New Kenyan Music on the Radar 14 November 2025

The selection this week arrives with a strangely cohesive collage of Nairobi soundscapes—tracks that, on the surface, share nothing beyond a release date, yet together map the tensions, experiments and emotional fissures shaping the city’s pop culture today. Unspoken Salaton, long known for his rugged gengetone instincts, surprises with a subversive arbantone production crafted for a gospel legend, bending the genre’s edges without ever betraying its pulse. Iyanii,  the ever-consistent hit maker, once again proves his chemistry with Waka Waka, their interplay moving with the kind of ease that only comes from artists who understand each other’s temperatures in the booth. And then there is Dhahabu’s emotionally charged breakup tune: raw, brittle, and unexpectedly grounded by a moment where Jakk Quill steps out of the shadows to offer his own explanation to fans, pulling the track into a more intimate register. 

Ekae – Dhahabu featuring Jakk Quill

Ekae opens with Dhahabu stepping straight into a wounded intimacy, her voice carrying the ache of someone who once believed wholly in the person they loved. She frames this heartbreak through vivid, cross-setting imagery, beginning with the sharp confession: “I put you on a pedestal, I gave you all the medals though / But now you wanna up and roar, you wanna cause a little brawl.” It is a line that immediately places the listener inside a relationship that has slipped from idealization to chaos. The persona moves between defiance and vulnerability, insisting her former lover doesn’t understand the difficulty of finding something real again, “I hope you know what the streets is,” even admitting the sting of personal embarrassment: “you got me out here looking hella stupid.” Yet she won’t collapse under betrayal; she asserts her boundaries in a mixture of Swahili and English, a moment delivered with rhythmic grit: “Sitokubali unifanye chizi… Basi heri me nibaki solo-oh, cause you want to go around and be a hoe-oh.” Her final statement, that she will not “ride and die no more,” seals the character arc of a lover choosing dignity over delusion.

The Kikamba chorus becomes the emotional pivot of the track, a moment of tension where grief fights against resolve. The plaintive repetition:“Ekae ekae ekae ee / ndumbese ndumbese ndumbesenye” carries the softness of plea and the rawness of someone not yet ready to release what has already crumbled. Its translation as “Stay, please stay, I’m begging you, don’t leave me” introduces a discordant longing, turning the track into a moving portrait of heartbreak’s contradiction: wanting to walk away while still begging the past to return. 

When Jakk Quill enters, he mirrors this emotional tether from a distinctly masculine vantage, reflecting on the flaws he overlooked in unconditional love: “Girl you know I hate it when you dance would you take a second lesson cuz I loved your ass with no conditions.” His verse maneuvers between relationship disillusion and autobiographical subtext. When he raps “Everything I say be getting twisted, I can’t connect a message,” he is speaking both as the hurt lover and as the rapper whose 2025 quietness and bold cypher performance on Khali Cartel 5 stirred unexpected rivalries. His declarations of self-correction, “F** it I had to adapt… I see nobody on the map” also double as meditations on the rap industry and its politics. Still, he bleeds vulnerability through mythic metaphor: “Had me dripping like Medusa, then did me gruesome,” before descending into rhetorical self-interrogation: “what did you do me like that, I didn’t deserve it… I felt like I’m losing purpose and worthless.” The bridge, “What a wild ride this is / had me going in / got me sipping gin” succinctly summarizes the emotional unravelling coursing through his verse.

The production reinforces this oscillation between outward confidence and internal fracture. A softly pitched classical piano forms the song’s melodic spine, played with a deliberate bounce that gives the track its youthful pop-RnB buoyancy. Layered underneath are continuous background hums and lightly synthesized textures, modernized further by a faint electric guitar shimmer. The log drums enter with a steady kick, offering a funky but controlled groove suitable for both radio play and the right club atmosphere. Dhahabu’s sung verse is cushioned by intermittent light 808s and softer drum patterns that allow her emotional clarity to stand unblurred. Jakk Quill’s verse, though melodic, rides on fewer percussive layers, giving him space to pack bar after bar without disrupting the rhythmic coherence of his flow. The result is a balanced production that knows when to step forward and when to retreat behind the performers’ emotional arcs.

