New Kenyan Music on the Radar – OCT 17 2025

This week’s edition of New Music on the Radar captures a cross-section of sounds that define where the culture stands: intimate storytelling, sharp lyricism, and fearless experimentation. From the unlikely tenderness of Steph Kapela and Fena Gitu’s Say Less, to the charged lyrical warfare of Buruklyn Boyz and Younglouie58’s Digida, and the soulful vulnerability of Hildah Watiri’s Woman, each song reveals an artist in conversation with love, rivalry, and the restless spirit of reinvention. Together, they map the evolving soundscape of a city — and a generation — unafraid to blend rhythm with reflection.

Say Less – Steph Kapela & Fena Gitu

There’s something deliciously unpredictable about Say Less, a song that plays out like a tug-of-war between impulse and intention. From the first few seconds, Fena Gitu’s voice pierces the silence—soft yet teasing, like someone caught between surrender and defiance. “Came into my life without a warning/ playing all hard to get but now I’m all in/ soft kisses in the morning.” Her verse reads like an intimate confession from a woman who once laughed at the idea of love but has found herself undone by its quiet persistence. The humor and streetwise bravado she deploys—“Nilikuwa Street kila siku different sheets/ me ndio nilikua wingman bed to bed midfielder”—make her eventual vulnerability all the more compelling. When she finally declares, “But this rolling Stone has your name, I’m done with the games,” it’s less an admission of defeat and more a coronation of maturity, the kind that arrives after the chaos of youthful freedom.

The song’s structure mirrors a lover’s dialogue—literally. The chorus unfolds in call-and-response, echoing the Swahili poetic form of ngonjera. Fena begins, “Say less tell me what you need me I got what you need… day less pole pole speed,” and Steph Kapela answers in his husky, melodic tone, “Say less baby please you got me on my knees, cheki vile mimi natii… oh you and me mdogo mdogo.” His verse brings a sobering contrast to Fena’s buoyant declarations. With a touch of melancholy, he laments, “Aje Aje? Si ungesema kabla uniwache,” before painting the streets of Tom Mboya and Koinange as metaphors for isolation. The bars blur into rhythmic poetry when he confesses that love has left him stranded—“Ni we unanibeba kama… niombee na unipake na upako/ nimebaki najiongelesha kama Flaqo.” By the time he arrives at “Hii yote ni juu yako, nimesota juu yako,” the track has fully revealed its dual nature—a confession of love and a eulogy for it.

Behind the vocals lies a lush production that feels both modern and nostalgic. The Latin-inspired electric guitars shimmer through the mix, their intertwined melodies creating a sonic dialogue as intricate as the lovers’ own. The percussions, with soft 808s and hi-hats, lend the song a fluid pulse—perfect for late-night drives or slow-dance moments that never make it to Instagram stories. The transitions between guitar cycles glide naturally, each movement ushered in by subtle drum shifts. It’s an alte-inflected R&B composition that borrows from trap and soul, building a world where heartbreak sounds strangely relaxing.

For Steph Kapela and Fena Gitu, Say Less is more than a duet—it’s a convergence of two creative worlds that have long defined Kenya’s contemporary urban soundscape. Kapela, the bilingual crooner-rapper who first stunned audiences in Khali Cartel 2, brings his introspective lyricism and smooth, genre-fluid delivery to the table. Fena counterbalances with her effortless swagger, humor, and soulful charisma. Their chemistry is organic, never forced—a meeting of two artists who understand the delicate balance between performance and feeling. Culturally, Say Less sits at the intersection of Nairobi’s sonic evolution, where hip hop’s grit meets neo-soul’s sensuality. It’s the kind of song that reminds listeners that modern Kenyan love stories—messy, urban, bilingual—can be just as poetic as the old ones, only now they play out on Tom Mboya Street instead of under a village tree.

 

Pia Mi Nataka – Tipsy Gee featuring Watendawili & Fathermoh

From the first thump of the bassline, Pia Mi Nataka announces itself as a party anthem for the Nairobi night. The beat, produced by Vic West, feels like an invitation to move—an irresistible fusion of reggaeton bounce and gengetone grit. Built around the iconic reggae “skank” guitar bounce and thick digital drums, it recreates that early dancehall energy but repackaged for today’s dance floors. The rhythm pulses with a heavy low-end bass, while crisp digital hi-hats and sharp percussion maintain a hypnotic groove. Vic West’s hand is unmistakable—his touch blends precision with chaos, giving the track its swagger. The effect is both nostalgic and modern, reminding listeners of those late 2000s reggae nights while keeping one foot firmly planted in the Arbantone future.

