turn stadium chants into regional solidarity. This is music engineered to make a flag wave in the mind, to bind fans beyond borders. For Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania, it frames CHAN 2025 as not just a tournament but a symbolic coronation of East African unity, an audible reminder that sport and song together can be powerful architects of shared destiny.

 How Many – 8th Street Gang

How Many is an unapologetic war cry from Kibera’s own 8th Street Gang, delivered over one of the boldest production experiments in Kenyan drill yet. Producer Alekk_y takes a commercial sample of a Baroque-era violin concerto and folds it into the hard-edged architecture of modern drill. The result is a surreal dialogue between centuries — the shrill, dark lead violin conversing with lighter string counterparts, while trap 808s and fast BPMs lace the backdrop. It’s a concerto within a concerto, the elegance of the 17th century clashing and merging with the street’s restless pulse. What might seem like a random synthesis makes perfect sense in execution: both Baroque compositions and drill beats have an internalised logic for portraying darkness, tension, and the grit of the human condition, making them natural allies in telling stories that are beautiful and discomforting at once.

Bruce opens the track with the rhetorical chorus — “How many times wanataka hii smoke wanabonga juu ya crown na ni wannabees? / How many times wanataka niskimm na style wanapiga ni parody? / How many times wamekuwa cwaki btech very soon tunaazisha anarchy?”* — a direct statement of intent for drill purists. In his verse, he wastes no time firing shots at ghostwriting rappers who still can’t deliver, “waniseti na brain nichore verse ndio nisell / Na destination za main / usibehave kama saint, me sirelate na fails.” The anarchist motif runs deep, as he likens himself to football star Bukayo Saka and comic-book villains: “I’m the one MVP on the pitch juu na-ball kama Saka / Na flame ni eternal hizi streets huwanga flacca / Joka Jok mi ndio Joker.” Even in defending drill from stereotypes of criminality, he gets literary: “me si thief usini-cross juu nabonga latin, / juu Niko na mask kama Oliver Quinn” — a nod to DC’s Arrow — before doubling down on his no-compromise stance: “aim straight siwezi lean juu hii purple ina fizz.”

Emmanuel’s verse keeps the heat high, mocking broke rappers who resort to petty crime: “wako njaa wana choke, wanadishi matawi / si tuko njaa hatutishwi tunangoja wabaki.” He too invokes crucifixion imagery, “kama Jesus one man me sinanga ma cousins / si walikulwa wakafuse hawananga makazi,” before delivering a razor-sharp triple entendre on “baba”: “alinitusi na ni orphan, tulimtuma kwa baba / clean shave na mwishowe hatukumwacha na alama.” His closing bars cut through threats and backstabbers — “Nasharpen panga ndio hao ma snakes niwakate nao / Sina mtoi but kwa lap me ndio baba lao” — while dismissing the idea of working for exposure: “Chorea exposure, money first / nahepa msoto kama flash.” The finale, comparing idle threats to over-the-top Bollywood stunts, drives home the track’s mix of menace and mockery.

8th Street Gang (or 8SG) have carved out a space in Nairobi’s drill scene by blending raw energy with pointed lyricism. Affiliated with Kazi ya Kazi alongside acts like Buruklyn Boyz and Big Yasa, they carry the street-coded authenticity of the early Kenyan drill wave, while refusing to stagnate in formula. The weight of their latest drop lies in its proof-of-concept: that drill can evolve without losing its teeth. At a time when the subgenre’s edge has been dulled by crossover experiments (from drill-rhumba hybrids to gospel adaptations) and overused beat templates, 8SG’s baroque-drill fusion feels like a much-needed jolt. It’s a reminder that innovation doesn’t mean dilution — a lesson for any street-rooted genre in danger of going stale. Their discography may be lean, but How Many positions them as torchbearers for a sound that has lost some of its pandemic-era buzz yet still commands loyalty from its core fans. Whether it lands on a hustle playlist, a pure drill rotation, or even a high-energy workout mix, How Many keeps the fire burning where it matters most: in the streets and in the craft.

Kujitakia – Harry Craze

In Kujitakia, Harry Craze takes the Swahili proverb mwiba wa kujidunga hauna kilio and spins it into a club-ready lesson in personal responsibility. The hook  “vitu zingine ni za kujitakia mbona unajam?” is deceptively simple, but it’s the perfect anchor for verses that blend folk wisdom, sharp humor, and social commentary. On substance abuse, he’s quick to call out reckless indulgence: “Una changanya vodo, whiskey na rum / alafu kesho unalia ukona hang[over]” before firing rhetorical jabs like “Una sunda cheng na hujawai tumia? / Vela hujawai vuta na unaiskizia?” The same wit runs through his takes on love and romance, whether warning against chasing unrequited affection, “Manzi hakudai bado umemchizia / alafu akikuwacha we ndio unaanza kulia”  or snooping through your partner’s phone: “tenje ya mtu wako we wachana nayo / ukijifanya DCI we ni kurutu bado.”

The second verse keeps the energy high while slipping in cautionary notes. He advises men to stay loyal and alert in nightlife settings: “kuchotana kwa club ati unechoka na madam / mchele yako safi huwezi ina ukikam”  referencing the “mchele” drugging scam. Then he pivots to financial literacy with a sly roast of celebrities who overspend and later beg for bailouts: “Unazoza sana kwa mneti / magari za loan, ziko kwa benki / mzinga ni don na mahenny / Na ukisota unatupea number ya paybill.” It’s a string of relatable warnings, dressed up in dancefloor bounce and streetwise delivery.

Brim of Canvas Records crafts the perfect backdrop founded upon bright, synthetic keyboard stabs intertwined with digital horn flourishes, looping into cycles with that familiar gengetone swing. The light trap 808s are used sparingly but strategically, keeping the track from tipping into noise while allowing Harry’s punchlines to land clean. Mixing and mastering choices with louder choruses, quieter verses, and the well-timed elongated drum hits keep the message clear without sacrificing party appeal.

Harry Craze’s raspy, laid-back cadence remains his superpower, cutting through hype-heavy gengetone beats with unforced swagger. Known for club bangers and scene-defining collaborations with Canvas Records affiliates like Fathermoh, Joefes, and Ssaru, he’s mastered the art of fitting street wisdom into infectious anthems. The cultural significance of Kujitakia also lies in its continuation of the East African “advice song” tradition — a lineage running from the witty storytelling of Mejja to the rapid-fire social critiques of Tanzanian singeli. Where such tracks can easily slip into preachiness, Harry sidesteps the trap by balancing humor, danceable production, and pithy observations. It’s proof that a track can make you laugh, think, and move all at once.

Written by Otieno Arudo