New Kenyan Music on the Radar 31 OCT 2025

It’s Halloween, that strange night when masks come off as often as they go on , and fittingly, Kenya’s latest music drops arrive with equal parts revelation and mischief. Breeder’s bravado is set to spook naysayers and rappers who disdain adaptation. Savara’s Massage teases moral boundaries with humor and candor, transforming a story of indulgence into a working man’s confessional. Albeezy returns from the shadows with beezy, where u been?, a trippy self-interrogation wrapped in trap psychedelia that reasserts his melodic dominance in the rap game. Meanwhile, Matata and Coster Ojwang join forces on Pararira, a layered, love-struck number that dances between devotion and secrecy, proving that the neo-Benga wave still holds the pulse of modern Afropop. 

Kelele – Breeder LW

Breeder LW’s Kelele is a sharp, swaggering manifesto against the noise of an industry full of talkers, critics, and self-appointed gatekeepers. Right from the opening chorus, his stance is clear — he’s done listening to those who make “kelele” without putting in the work. “Mi siwasiki, mi siwaski / Hao ni marazi wanabonga nje ya field / Wana yap yap me nabeba team MVP / So my G punguza hiyo echo / I.e Kelele Kelele Kelele Kelele.” The song is, at its core, a sermon of self-belief and hustle. Breeder frames himself as both a survivor and a conqueror, grounding his bravado in testimony. When he spits “Si loose dooh, na lose weight / Tulikuwa ma window shopper siku hizi si ndio tunajaza trolley,” the line hits as both a flex and a flashback — an intimate, vivid image of transformation through grind.

In the verses, Breeder masterfully turns the mirror on the very culture that once doubted him. He ridicules the “old heads” who refused to evolve and the purists who preach authenticity while doing nothing new. His lines ooze the confidence of a man who has seen the other side of struggle, balancing humor and bite. “Shut unabonga na big baba, shut up hebu pigia Eugo kwanza,” he fires, reminding everyone that his success is built on teamwork, discipline, and divine timing. The testimony continues with “Mashallah nimeingiza mita mbao na rap / Bismillah tuliwapita na tuka wa overlap,” a bold proclamation of the rewards that come with faith and focus. By the time he gets to the clever “Ma noise maker wamechrome ni kama industry iko preps,” Breeder’s wit is fully on display ,a perfect blend of intellect, street humor, and cultural grounding.

The production, courtesy of Metro Amesuka Doba, mirrors Breeder’s dual message of evolution and authenticity. The instrumental draws heavily from the golden-era West Coast palette, complete with high-pitched keyboard loops and a low, grimy synthesized bass that gives the song its bounce. Yet, true to Breeder’s creed of adaptation, modern trap elements and soft electric guitar harmonies lace the beat, shifting its tone fluidly between grit and groove. When he disses rappers stuck in the 2012 soundscape, the instrumental itself morphs into a more Atlanta-style trap bounce, an ingenious sonic cue that reinforces the lyrical message. This is not just a rap song; it’s a masterclass in how beat and word can move in tandem, each enhancing the other’s argument. Kelele feels right at home in a club, on a hip hop radio set, or in the curated chaos of a street playlist .

Kelele lands as one of Breeder LW’s most potent declarations yet, stirring a conversation that Kenyan hip hop often shies away from ; the need to evolve without losing essence. His take is neither condescending nor self-righteous; instead, it’s the voice of an artist who’s walked the talk. Fans and hip hop tastemakers like Ondu the Street Lawyer have already hailed it as a real moment for Kenyan rap, celebrating its honesty and local color. In a year where Breeder has dabbled with abantone and other genres, Kelele stands as proof that versatility doesn’t dilute hip hop credibility instead ,it keeps it alive.

Massage – Savara

Savara’s Massage unfolds as a humorous yet deeply human narrative of a working-class man seeking solace in the most unlikely of places—a Nairobi massage parlor. From the opening line, “Nishike pole pole ni bwana ya wenyewe,” Savara signals that this isn’t just another cheeky bedroom jam. It’s a deliberate play on Lady Jaydee’s classic “nishike pole pole mi ni bibi ya mwenyewe,” flipping gender roles and expectations to create a clever subversion. In this reversal, Savara’s protagonist becomes the weary husband, not the adulterous lover, and the parlor becomes his confessional booth. When he sings “Happy hour, happy ending / mechi ni tamu ni derby ya mashemeji,” the tone is light, even mischievous, but beneath the humor lies the fatigue of a man trapped between marital stress and the grind of survival. “Kanda niongelee kelele za bibi eeh / Kanda uniondolee mastress za wiki eeh” ; it’s not lust he seeks, but reprieve, both physical and emotional.