Lyrically, Pia Mi Nataka is a celebration of excess and bravado, with each verse carrying its own vignette of nightlife. The chorus sets the tone—“Ohhh, leo tuko kioo/ hatutaki vita hatutaki war/ tuko tipsy na tunaongeza more…”—painting a scene of friends out to have a good time, cash to burn and egos to inflate. Watendawili’s first verse brims with humor and swagger: “Wacha leo zilipuke/zimeshika fiti sikubali zishuke.” Their witty storytelling brings to life the archetypal Nairobi reveler—half broke, half godly, but entirely unstoppable. The cheeky line “hakuna kuchangia mzinga bora tu wanichunge” captures the essence of every freeloading partygoer, while references to Amsterdam and Onyi’s escapades with other men’s girlfriends deepen the comedic chaos. It’s all anchored by the pre-chorus—“Pia mi nataka, sherehe inakuwanga ngumu kuwacha”—a mantra that turns indulgence into a shared philosophy.

When Tipsy Gee takes over, the narrative pivots into something even more playful. His verse carries both confidence and self-deprecation. He recalls a love gone wrong, one ruined by fame and whispers—“Ni kama mechi ilikubamba/ so ukaambia mabeshte, so cheki wananitaka.” There’s laughter in his tone when he admits, “Makosa ilifanyika,” a wry admission that cheating was, perhaps, an accident of youth. He then steers the song back to the dance floor, invoking the Swahili proverb “Mtaka yote hukosa yote so itabaki umechagua,” a clever dare to a potential lover. His wordplay shines in “Mpenzi mtazamaji amegeuzwa mtazamaji wa mapenzi,” a double entendre that flips observation into participation, love into irony. By the time he crows “Shangwe nani champe, ni ka silali leo nimepata clande,” the night has reached its peak—loud, sweaty, and gloriously unserious. 

Fathermoh closes with characteristic wit and rhythmic cleverness, using cultural metaphors to make sexual innuendo—“Majimaji rebellion namwaga kwa session” and “Slide, alafu glide… alafu zama side.” His humor culminates in the cheeky confession, “Nilipenda nyuma sana nika backslide.”

At its core, Pia Mi Nataka is a distillation of contemporary Nairobi youth culture—hedonistic, humorous, and hustling for a good time despite everything. The song’s sonic architecture reflects the evolution of gengeton, where minimal digital loops replaced live instrumentation to make production cheaper, faster, and more accessible. By blending early reggaeton with Arbantone and gengeton’s street energy, Vic West and Tipsy Gee pay homage to the genre’s working-class roots while pushing it toward international dance floors. Watendawili’s inclusion expands the song’s melodic reach, merging Afro-pop wit with raw Nairobi cadence, while Fathermoh’s presence anchors it in Gengetone’s lyrical mischief. For Tipsy Gee, the collaboration underscores his versatility and hunger—an artist who understands that the future of Kenyan pop lies in fearless fusion. 

Digida – Buruklyn Boyz featuring Younglouie58

The name Digida might fool the casual listener into expecting a club track about curves and seduction, but Buruklyn Boyz and Younglouie58 use it as a smokescreen—a linguistic sleight of hand concealing one of the most direct lyrical offensives in Kenya’s drill history. The term “digida,” common in Nairobi’s Eastlands slang, refers to the backside, a playful, sensual image that becomes ironic here: instead of flirting, the Boyz are aiming barbs at their long-standing rivals, GTA Gang. 

Over a dark, pounding drill beat, the verses unfold as lyrical warfare—taunts, boasts, and coded references traded like punches in an alley. Younglouie58 opens with a blistering verse, his trappers’ cadence slicing through the beat. “10 years in we ain’t cap no/ genji in front of the capo/ language we talking to chapo,” he raps, establishing both longevity and danger, likening the crew to a cartel underworld. The double-edged brag continues as he flexes about the company they keep—“Speeding with the hottest chics wamechill wameketi kitako”—a clever nod to the title before the tension flares: “You keep on dissing you might get splatt.” It’s a warning disguised as swagger, a shot across the neon-green lines of their Buruburu–Githurai feud.

Ajay’s verse raises the stakes, mixing sharp wordplay with venomous precision. He begins with ambition—“Nadai dinga pyam, yani German engine vi sita (V6)”—before pivoting to mock GTA’s Natty by name  and suggesting that the concealment of his face is because of cowardice, “Me sio huyo p*ssy, me si Natty me siwezi jificha.” The diss lands hard, amplified by the mockery of GTA’s signature green—“Flag ni ya green? mnaharisha/ Napiga drill na sitambui nani aliaanzisha /Jeshi ni ya blue.” What seems like color-coded rivalry actually masks a deeper debate: who really birthed Nairobi’s drill scene? While many insist GTA came first, Ajay flips the script with a shrug—it doesn’t matter anymore. The duo’s success, from East Mpaka London to Boiler Room and GRM Daily features, has already rewritten the narrative. The rhetorical jab “Utaajiitaje king na unasafishwa?” is both dismissive and victorious, a sign that the Buruklyn empire is done seeking validation. He closes with a bridge that softens the aggression without losing pride: “Nachase dooh pekee siezi kimbizana / unajifanya unajua sana, siezi bibishana.” It’s a cold, calm exit—one that says winning is better than arguing.

