This week’s New Music Radar is a thrilling ride through the many moods of Kenyan music—from defiant trap anthems to playful rap experiments, reflective soul cuts to genre-bending surprises. Nazizi reminds us why she’s still the queen with a bold return in Gai Fafa, while Joefes delivers street wisdom with swagger in Balance, Bien and Suldaan start their SAFARI with fans who might just need to grab a delicious Smokie Pasua from Teslah and Bensoul.
SAFARI – Bien ft. Suldaan Seeraar
Bien’s Safari is a slow-burning marvel—rooted in prayer, layered in cultural nuance, and driven by the force of movement. This is more than just a single; it’s the emotional and sonic centerpiece of his solo journey, a declaration of gratitude to the unseen hand that guides us. “Tulianza safari Alhamdullilah, tukaomba tufike Inshallah,” sings Bien in the chorus—a line that hums with spiritual sincerity. It’s a prayer uttered at the threshold of a new chapter, at once deeply personal and universally resonant. “Safari,” which means “journey” in Swahili, takes the age-old metaphor and elevates it through Swahili wisdom, as Bien sings “Ujana ni moshi,” reminding listeners that youth, like smoke, is transient. The verse continues with advice to “punguza ego,” a gentle admonition for humility in the face of life’s grand voyage.
Thematically, the track is built around dualities—plans and disruptions, beginnings and ends, struggle and reward. These opposites are embodied in two alternating lyrical conclusions to a single statement: “Binadamu anapanga…” which is either finished as “…Mungu anaamua” (God decides) or “…shetani anapangua” (the devil dismantles). This dichotomy speaks to the chaos and unpredictability of life, especially poignant when placed against the socio-political backdrop of the Horn of Africa. Here, the journey is not metaphorical alone—millions have embarked on literal safaris across land and sea to flee instability, poverty, or war. Somalia, Suldaan Seeraar’s cultural and emotional touchstone, has had over a decade of relative peace after years of insurgency. Still, the threat of Al-Shabaab looms, and the nation’s rebuilding remains delicate. In such a context, “Safari” isn’t just about life’s personal odyssey—it becomes a diasporic prayer, a hymn of hope for movement not into exile, but toward return.
The music video, directed with care and symbolic density, deepens the storytelling. Bien’s scenes unfold within the hull of a ship—tight, dimly lit, claustrophobic. It’s a setting that conjures up the harrowing image of sea-bound migrants and lonely voyages. Yet it also reflects the inner journey—the emotional weight of carving one’s path while in the spotlight. The tight spaces contrast starkly with Suldaan Seeraar’s scenes, which are brighter and more expansive. Suldaan appears as a figure of accomplishment, one who has completed the passage and now sings from a place of arrival. The juxtaposition is deliberate: Bien sings from the tension of the now, Suldaan from the glow of the afterward.
Musically, Safari is a testament to the porous borders of African sound. While its base is Amapiano—evident in the signature log drums and rolling 808s—it carries unmistakable near-Asian textures. The flutes, soft keyboards, and guitar melodies echo sounds from the Indian Ocean’s historical trade routes, invoking memories of Taarab and Somali pop. These aren’t just sonic flourishes; they are cultural footprints. Centuries of movement between Arabia, the Indian subcontinent, and the Swahili coast have left behind a rich legacy of fusion that Safari channels masterfully. It’s not just modern—it’s ancient and futuristic at once, borrowing from generations of exchange and reinterpretation. These influences also speak to Suldaan’s own roots—born in Ethiopia, raised Somali, now based in the United States, his life and art are themselves a journey.
“Safari” stands as a powerful cultural statement—not just for the artists involved, but for a continent in motion. Bien’s decision to collaborate with Suldaan Seeraar isn’t just a nod to diversity; it’s a radical reimagining of what East African unity could sound like. It challenges the silos of national borders and music markets by threading together Swahili proverbs, Somali melody, Ethiopian soul, and South African rhythm. For Bien, this track becomes a symbolic map of his pan-African ambition, mirrored in his recently announced US tour. For Suldaan, the feature amplifies his mission of cultural preservation and pride. Through his music, he holds space for the Somali diaspora—a community scattered by conflict yet connected through song. The fact that he sings in Somali while the music dips into Amapiano and near-Asian scales is a subtle refusal to be boxed in. For many Somalis around the world, his presence here affirms a new kind of belonging: one that honors the past while leaning into a hopeful, borderless future.