This duality—the erotic and the existential—runs throughout Massage. What begins as innuendo evolves into a working-class ballad about escapism. The persona admits that the parlor visits drain his pockets but confesses, “Ata mboga kavu siwezi kataa, tuko January mwezi wa njaa.” Here, humor is a survival mechanism. He jokes about the “equator” of his back sending signals to his spine,“Hapo umeshika juu ya chini ya mgongo, equator / inatuma signal kwa mgongo” even though the laughter veils loneliness. Even the mention of Kilimani, “Kilimani ohhh, Milani ni kama pko haishangi utamu,”* locates the story within Nairobi’s geography of desire, where class, temptation, and exhaustion meet. By the final verse, the pretense fades entirely; the massage has become metaphor. The persona goes to his therapist’s home, “Naja kwako weka simu mteja hapatikani,” surrendering to intimacy not as sin, but as rebellion against the suffocation of daily life.

Production-wise, Massage is a fusion of sensibilities . Rumba’s warmth meeting drill’s percussive edge. It’s a sonic landscape both sensual and streetwise, anchored by gentle Kidum-like guitar phrasing that glides over the rhythm. The Congolese-inspired guitars shimmer with playfulness, while subdued 808s and muted drill hi-hats inject a subtle pulse that keeps the track contemporary. The result is a textured soundscape that mirrors Savara’s storytelling ,nostalgic yet forward-looking, humorous yet aching with truth. The writing credits, shared among Savara, Bien Baraza, Julius Okello, Bensoul, and Ywaya Tajiri (of Watendawili), make sense: Massage bears the polish of a collective steeped in the craft of East African urban pop, but with enough grit to keep it grounded.

Massage stands out as a distinctly Kenyan story told with wit and emotional intelligence. Savara takes a scenario often treated with moral panic—the “massage parlor”—and turns it into a lens on masculinity, stress, and urban loneliness. It resonates because it humanizes the Nairobi everyman, the hustler caught between duty and desire, laughter and fatigue. In doing so, Savara expands his artistry beyond the love anthems of his Sauti Sol fame into something more socially textured. It’s a track that provokes giggles and reflection in equal measure, a playful but piercing portrait of life in the city’s soft underbelly.

beezy, where u been? – Albeezy

Albeezy’s beezy, where u been? opens with a question that doubles as both self-reflection and proclamation. It’s the kind of rhetorical callout that sounds casual but lands loaded : “Beezy boy why you been so lost? / Where have you been so long?” It is a mix of boast and banter, addressed to himself, his fans, and the peers who’ve filled the silence with imitation. The song, though short, plays like a pulse check: a reintroduction wrapped in swagger. Albeezy uses the absence itself as a theme, turning what could have been an apology into a victory lap. In the same breath that he wonders where he’s been, he flexes his influence: “Where you been I miss you boy? / All these n*** sound alike.” His absence, the song suggests, has been felt not as a void but as a distortion with others copying his melodic cadence, borrowing his rhythm, echoing his phrasing. Yet, he shrugs it off with effortless cool: “Small price to keep it moving.”

The free verse in the middle of the song drifts across moods and subjects, capturing the fluid, almost stream-of-consciousness style that defines Albeezy’s music. One moment he’s introspective ,“Trying to make my mama proud” and the next, he’s dismissive of self-help culture, quipping “Manifest all BS aside.” Between those poles lies the restless energy of a young artist trying to balance ambition and authenticity. The verse’s personal glimpses  such as a quarrel with a lover, the admission of pressure, the laughter at his imitators  all create a mosaic of return. Each line feels spontaneous, yet it threads into the song’s central idea: resilience without resentment. When he spits “Prolly copying my swag and my style / Cut them off and now they wandering why,” the delivery isn’t angry — it’s almost amused, the sound of someone who knows he’s indispensable. By the time he closes with “And when they hear my flow they be asking?” the chorus rushes back like déjà vu, turning his rhetorical questions into a taunt.