Holding the hook together, Mr Right swings between the playful and the provocative. His chorus—“Mpoa amebeba digida na snani dhigidha… flava ni Hawaiian extra cheese napenda pizziza”—returns to the cheeky sensuality of the title, turning the diss into a party chant. In the second cycle, “Ma opp wanadai nimaliza, wakiembesja bling zina shine hadi kwa giza,” the tone shifts again: it’s still a flex, but one that reclaims the luxury of victory.

 The instrumental, produced by Clue Ashaivisha Track, carries the Boyz’ signature menace. The beat loops six distinct guitar patterns, digitized into cold, metallic riffs. The 808s throb like heartbeat and gunfire—precisely the contrast drill thrives on. The hi-hats, tight and pulsating, complete the drill’s signature syncopation, leaving just enough air between the bars for the lyrics to slice through.

Digida sits at an interesting moment in Buruklyn Boyz’s evolution. Coming off their acclaimed debut East Mpaka London, the duo now stand at the crossroads of reinvention with their sophomore project 58 Flava. The album experiments with Amapiano textures and smoother deliveries, a daring move for artists known for their razor-sharp drill cadences. Yet even in experimentation, Digida proves they haven’t lost their teeth. It’s a bridge between worlds: a song where playful sensuality masks territorial defiance, and where two of Kenya’s most influential rap acts continue their lyrical turf war. In the larger cultural frame, Digida reinforces what Buruklyn Boyz have always symbolized—Nairobi’s unfiltered Eastlands energy, the DIY grit of Gen Z creatives turning neighborhood slang into global sound. Whether they’re dissing rivals or shaping new subgenres, the Boyz remain the face of Kenya’s urban renaissance—loud, local, and unapologetically royal blue.

Woman -Hildah Watiri

Woman by Hildah Watiri is a soulful Afro-R&B offering that explores love, devotion, and feminine tenderness through a lens that feels both contemporary and nostalgic. The song takes the familiar themes of romance and care and wraps them in a lush sonic atmosphere that highlights Watiri’s warm vocals and emotional honesty. Yet beneath its surface sweetness, there is a complex subtext — one that questions whether the depth of devotion expressed here empowers or subordinates the woman who voices it.

The chorus sets the tone for this tension. “I can be your woman / Baby can you feel that, I can be everything that you want and more” is at once an affirmation of confidence and an offering of complete self-giving. The persona seems to center her identity around the man she loves, promising to fill every emotional gap in his life. This sentiment continues in the opening verse, where she implores her lover never to look elsewhere, “Me promise you’ll never find nobody.” It is an old-school kind of loyalty ,one that insists on permanence even in the uncertainty of modern love.

She carries this devotion further by idealizing her role as caretaker and companion, declaring, “Make you feel like the life of the party” and “I can be the girl you like, make you feel like you’re the prize.” There’s a deliberate inversion here — the woman becomes the giver, the one who constructs her lover’s sense of worth. In the second verse, sensuality seeps in: “I can feel you, I can see it in your eyes / That I’m your fantasy.” The persona invites connection but maintains a nurturing tone, promising comfort — “You don’t have to play alone boy.”

Later lines reveal her vision of love as long-term, wholesome, and respectable: “Special love and no drama / Girl that you take to your mama / You could build an empire.” The self-presentation here is matronly, aspirational, and deeply affectionate. She is not merely offering passion but partnership, stability, and peace. Yet this portrayal of the ideal woman — accommodating, stable, selfless — also flirts with the possibility of erasing her individuality for the sake of love. The song was co-written with David Fernandez, whose contribution likely shaped its blend of emotional directness and lyrical restraint.

The production, handled by Nigerian producer Run, complements the song’s mood with a minimalist Afro-R&B beat that feels warm and intimate. His producer tag opens the track, giving way to soft keyboards and gentle electronic guitars that lead the melody. Three distinct rhythmic textures shape the soundscape: light trap 808s running steadily through the beat, heavy R&B drumming enriched with synth layers, and restrained amapiano lock drums with crisp hi-hats that punctuate transitions. Occasional horn flourishes add a subtle African warmth, creating a production that feels both global and grounded.The result is a contemporary sound reminiscent of stars like Tems and Ayra Starr, yet unmistakably personal to Watiri. The song’s polish and arrangement reveal her growing confidence as a performer able to balance commercial sensibility with emotional depth.

Hildah Watiri is part of Atalia Records, an independent Kenyan collective nurturing emerging Afro-soul and pop talents. The label has built a small but distinct catalogue featuring artists such as Kayrop, JT Bulinda, and Liboi — frequent collaborators whose collective sound orbits around warmth, melody, and relatability. Watiri’s own collaborations, like “Magic” with Kayrop, showcase this community-driven creative model.

Wakadinali – Nyuria

Njerae – Colors ft Bensoul

Written by Otieno Arudo