New Kenyan Music on the Radar – 7 November 2025

November’s first playlist hums with tension,the kind that comes from artists confronting their own contradictions. Wuod Omollo’s production fingerprints run through two of this week’s most striking releases, his signature fusion of traditional instrumentation and modern synth work binding the stories together with an earthy pulse. The raw-edged swagger of Mwanaa & 4MrFrankWhite and the self-assured poise of Charisma contrast beautifully with the gentler introspection of Jivu, yet all  acts share one thing: a willingness to dwell in the grey zones of emotion, identity, and ambition. These songs do not readily seek tidy resolutions  but are happy to they revel in discomfort 

URAO – Charisma featuring Watendawili

URAO opens like a cinematic flashback  with a visual whirl of lights, basslines, and unapologetic hedonism. It carries the same dual-layered narrative energy that defined early-2000s dancehall: one story unfolding on the surface of a party — all sweat, rhythm, and ecstasy — while beneath it, a nostalgic current revives the old-school street codes that shaped Kenya’s urban sound. The track’s title itself, an outdated sheng term drawn from raha, embodies that spirit of carefree indulgence; here, “urao” stretches beyond happiness to mean full-bodied hedonism. The hook repeats with gleeful abandon : “Naskia urao, naskia urao, naskia hadi kwa trao, naskia wasupa ndio hao,”  collapsing inhibition into pure bodily expression. It’s an anthem for losing oneself, where dance and desire merge in one unbroken motion.

Charisma plays the role of an aging rockstar who wears his experience like a badge of honor. In his opening verse, he reclaims the Gen Z label “uncle” as a declaration of pride: “Uncle Charis mi huwanga beast / me huziza West na bado nazoza East.” The verse doubles as a boast and a sociogeographic flex, bridging Nairobi’s uptown Westlands and Eastlands with the same cultural ease that defines his appeal. He paints vivid scenes of fans “bubbling” after long workdays, “Wanazibubble, wanazitoka / baada ya ofisi baada ya mboka,” and the freewheeling euphoria of nightlife , “Wako kagwethe, wako mogoka.” His delivery, playful yet assured, fuses self-mythology with social realism. The performance feels lived-in; when he boasts, “Wanatupa bra, wengine wanatupa ngotha, mtoto wa priest, Golgotha,” it’s both outrageous and believable , a wink at his real-life magnetism backed by multiple social media posts from his  recent sold out shows.

Watendawili’s verses sustain that unrestrained energy while coloring it with humor and cultural texture. Ywaya Tajiri’s section drifts into a house party brimming with returning diasporans , “Hapa tumobwapi kumejaa ma summer burnies?” and effortlessly stitches local camaraderie into global rhythm: “Foundation lazima kupiga biriani, na taxene imejaa ki jabulani / tuko best tuliuliza uhali gani.” His humor on body types , “Madongodingo pia matindo, a gal give me some adwa bilo” rides the beat with cheeky timing.

Israel Onyach takes a more ragga-inflected approach, his verse teetering between melodic and rugged. He borrows patois cadence to underscore authenticity: “See the gal dem move and shake it / we cannot fake it.” His lines, loaded with internal rhyme like when he says, “Aunty aunty, mali safi / ametokaa Kisii gaki gaki / ni m-rebellious, maji maji.”  This is a show of  linguistic dexterity that merges humor, historical pride, and sensuality. By the time he quips, “Nipate leo niko happy na mama wa me, over 30,” he’s both flipping internet-age misogyny and celebrating maturity in women, showing that behind the revelry lies subversive wit.

The production, helmed by Wuod Omollo, is as intricate as it is nostalgic. Horns and electric guitars interplay at the same pitch and tempo, blurring into a continuous high-energy loop that evokes the ragga-digital sound of the late ’90s. Beneath this, a rumbling bass guitar injects rockstar grit, while the muted hi-hats and heavy yet restrained natural drums lend rhythm without overcrowding the groove. The result is a textured live-instrumental feel that paradoxically mimics the precision of programmed beats — a sonic trick that keeps the song dynamic yet comfortably vintage.

Culturally, URAO is both homage and evolution. It reclaims a forgotten slang word and reanimates an era of Kenyan party music when swagger and substance coexisted freely. Charisma’s revival of that carefree, analog energy paired with Watendawili’s humorous yet grounded verses marks a moment where nostalgia becomes a bridge, not a retreat. In an age of algorithmic pop, URAO insists on human texture, sweat, laughter, basslines, and the raw joy of being seen and alive.

Hold On (Nonyore) – JIVU

Hold On (Nonyore) opens not as an anthem, but as a quiet incantation. It feels like a voice whispering through hardship, steady and human, urging the listener to keep going even when the spirit wanes. The title word “nonyore “ from the Ekegusii verb -nyora, meaning “to hold”, anchors the entire emotional arc of the song. Here, holding is not passive endurance; it’s a deliberate act of faith. When JIVU sing, “Nore kere igo, obogima, chingaki,” they are naming the heaviness of existence, and yet in the same breath, they breathe hope — “Etaya yago tonyerimia…” (your heart keeps reminding you to hold on). It’s a song about the invisible labor of persistence, the struggle that doesn’t make headlines but keeps lives intact.