Dhahabu’s artistic identity gives Ekae an added layer of purpose. A Kenyan singer shaped by RnB, Soul, HipHop, and the musical legacy of her Kamba upbringing, she weaves ancestral sound and contemporary pop-RnB seamlessly. The Kikamba chorus is not only a cultural marker but a continuation of her personal mission to honor her roots. Jakk Quill, meanwhile, uses the track to reconnect with fans during a quieter year, showcasing his range and reinforcing his reputation as one of the strongest lyricists of his generation. His cadence shifts, emotional transparency, and double-layered writing reaffirm that even in introspection, he sacrifices none of his sharpness.

Tamu – Iyanii

Tamu thrives on its simplicity, an unfiltered celebration of life wrapped in warmth, rhythm, and the irresistible sweetness hinted at by its title. Iyanii makes no attempt to complicate the message; from the opening line, he situates the listener inside a world where joy, friendship, and ease are the only priorities: “Nakula maisha na adabu, na-enjoy na wenzangu / hapa tu ni burudani hakuna kuenda nyumbani.” He foregrounds pleasure as ritual, a gentle defiance against stress and routine, choosing instead to craft a moment where living well is both philosophy and practice. But what makes Tamu compelling is not just its positivity—it’s how that positivity is structured through collective performance. The long, two-part hook leans into ngonjera’s call-and-response tradition, transforming a modern pop track into a communal chant: “Naskia fiti, Raha mtamu” answered by “tamu,” or “Naskia poa” echoed in the same fashion. When he shifts into the second part, a unison chant (kigongo cha pamoja) that culminates in the mischievous admission “Leo kwa simu sipatikani, siendi nyumbani,” the song unexpectedly subverts Swahili theatre convention. Instead of foretelling calamity, the chorus becomes the vehicle for shared laughter, playfully portraying a reveler too deep in the night’s charm to head home.

Iyanii extends this ethos in the second verse, solidifying Tamu as an ode to escaping stress. He opens with a universal credo: “I don’t want no stress, just happiness / enjoy life to the fullest with no regrets”—before weaving global pop nostalgia into the fabric of the song. Borrowing from Alphaville’s 1984 hit Forever Young, he paints his gathering of friends as a youthful, timeless moment: “Forever young I want to be forever young / ni masaa ya ujana na mbogi yangu tukipatana.” It’s an invocation that resonates deeply within East African expressions of youth, echoing the proverb ‘ujana ni moshi,’ a reminder that youth evaporates quickly and should therefore be lived with intensity. This lyrical thread loops back seamlessly into the expansive two-part hook, reinforcing the communal heartbeat of the track.

Waka Waka’s production gives Tamu its airy, sunlit charm. The song’s backbone is an acoustic Latin guitar pattern that immediately signals coastal ease, soon joined by a soft keyboard arrangement that captures the gentle sway of reggae. A second layer of electric guitar injects a modernized bongo flavor, moving in step with the chakacha-inspired drums that give the rhythm its distinctly Swahili pulse. Even the trap 808s are sculpted to echo chakacha percussion rather than dominate it, resulting in a textured lightness that feels effortless. A digital rendering of the Swahili mrija flute ties the sonic palette together, bridging Caribbean warmth and East African identity with surprising cohesion. Over this lush blend, Iyanii delivers with his trademark melodic energy: hooks that feel instantly familiar and verses that carry the breezy confidence of someone fully at home in celebratory music.

Iyanii’s current momentum gives Tamu an additional layer of significance. Fresh off a stellar 2025—anchored by Donjo Maber, Rumors, Unanifaa, and a show-stealing appearance on Vic West’s Stage Ya Mwisho—he has cemented himself as one of Kenya’s most reliable hitmakers. His appointment as Captain Morgan’s brand ambassador further positions him at the center of Kenya’s festive cultural landscape. Waka Waka’s rise mirrors his own; together they form the kind of artist-producer duo whose chemistry feels both deliberate and natural, a partnership capable of shaping the soundscape of contemporary Kenyan pop. Tamu lands perfectly at the onset of Kenya’s December sherehe season, functioning as a ready-made soundtrack for parties, long drives, coastal getaways, and nights defined by warmth rather than worry.

