New Kenyan Music on the Radar OCT 10, 2025

As the nation takes a reflective pause on Mazingira Day—a moment to meditate on balance, renewal, and our place in the ecosystem of life—Kenyan artists have responded with music that mirrors the same introspection. From Khaligraph Jones peeling back layers of bravado to reveal a rare vulnerability as he publicly speaks on Sagini for the first time, to Wameyo continuing his steady rebellion against genre boundaries with unflinching precision, the week’s releases feel like a sonic map of emotional and cultural landscapes. Ndovu Kuu ushers in a daring new era marked by sharper edges and renewed intent, while Garvin Mungai’s Ache celebrates the buoyancy of Swahili rhythm and communal joy. Together, these songs sketch the rhythms of a generation in flux—artists reckoning with identity, loss, love, and self-awareness in ways that feel as restorative and disruptive as the spirit of Mazingira itself.

Hamwezi Nikataa – Ndovu Kuu

In Hamwezi Nikataa, Ndovu Kuu presents a psalm of victory and prophecy—a declaration of divine favour and unstoppable purpose. Translating to “you cannot refuse me,” the title itself sets the tone for a song steeped in faith and defiance. The opening chorus anchors the theme with reverence and conviction: “Hamwezi Nikataa, Hamwezi try / Juu ni Mola aliniweka juu walae.” The rapper’s voice carries the weight of gratitude as much as it does of triumph, positioning his success not as mere luck but as the unfolding of destiny. Biblical imagery flows throughout: “Hamwezi zima taa, Hamwezi try” recalls the parable of the light on the hill, a declaration that no one can dim what is meant to shine.

The second verse takes on a more reflective tone, revisiting the hardships that have shaped Ndovu’s journey—his own exodus narrative. “Siwezi choka mimi Misri sirudi / Mi sirisk kurudi” is both personal and collective, a line that encapsulates the artist’s refusal to regress despite struggle. The prophetic tone deepens in “Ilikuwa imeandikwa, hizo ganji utalipwa…”, where he assures both himself and his listeners that what is written will come to pass. The bridge shifts the gaze outward, becoming an anthem of self-belief and patriotism—“Waving that Kenyan Flag so high, got nothing to lose you better try, Ilibidi nijitambue, nijielewe, nijiamini.” In these lines, Ndovu transforms from narrator to motivator, fusing spirituality with national pride.

The production of Hamwezi Nikataa mirrors this spiritual momentum. Recorded, mixed, and mastered at Ndovu Kuu Studios, the soundscape is lush and layered. A syncopated interplay between electric and bass guitars drives the melody, their heavy timbre grounding the song in both grit and warmth. A trailing keyboard joins in to animate the rhythm, guiding the pulsating drill pattern that underlies the track. During the choral section, the production shifts into a delicate counterpoint—higher-pitched keys and soft 808s contrast the deep, thunderous drumming. A weaving guitar ties these layers together, creating a texture that feels both earthly and transcendent. Ndovu’s delivery—melodic and assured—leans into the Rhumba drill tradition, echoing the fusion styles of Bensoul and Maud Elka while remaining distinctly his own.

For Ndovu Kuu, an aeronautical engineer turned musical polymath, Hamwezi Nikataa is a reaffirmation of vision and resilience. Since his breakout moment in 2021 with Ndovu Ni Kuu, his artistry has evolved into something larger than a genre—it’s a philosophy of self-belief forged in discipline and divine trust. As part of his debut album AKI WALAE, the song stands as both testimony and torch, capturing the sound of an artist fully aware of his calling. Its cultural impact lies in its fusion of faith and contemporary drill—a Kenyan artist asserting that spirituality, ambition, and artistry need not be separate pursuits. 

Nature Ya Binadamu – Khaligraph Jones

Khaligraph Jones’ Nature Ya Binadamu is an unflinching self-portrait of loss, pain, and perseverance  a reflective number from an artist who has spent years navigating the costs of greatness. Opening with a stark warning, he paints the volatility of fortune with poetic gravity: “See you can have it all today and tomorrow you lose it all / we tend to get confused when our backs against the wall especially when you ain’t got no one to call.” It’s a sentiment that resonates deeply with anyone who has watched life’s blessings vanish in an instant. What follows is not just a lamentation, but a confessional — the story of a man stripped bare before his own grief. He recalls the successive tragedies of losing his brother and father with heartbreaking clarity: “How you handled the loss of a father when two years prior you were just buried your brother honestly jo nipelekeni na rada to hii kitu bado ina ni mada.” Beneath the rapper’s composed delivery lies a voice trembling on the edge of despair, confessing that at one point, “your only option is your body at the morgue.”