What makes this composition particularly moving is its linguistic tapestry. JIVU weaves Ekegusii, Gikuyu, Swahili, and English — each language carrying its own emotional weight. In the second verse, “Nore kere igo, totiga, toerwani…”, the words take on a communal tone: don’t stop fighting, we’re all in this together. Then, through the Gikuyu verse, “Geithia andu othe ndungemenya angikurathima… Ngai nowe arathimaga,” the duo expand the theme from endurance to grace. It’s a moment of spiritual introspection and a confession that goodness is not about recognition but divine continuity. The English bridge then draws the listener back into modern chaos :“Ooh nobody said that it was gonna be easy no, / Hapana si rahisi, / Every other day there’s a new scandal…”  before offering soft resistance: “Endelea kujiamini, / One day the world gon’ see it.” In this multilingual dialogue, the song becomes a map of human perseverance, threading together pain, faith, and self-belief.

The production, led by Dillie (House of Dillie) and mastered by Giggz of 4reigner Music Group, complements that layered emotionality with a meticulous guitar-led arrangement. A bright acoustic guitar takes the forefront, its shimmering strings both reflective and hopeful, soon joined by lower-pitched acoustics and an electric bass that hum beneath, grounding the melody like a heartbeat. The layering of several guitars in unison during softer sections gives the illusion of one immense instrument — echoing the song’s message of collective strength. Background harmonies drift in and out like affirmations, not overpowering but gently lifting the lead vocals when words alone can’t carry the feeling. It’s a soundscape that feels handcrafted — neither overproduced nor minimal, but purposefully textured, each layer symbolizing the act of holding on through companionship and faith.

Hold On (Nonyore) extends beyond its sonic beauty into cultural resonance as the official theme for Ian Gituku’s award-winning documentary 10 Toes Down. The film chronicles John Kadivane’s journey through Kenya’s rally racing world; a story of legacy, grit, and ambition. In that context, JIVU’s song transforms from a personal ballad into a national metaphor for resilience. It mirrors the discipline of rally drivers, the endurance of a new generation building on old dreams, and the Kenyan spirit of persistence despite adversity. Its international recognition, paired with the documentary’s accolades such as “Africa’s Best Independent Documentary 2025” at AAIFF, affirms not only JIVU’s artistry but the growing emotional depth of Kenyan Afro Fusion. Nonyore is no longer just a word but a quiet reminder to keep faith burning in the grey spaces of life.

Northside Kid – Elsy Wameyo

Northside Kid is Elsy Wameyo’s homecoming chronicle ; part confessional, part triumph, part lament perhaps just like Odysseus. It unfolds like a journey through memory, where nostalgia is both balm and burden. The opening verse situates her absence from Kenya as both a loss and a necessary detour: “I haven’t been home for about 4 years / touchdown I’m here / straight back to the ends that made me great.” This homecoming isn’t just geographical but also spiritual. Wameyo reconciles the ache of distance with the self-knowledge gained abroad, her tone at once reflective and defiant. When she admits, “I’m the one that changed / how do you expect me to stay the same when I got dreams of sitting in a Benz,” she transforms guilt into growth. The lyric is part declaration, part absolution, a statement that ambition often demands leaving the familiar behind. Her reflections on rekindling old bonds ,“Trynna link with the bros but Lord knows it’ll never be the same,”  capture the quiet alienation of success, the bittersweet truth that evolution always carries a price.

That emotional push and pull carries through the second verse, where she recalls chaotic teenage nights: “a guy has a party next week, now we have a reason to trap.” The verse unravels with a cinematic vividness — spilled drinks, backroom brawls, running shoes ,until the laughter fades into self-awareness. The moment she quips, “Two guys go to the back start fighting / and now I know it’s a wrap / so we start running,” her delivery turns playful yet mournful, acknowledging how that recklessness once thrilled and endangered her. Then comes the revelation , “Dreams and nightmares bumping / What is the haps, stop bugging.” With this line, she layers metaphors of entrapment and heritage, cleverly invoking the inbred Habsburg dynasty to critique the symbolic “inbreeding” of stagnation she escaped by leaving home. When she notes, “the gang were caught by 12,” the verse lands with gravity , a reminder that survival is sometimes a matter of departure.

By the third verse, Wameyo strips away pretense. “I’ve got pride in who I’ve become but I still feel guilty when I think of the past / success ain’t free I had to let go of the ones that I loved.” The pain here is raw, but her delivery poised and deliberate, reveals someone who’s made peace with the sacrifices that art demands. She admits toworking late and missing meals , “I know it’s a different me / it’s lack of sleep, these days I can barely eat / I stay up till 3:00 but I guess it’s 10:00 in a different…” before resolving to transmute pain into progress with the line “Turn my pain to Ps; Euros, USDs ” ending the verse. Her self-sung chorus, “I won’t give up the fight, give it a try, it’ll be all right woah,” swells like a mantra,  the vulnerable soprano revealing a voice capable of more than just rap. Preceded by the introspective line, “Still I struggle to breathe ‘cause the air gets thin at the top / some say it’s luck, I say it’s God,” the track becomes both flex and thanksgiving.