Black Sugar – Eko Dydda featuring Teslah

Eko Dydda’s Black Sugar unfolds as a modern reinterpretation of Ginjah’s original reggae classic, borrowing its thematic tenderness while reshaping the sonic landscape through contemporary Kenyan creativity. From the outset, the chorus situates the track as an intimate vow between lovers, a soft assurance articulated through Teslah’s floating alto: “Now I could give you more and more of black sugar / Forever me na wewe baby uswai shtuka.” The reassurance embedded in uswai shtuka (don’t tense)anchors the song’s emotional core, presenting love as a safe space where fear dissolves into sweetness. This vow is echoed in the post-hook as she insists, “Vile unanifanya ni feel / You can’t tell me this love isn’t real,” transforming the refrain into a devotional mantra. The language of feeling becomes the grammar of commitment, and the interplay between English, Swahili, and Sheng heightens the song’s soft romantic cadence.

What makes Black Sugar striking is how it places Eko Dydda in unfamiliar territory while allowing him to carry traces of his gospel identity into a sensual love narrative. His verse begins with heavenly imagery: “Sent from heaven aste aste / Penye uko ndio I stay I stay / Angel malaika si mnaste naste / Celebrate you daily nika birthday birthday,” signaling a lover whose admiration is spiritual as much as emotional. He takes a culturally grounded approach, invoking the blessings of the parents of his beloved, underscoring intentions rooted in seriousness rather than fleeting affection: “Si your mom na your dad ei wako blessed ei / Nataka nkupanguzie chozi ya past ei.” The verse oscillates between playful charm and protective devotion, at one moment casting the lover as a star on the red carpet(casting himself as a fan in a subversive move), at another rejecting gender-based violence with clarity: “Ngozi nyororo stai kupea dent / Roof kwa kichwa na self ni contain.” Even his humorous declaration of shaving off his famous dreadlocks for love further emphasizes the gravity of emotion that drives the verse.

Teslah’s verse arrives with a contrasting sensuality, a softness that complements Eko Dydda’s grounded devotion. She leans fully into the bodily, the intimate, delivering her lines with the confidence of someone who knows what she wants: “Closer, how we move si no body pullover.” Her persona embraces desire without hesitation, casting love as an addictive pull; “Ai, ai, am addicted to / Vitu we u-do umeniweka ju.” What begins as playful flirtation deepens into emotional reliability, culminating in her promise: “Niambie unacho taka me nita come through / Kati ya wote we ndo nataka tu uuuuu.” The chemistry between Teslah and Eko Dydda, perhaps spiritual, perhaps sensual, gives Black Sugar a dynamic duality, allowing the song to move effortlessly between devotion and desire.

Much of the track’s power comes from Unspoken Salaton’s clever production, a rare moment where the gengetone artist steps behind the boards to craft a piece anchored in reggae’s legacy without directly replicating its tropes. Instead of guitars, he deploys a digital synthesized keyboard, its high-pitched, almost monotone loop echoing the syncopation of classic reggae but with a softened edge that leaves space for Teslah’s harmonies. A secondary keyboard layer, slightly faster, adds motion without aggression. The one-drop pattern is reimagined by elongating the keyboard chord into a deep, almost bass-like swell at the end of every cycle, giving the track its bounce. Light trap 808s slip into the silent spaces, their tempo gradually rising as the chorus approaches. The result is a modern, digitized homage—one that challenges the conventions of arbantone by refusing to simply recycle dancehall beats, instead choosing deliberate reinvention.

Black Sugar functions as a bridge between generations and genres: reggae nostalgia, modern Kenyan production, gospel sensibility, and sensual afropop converge in a single track. For Eko Dydda, the song marks a daring departure from his established gospel lane, revealing an artist able to expand his thematic palette without abandoning the moral clarity that anchors his identity. For Teslah and Black Market Records, the track reinforces their reputation for shaping the evolving texture of urban Kenyan music, blending gengetone, R&B, and reggae with fluid artistry. The collaboration exemplifies the cultural moment in which Kenyan musicians increasingly blur genre boundaries, crafting songs that honor tradition while embodying contemporary expression.