Smokie Pasua – Teslah ft. Bensoul
Teslah and Bensoul’s Smokie Pasua is cheeky, sexy, and unrelentingly Kenyan—a love song steeped in street culture, culinary metaphors, and cultural resistance. On the surface, it’s a flirtatious banger about spicy romance, but beneath the playfulness lies a sharply observed commentary on class, authenticity, and the politics of taste.The song flips a recent controversy into art: KFC Kenya had released an ad campaign mocking the hygiene of the beloved smokie pasua—a sausage-and-salad street snack that costs KES 100—while pushing their sanitized, upmarket version priced nearly seven times higher. It was a tone-deaf move that sparked online backlash, especially in a country where smokie pasua is more than just food—it’s a social ritual. Smokie Pasua, the song, becomes a satirical rebuttal, using this icon of Nairobi street life as both metaphor and motif.
From the opening line—Teslah’s flirty “Lazima unipitie time ya kuenda home”—we’re plunged into a double entendre-laced world where desire is street-sold, spicy, and irresistible. Teslah, signed to Black Market Records and known for her work in Gengetone, channels a mix of innocence and provocation. Her chorus, “anapenda spicy spicy / kachumbari laini,” is as much about flavour as it is about romantic chemistry. The repetition of “Smokie Pasua!” at the end of every choral line evokes Swahili ngonjera and Gengetone call-and-response, grounding the song in East African oral tradition while keeping it club-ready. Then enters Sudah—smooth yet raunchy, confident in his delivery. “Naeza kukunja kamasmocha, feel you up with all the nice things” is classic Bensoul: sensual, clever, and tinged with humour. His now signature line, “feeding you is my love language,” connects food and affection, the two conceptual pillars of the jam. His tone—teasing, slightly grimy—complements Teslah’s smooth, spicy vocals perfectly. Their interaction in the bridge, again styled like a musical ngonjera duel, resolves the tension into a shared promise.
Vic West proves once again that he’s the undisputed architect of contemporary Nairobi bangers. Known for synthezing Gengetone’s street-edge with the smoothness of Afropop, he keeps the production minimal but textured. A steady keyboard melody floats over soft R&B-style 808s, with slow, heavy drum kicks that anchor the groove. High-pitched piano chords hit at the end of each loop, giving the track bounce and breathing space. It’s Gengetone at its most refined: gritty but smooth, raw but layered. No wonder his production credits run across hits by Brandy Maina, Savara, and the wider Black Market Records crew.
Smokie Pasua is a definite club banger—especially in those spots where nyama choma meets loud speakers and cheap beer. It’s also a strong radio contender for morning or mid-day drive-time: upbeat enough to lift energy, cheeky enough to spark conversation. But perhaps more than anything, it speaks to something deeper: a defense of local culture. In a moment when multinational brands attempt to define value through pricing and sanitized imagery, Teslah and Bensoul lean into what the streets already know—real flavour, like real love, isn’t polished, it’s earned.
Gai Fafa – Nazizi
Nazizi returns to the mic with Gai Fafa, a playful, defiant, and refreshing track that draws from Kenyan childhood nostalgia, alternative hip hop, and her own storied legacy in the industry. Known as the First Lady of Kenyan hip hop, Nazizi made her name alongside Wyre in Necessary Noize, the duo that helped define the Nairobi sound in the late ’90s and early 2000s. While she may have stepped back from the constant recording cycle, this release proves her voice is still relevant, sharp, and evolving.
Produced in a style that recalls the grungy, garage-rap era more commonly associated with Stella Mwangi—another veteran femcee—Gai Fafa rides on a fast BPM beat layered with heavy, loud drums and a signature chopped-and-screwed vocal echo motif. The result is a track that’s both hyper and nostalgic. The echoing of lines and bouncy rhythm create the atmosphere of a street corner cipher mixed with a late-night basement party. While this sound might seem youthful or foreign to fans of classic Nazizi, she adapts it with surprising ease—infusing her dancehall cadence from the Necessary Noize era to create something that feels simultaneously fresh and familiar.