Producer Wuod Omollo sculpts a sonic landscape that mirrors this emotional complexity. Traditional African textures — the crisp patter of bongos, the earthy hum of the nyatiti, and the haunting breath of the orutu flute — intertwine with digital synths and grime-inspired bass. It’s a deliberate collision of heritage and futurism: old Nairobi meeting new Adelaide. The layered guitars and digital flutes create a dark but cinematic mood, echoing both displacement and return. Each instrument serves narrative purpose; the low flute threads through the beat like a memory resurfacing, while the electronic bass grounds it in modernity. The track feels ritualistic yet contemporary, the perfect vessel for Wameyo’s transnational identity.

Northside Kid arrives at a turning point in Wameyo’s career. Fresh from her self-titled single and poised for a larger project, the song reasserts her as one of Kenya’s most gifted lyricists, a claim underscored by her 2025 UnKut HipHop Award nominations for Female Artist of the Year and Lyricist of the Year, the first woman ever nominated in the latter category. Her blend of introspection and bravado reshapes what it means to be a Kenyan rapper abroad.That is one who can rap about home without idealizing it, who can critique her past while honoring it. Northside Kid is not just about going back; it’s about bringing the world home, transforming exile into art, pain into currency, and memory into mastery.

Mchezo Wa Jiji – Mwanaa & 4MrFrankWhite

If Elsy Wameyo’s Northside Kid looked inward in its search for home, Mchezo Wa Jiji by Mwanaa and 4MrFrankWhite turns its gaze outward to the chaotic pulse of Nairobi itself. It is a streetwise declaration of pride, a tongue-in-cheek confession, and a commentary on the romantic dysfunction that thrives under the city’s neon glare. Built around a call-and-response hook: “Zoea, zoea jiji, zoea mchezo wa jiji,” the song functions like a city chant: a resigned acceptance of how things work in Nairobi, where survival is as much about swagger as it is about self-preservation. The rappers’ interplay feels conversational, almost competitive, alternating between banter and brutal honesty, their humour often masking the sharpness of social critique.

4MrFrankWhite kicks things off with a blistering verse that playfully roasts neighbourhood stereotypes,”Siwezi amini shawry anatoka Kile / ati Juja kiamaimo itabidi amedelay,” mixing wit and derision in equal measure. Yet beneath the laughter lies a keen awareness of Nairobi’s fragmented class geography, where identity is tied to one’s postcode. The line about Uthiru,”Siwezi amini jamaa ya Waiyaki Way, anaamini ati Uthiru bado ni Waiyaki Way” is both a joke and a jab, a way of tracing how pride and proximity shape belonging in the city’s unending sprawl. Mwanaa picks up the baton with verses steeped in equal parts lust and satire. His storytelling is ribald and restless, confessing to shallow trysts and transactional relationships that mirror Nairobi’s moral contradictions. He delivers with characteristic irony: “Sura matope but grip iko, mi nadai kumsesa anadai ticko,” before slyly comparing his deceit to political falsehoods: “Man come nice na mauongo za Kasongo” folding politics and pleasure into the same cynical breath.

The production by Wakawaka at Deepcore Records gives Mchezo Wa Jiji its gritty character. Sparse but restless, the beat opens with disjointed high-pitched drum logs before melting into soft, vibrating keyboard layers. The 808s rumble with intent, balancing the tension between danceability and unease. A faint shimmer of sampled background vocals surfaces intermittently, grounding the song’s humor in melody while maintaining the raw edge that defines Nairobi’s trap-leaning hip-hop sound. It’s unmistakably a club banger meant to move feet first and provoke thought later.

Mwanaa and 4MrFrankWhite make a compelling pair not just for their lyrical dexterity but for how their personal trajectories converge on this record. Mwanaa, best known as one half of the duo Vijana Barubaru, uses this collaboration to shed the softer, love-centric image his band’s catalogue has cultivated. For him, Mchezo Wa Jiji is a declaration of artistic independence and a way of proving he can hold his own in the gritty world of Nairobi rap. For 4MrFrankWhite, whose Taigwa Goma album and string of high-profile collaborations have already cemented his street credibility, the song reaffirms his position as one of Kenya’s sharpest contemporary lyricists. His nomination in multiple UnKut HipHop Awards 2025 categories, including Breakthrough Artist of the Year, only underscores that rise.

Beneath its jokes and jabs, the titular song of the joint four track EP by the two rappers, mirror to the city’s collective personality: flawed, fast-talking, and forever on the hustle. By taking Nairobi’s chaos and turning it into art, Mwanaa and 4MrFrankWhite remind us that even the city’s most dysfunctional rhythms have their own strange, magnetic music.

Written by Otieno Arudo