Za Lunch – Joefes featuring Kabansora

Za Lunch opens in the middle of a small, desperate dilemma: a friend who is really more acquaintance than brother,keeps calling and asking for lunch money. The hook lays out the problem with humorous bluntness: “Alafu ananitext ati nitume za lunch/ hadai soo ati nitume za punch/ ako Kitale ati nitume za lunch.” What starts as a simple request becomes a portrait of urban hustling, those everyday negotiations of survival that define youth life in Nairobi. Joefes’ verse leans into this uneasy empathy, acknowledging that this friend is not particularly close, yet something about the plea strikes a chord. His persona admits, “Me na bro si ati tumetoka mbali/ ni venye me ni bro so naelewa hali,” turning the song from mere mockery into a reflection on how shared struggle shapes community. The verse widens its scope briefly into political critique: “Ni vile serikali na uchumi haziendani/ so ma-youth wako nje juu wantaka za ndani.” It’s a clever bridge between personal inconvenience and national frustration, tying the friend’s lack of lunch money to a wider economy that has pushed young people into the streets, recalling the June 2024 protests.

The writing packs multiple narrative threads into a tight space while maintaining a buoyant, comedic edge. Joefes slides from economic struggle into a smoky indoor hangout, “Ndani ni kumoto, naiona mumewaka,” before cracking jokes about owing friends money, or not paying enough when they go out: “Mko wapi nikuje, hamtaki nije juu nslakunywa za bure?” This blend of self-deprecation and insider humour is part of what has long defined his style. 

Kabansora’s verse intensifies the contrast, working almost entirely through juxtaposition—what the friend wants versus what he himself prioritises. He hasn’t had breakfast, yet someone expects him to fund their lunch: “Sijakula breko na ye anataka za lunch.” His complaints are framed through cheeky exaggeration, like preferring a jug of keg rather than a single cup: “Staki cup, buda nitumie za jug.” Even his embrace of hedonism,“Mi huwanga tu relaxed bora nikona ma drugs” is punctured by warnings about club safety, “Usimeze hizi matembe fulani juu pia unaweza bugla,” showing a moment of clarity amid the chaos. The verse closes on a calm, almost philosophical shrug: “Sipendi mambo mingi penye niko better talk less, biz mingi sai mi siko formless,” a reminder of how some artists signal ambition not through loud bravado but quiet control.

All these stories sit comfortably atop a lively and meticulously layered production. The beat begins with a digital keyboard melody built for bounce, a structure common in gengetone but here given added personality by soft electric guitar lines that weave through the mid-sections. These guitars provide a playful counter-rhythm that prevents the track from becoming repetitive. Drum logs energise the movement, while light 808s are fused to the guitar layer, their tempo rising and falling to heighten tension ahead of the chorus. The cycle closes with high-energy dancehall drum patterns, and hi-hats sprinkled strategically to mark crescendos. Produced by Unspoken Salaton, the track benefits from his instinct for street rhythm and his understanding of where to place dynamic peaks for maximum impact. The result is a beat that moves with the same humour and restlessness as the storytelling layered over it.

In tracing Joefes’ place in the scene, Za Lunch also sits within a broader career arc. As a founding member of Mbuzi Gang, Joefes built a reputation on witty storytelling and an unmistakable vocal grain that cuts through any production. His command of Sheng, his ability to paint scenes from Nairobi’s social and economic texture, and his energetic cadence have made him one of the most reliable voices of the gengetone generation. After the group’s quiet dissolution, he has emerged as the most consistent in terms of output, streaming numbers, and cultural footprint. Kabansora, meanwhile, adds the perspective of a rising underground act whose humour and relaxed delivery align perfectly with Joefes’ narrative sensibilities, giving the song a complementary duality.

Za Lunch stands out as one of the defining tracks in Joefes’ new album The Art of Gengetone, his first full-length solo statement. Its blend of humour, political commentary, and grounded storytelling captures why Joefes has maintained relevance beyond the lifespan of Mbuzi Gang. The album’s mix of underground collaborators like Kabansora, Moraa and Fidel Rayd as well as more established names like Odi wa Muranga, Steph Kapela and Ssaru reflects a moment in gengetone where the genre is trying to broaden its narrative texture without losing the rawness that made it popular. Za Lunch, in particular, speaks to a shared generational experience: economic strain, friendship politics, and the dark comedy of urban survival, making it a song that resonates far beyond its immediate joke.

Written by Otieno Arudo