The song’s second act shifts focus to his dream of founding a record label, a vision born of hope and ambition: “I had a dream that if I ever make it na hii muziki / I’m going to start a label na nijiseti kwa ofisi.” Here, Khaligraph recounts his journey with Blu Ink Records, his partnership with his manager Franko , and his brief professional relationship with the late Sagini. The tragedy that followed:  Sagini’s death becomes a haunting symbol of the burden fame brings. “Guess who they blame now Papa Jones / ain’t a clue but they got much to say, the price of fame is in the stories every other day.” Yet amid the noise, he finds refuge in stillness: “Silence is the perfect response for all the gossiping.” The artist’s words form a meditation on solitude and inner strength — “Behind the curtains I’ve been fighting my own battles alone / treading carefully cuz I got to handle my own.” 

The production, handled by Mark-My-Words Beats and Prod Zuriel, underscores this emotional terrain with deliberate restraint. A light classical piano forms the backbone — its high, almost joyous tone offering a fragile contrast to the heaviness of the lyrics. Subtle wind instruments swell and recede like waves of memory, creating a melancholy air that mirrors the song’s contemplation of life’s peaks and valleys. The sparse percussion allows Khaligraph’s words to dominate, while choral background vocals lend a spiritual, almost ecclesiastical depth. Stylistically, he trades his signature machine-gun delivery for a slower, introspective cadence, each two-line rhyme landing like a verse from an epic poem. This pared-down approach amplifies his sincerity, a conscious decision to privilege truth over technical bravado.

Khaligraph Jones strips away the armor of celebrity to reveal the vulnerable man behind the “OG” persona. It’s a striking departure for an artist known for dominance and swagger — a public act of catharsis that redefines what strength looks like in Kenyan hip-hop. By addressing grief, depression, and scrutiny with such candor, he pushes back against cultural expectations that silence men’s emotional struggles. His willingness to turn pain into art not only humanizes him but challenges a generation of fans to see openness as a form of courage. In baring his wounds, Khaligraph extends the boundaries of what Kenyan rap can be, not just an exhibition of lyrical skill, but a vessel for healing, honesty, and humanity.

Wameyo – Elsy Wameyo

If Shakespeare believed that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, Elsy Wameyo is the exception that proves the rule. Wameyo is more than a name — it’s a declaration, a rebirth, a sonic assertion of identity. In this self-titled track, the Kenyan-born, Adelaide-based rapper-producer unpacks what it means to own one’s name and narrative. She starts with swagger, “Only one way to the top makes sense why I’m all by myself / the b***** go up when you got all these medals… / but we ain’t even counting those ‘cause the name speaks for itself.”* It’s an entrance dripping in authority and hard-earned pride, an opening line that situates her not just as a participant in the rap game but as its architect. The boastful energy never loses its precision — her confidence feels earned, not performed. Later, she folds in national pride with poetic ease: “I’m second to none / I’m Kenyan, got a paycheck you could never outrun.”

The production, a collaboration between Wameyo and Wuod Omollo, is a masterclass in subversion. Built around grime’s signature grit but softened through lo-fi textures, it creates an unsettling beauty — an atmosphere that mirrors Wameyo’s lyrical tension between grace and aggression. The instrumental unfolds in three movements. The first begins with chopped-and-screwed patterns, digital synths, and sampled party voices that echo the name Wameyo like a mantra. As the verse kicks in, bass guitars hum a monotonous yet hypnotic rhythm, punctuated by sounds of sirens, moving cars, and shattering glass — sonic metaphors for chaos and motion. Then comes the switch: a high-pitched keyboard chord weaves through the verse, injecting a psychedelic discomfort that keeps the listener alert. The chorus arrives as release — a blend of soft keys, violin, and heavy grime drums. Over this backdrop, Wameyo chants “Got the game (on lock) / got the aim (on lock) / steady (on lock) / we are not the same (on God)”, her cadence locking perfectly into the rhythm’s pulse.