Lyrically, the song is split into two distinct but connected parts. The chorus leans into playful, familiar lingo like “mama ita baba,” pulling from common Kenyan childhood games and chants. This sets a tone of mischief and energy, but also signals a deeper sense of cultural rooting—Nazizi is still very much drawing from her Nairobi experience. The first verse is confrontational yet fun, as she proclaims: “Mi leo nataka kudance tu, sitaki shida na mtu.” Here, Nazizi takes the stance of a dancefloor general—commanding attention and issuing playful warnings. Lines like “listen to the teacher” are braggadocious, yes, but also nod to her pioneering role in the industry. There’s a clear subtext: she’s still here, and still showing how it’s done.The second verse flips the tone. While still rhythmic and energetic, it softens into flirtation and bodily play—waist movement, contact dancing, a lover’s invitation. This shift feels like a deliberate contrast: the first persona is the fierce legacy holder, the second is the sensual performer letting go. The duality reflects a maturing artist who can hold space for both confrontation and invitation, power and play.
From a cultural perspective, Gai Fafa is significant. Not only does it mark a rare release from one of Kenya’s most respected hip hop veterans, but it also shows Nazizi embracing and legitimizing a sound that is neither mainstream nor traditionally hers. This experimentation—especially with a garage-influenced, high-BPM style that leans teenage and chaotic—signals openness. It’s a powerful gesture to the younger generation: this is what legacy looks like when it’s not afraid to evolve.Even more exciting is how this track echoes the energy and style of Stella Mwangi—a subtle nod to another queen of Kenyan rap who pushed boundaries in the 2010s.
Balance – Joefes
Joefes, known for his lyrical dexterity and relentless consistency since the informal pause of Mbuzi Gang’s trio releases, delivers a sobering yet uplifting solo effort in Balance. In a music landscape often obsessed with bravado and one-upmanship, Balance stands out as a trap-infused hustle anthem that blends self-awareness, vulnerability, and vision.
Balance paints the picture of a young man navigating economic hardship, societal expectations, and internal battles while trying to stay afloat—and shine. The opening line is a question, “Youth man anashine unajam my guy, wangapi walidhani tutafail baadaye?” that not only establishes the exposition of the song narrativebut also its emotional core: defiance against doubt and celebration of perseverance. The coming-of-age reflection wrapped in streetwise poetry story is very personal as it is told in a confessional tone.
Throughout the first verse, Joefes balances swagger with sincerity. He briefly addresses addiction—a quiet nod to the silent struggles of young men—“kijana yuko gode why”—before asserting his influence and giving a clever shoutout to pop duo Vijana Barubaru with the double entendre: “vijana baru wanapenda my vibe.” Here, Joefes manages to praise his craft, acknowledge his peers, and hint at his place in the Kenyan music ecosystem.The chorus serves as a rallying cry, an ode to every young man pushing through hardship: “Balance” becomes both mantra and medicine. It’s not just about juggling life’s many demands—it’s about staying grounded, focused, and motivated.The second verse mirrors the narrative rhythm of the first but shifts the lens toward music industry politics. With lines like “Blogger anadhani utafail baadaye… pale YouTube anajifanya mode”, Joefes critiques the ecosystem of clout, trolling, and premature judgment that shadows young artists. Yet, rather than lingering in bitterness, he offers resolution: “Youth man me ni mnoma me mfine, table kubwa Sisi wote tuta-dine.” This is no ordinary flex—it’s a declaration of abundance, an invitation to collective success. He flips the typical rap script: instead of glorifying individual dominance, he champions collaborative uplift.
The production, handled by Clamour under Black Market Records, supports this emotional duality beautifully. The track rides on soft, Latin-inspired guitar loops overlaid with trap drums and 808s, giving the song a laid-back but persistent drive. It’s melodic and meditative but also carries the weight of lived experience. The occasional gengetone-inspired beat switches offer a sonic nod to Joefes’ roots while carving out space for his solo voice. As Mbuzi Gang fans await a full group comeback, Balance is a reminder of Joefes’ evolution. His push for community over clout and strategy over ego signals a shift not just in his personal journey, but in the ethos of Kenyan rap. It’s rare to hear such clarity wrapped in such an easy groove. But maybe that’s the whole point—balance.
Written by Otieno Arudo
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