Behind the mic, the production by Cap! shapes this track into something distinctly hallucinatory yet sharp-edged. The beat sits between trap and psychedelia, its melody constructed entirely from synthetic textures. A high-pitched, percussive drum locks into rhythm with muted 808s, creating that hazy, late-night trap ambiance. What makes it hypnotic is the subtle bass synth that hums like a digitized guitar, grounding Albeezy’s airy flow with just enough grit. The producer builds a sense of motion and distortion, with bursts of reverb and echoes swirling around the vocal layers , a true sonic mirror of the song’s title, as if the listener is emerging from the same creative fog Albeezy claims to have been lost in.

 With beezy, where u been? Albeezy marks his return to Nairobi’s hip hop landscape at a crucial time , just weeks after the Buruklyn Boyz dropped their album featuring him. The timing is perfect, positioning him once again among the scene’s most dynamic melodic rappers. His flow bridges street rap and psyched-out trap, offering something distinctly modern yet grounded in local swagger. Beyond the music, the track reasserts his authorship: that in a city full of mimicry, originality still speaks loudest. If the question was “where has Albeezy been?”, the answer has been given by the song. He has been sharpening the sound everyone else has been trying to copy.

Pararira- Matata featuring Coster Ojwang 

Pararira, the collaboration between Matata and Coster Ojwang, is a lush, rhythmic exploration of love, longing, and quiet confidence. The song opens with Coster’s repeated phrase, “Unatitesa, unatitesa yoh yoh,” a line that instantly establishes the emotional texture of the track — the tension between desire and restraint. His verse unfolds like a chase scene in slow motion, comparing the search for love to feeling around in darkness for something that keeps slipping away, always running ahead, even as far as heaven. When the chorus arrives, it does so with the collective force of harmony, almost like a Greek theatre chorus — voices merging to affirm and comment on the drama at hand. “I give you what you deserve my baby / mapenzi tamu kama kamari / sitaki pararira, aheri,” they sing, turning the refrain into both confession and release.

Matata’s verses come in like a conversation, each member layering a different tone : flirtatious, reflective, self-assured. The first verse paints the persona of a man gradually giving in to love while maintaining his swagger. Lines like “She knows, she knows everything I do is B.I.G / they know they can reach me when I’m DND” show how the group bends everyday language and abbreviations into clever rhythmic tools. By the time the second cycle rolls in, the tone shifts toward intimacy, with cheeky play on the phrase “going down” — “Nikipata pesa it’s going down down down in my bed / When I go down down down make you w*t.”

 The final verse brings the story to an Airbnb, a modern metaphor for discretion and privacy. The persona cloaks himself in secrecy,  “Niko mitini mimi, niko BNB, John Cena can’t see me” and compares singlehood to slavery in Egypt, pledging to keep his relationship hidden from temptation. The narrative ends with a warning, “Staki temptation, usintest… money over matter, Matata na Coster,” a reminder that even pleasure has its boundaries.

Behind this sensual storytelling is the unmistakable production of Wuod Omollo, one of Kenya’s most consistent hitmakers. His style, often described as an “African buffet,” brings together the raw charm of tradition and the sleek finish of modern Afropop. Pararira is built on a melodic foundation that mimics the nyatiti, a traditional Luo harp, enriched with layers of electric guitar and digital synths. One guitar follows the traditional rhythm while the bass holds the ground, creating a warm, full-bodied sound that supports the artists’ high cadences. A weaving horn line, likely an orutu, adds a dreamy, almost spiritual undertone, while shaker-inspired percussion and occasional amapiano hi-hats give the groove its modern pulse.

Pararira belongs to Matata’s new project, MPISHI, their first since Super Morio (2022), and marks a notable shift in tone. While previous hits like Mpishi with Bien, Tiki Taka with Mejja, and Inakubalika with Watendawili thrived on dancefloor energy, this song opts for intimacy and reflection. It shows Matata embracing maturity without losing their signature playfulness. Coster Ojwang’s presence, meanwhile, strengthens the bridge between Afropop and the neo-Benga revival currently led by artists like Watendawili, Max Okello, and Ssero. Together, they’re redrawing the boundaries of Kenyan music ,making tradition sound new again, and proving that the future of pop might just lie in its roots.

Written by Otieno Arudo