Wameyo’s flow is as intricate as the instrumental itself. She bends rhyme schemes beyond expectation, packing internal rhymes into uneven cadences that stretch and snap with intention. Her transitions between lo-fi and grime sections demonstrate a control few emcees possess — she adjusts her tone and flow to command each switch like a conductor guiding a chaotic symphony. In the second verse, she delivers her mission statement: “Only say my name if your mouth can carry the weight / heavy my shoulders are, boss ‘cause I carry the game.” She layers ambition with metaphor, “I’m on a mission, be a household name / just whipping bars in the kitchen / stars are Michelin,” constructing imagery that ties domestic spaces to divine purpose. The bridge is almost devotional — “Elsy Wameyo had a dream I’m living it / put it in the headlines, never forget.” Each bar echoes her philosophy of self-determination, creativity, and grace under fire.

Culturally, Wameyo is not merely a track but an identity statement. It arrives as the sound of reclamation — an African woman declaring authorship of her own story in a global space that often demands assimilation. Elsy Wameyo, who first gained critical acclaim with her Nilotic EP and expanded her range with Saint Sinner, has carved a unique lane for herself: spiritually charged, technically masterful, and unapologetically African. By merging grime and lo-fi hip-hop into an introspective but assertive soundscape, she extends the sonic borders of Kenyan rap and diaspora identity. Wameyo is, in every sense, a reintroduction — not just of an artist but of a philosophy that insists on the power of naming, the authority of self, and the beauty of origin.

Ache – Garvin Mungai

The song Ache opens with a ring — both literal and symbolic — a phone call that Garvin Mungai’s persona receives with reluctance: “Mbona unanipigia, unanipigia unanikatsia halo?” The exchange sets a comedic yet relatable tone, as the artist paints the portrait of a man uninterested in unfulfilled promises and half-hearted conversations. He laments calls from an in-law promising cash — “Shemeji kaniambia, ananiambia atanipatia doh” — and from a lover whose words mean little: “Huyu naye kanitania, ananitania atanifia hayo / Ao hayo ao.” What begins as a skit of ignored calls and disillusionment quickly pivots into celebration. The transition — “Leo ni leo pesa ninazo mtakavyo / Leo ni leo mpewe vile mtakavyo / Itisha atakavyo juu nataka kucheza” — signals a release from frustration to freedom. The story unfolds: the money from those calls, once sources of annoyance, become the fuel for a night of indulgence. From this revelation blooms the anthem’s core: dance, joy, and the permission to simply let be.

When the rhythm changes, Garvin turns Ache into a carnival. “Kiuno nalegeza halo halo halo / Na mtanipongeza halo halo halo / Chini nitazikwenda,” he chants, his voice gliding over the melody with playful confidence. Then comes the explosion — “Ache ache ache ache ache / Mwache aje acheze ache / Kirundo akileze Ache aongeze / Mbwembwe ache ache ache” — a chant that transforms the track into a communal celebration. The phrase “Ache oyee!” — the root of the title — is a Swahili colloquialism used to express praise, delight, and approval. Garvin turns this everyday expression into a rallying cry for joy. Yet beneath the jubilance lies craft: the song’s linguistic playfulness reveals a mastery of Swahili grammar and rhythm. He switches between first- and third-person verb forms, subtly implying dialogue — between himself and his imagined partner on the dance floor. It’s both performance and conversation. The background vocals, echoing his phrases, mimic the kibwagizo technique of Swahili poetry — a refrain that reinforces emotion through musical repetition.

The tune is a kaleidoscope of East African influences. Co-produced by Maguah and Garvin himself, the track blends Taarab and Chakacha rhythms into a coastal pop fusion. A bright guitar riff intertwined with a digital keyboard anchors the melody, while wind instruments lend it a breezy, oceanic texture. The violin, played by Paul Seth, drifts in and out like sea mist, giving the composition a classical grace without losing its Kenyan coastal pulse. Light, playful drums mingle with modern 808s, balancing traditional rhythm with contemporary groove. Attara’s background harmonies infuse warmth and keep the dialogue alive, while Wuod Omollo’s meticulous mixing ensures clarity and fullness, characteristic of his Afro-pop touch.

Garvin Mungai, a soulful singer-songwriter known for uplifting melodies, continues his mission of crafting music that both heals and celebrates. By drawing from Swahili cultural rhythms while embedding everyday humour and linguistic flair, he joins a growing lineage of Kenyan artists — from We Are Nubia to Zaituni — who are reclaiming and reimagining coastal musical heritage for the pop generation. Ache is not merely a dance song; it is a modern Swahili folk tale — one that begins with missed calls and ends with a full dance floor, reminding us that sometimes the best way to deal with life’s noise is to dance through it.

HR THE MESSENGER – TULIPS

BIG PIN – Conqueror