New Music on the Radar JUL 18 (Bien, HR the Messenger, Noisey Boi and Kethan)

This week’s selection of standout Kenyan releases invites listeners into a world of emotional honesty, romantic reflection, and hard truths. Across the board, artists explore love in its most complex forms—love that heals, love that hurts, love that never quite arrived. These songs are soaked in longing, quiet epiphanies, and the sting of past disappointments. Some tracks feel like letters unsent, while others are declarations finally spoken out loud. There is vulnerability here, but also a calm strength—a sense that even pain, when expressed in the right key, can be beautiful. Whether delivered through rich harmonies, aching verses, or playful turns of phrase, this week’s songs prove that emotional depth is still the most powerful tool in a songwriter’s kit.

All My Enemies Are Suffering – Bien

Bien has always carried an aura of artistic audacity, but All My Enemies Are Suffering is where cheeky satire, spiritual bravado, and Afro-musical mastery converge. A standout moment from his global tour in June, the track—first teased at a street venue in London—blends his signature Luhya identity with broader African sensibilities, particularly Nigerian and South African soundscapes. “All my enemies are suffering / all their plans go scatter scatter”—the chorus rings like a triumphant incantation, at once comic and vengeful, calling back the Nollywood trope of poetic justice. It’s a song that lives between prayer and performance, at home in both praise sessions and meme culture.

The first verse launches with lyrical acrobatics: “Enemies, frenemies, miss me with that energy”. Here, Bien marries the modern flair of melodic rap with social media bite and spiritual defiance. Biblical references abound—“prepare a table for me right before my enemies / so they can see I am living in my prophecy”—a psalmic declaration sung with evangelical zeal. Yet he doesn’t lose sight of his roots: a Luhya pre-chorus petitions Nyasaye for protection, sung with layered vocals that evoke the feel of a village choir. In the second verse, the pace slows, becoming more contemplative. “They smile by day but they scheme at night”—a reminder that Bien’s enemies may be close, but his eyes remain open. The song is, as he puts it, “a song of victory”, and by the end, he’s made a vow: “they will never steal my shine.”

The production—helmed by Nigerian maestro Remy Baggins and mastered by Michael Manitshana—mirrors this blend of modernity and heritage. It kicks off with a Nollywood-style mono synth, the kind used in West African film to signal tension, but Bien’s team flips it, introducing bright guitars by Godwin Ufot and thunderous isikuti drums courtesy of Joseck Asikoye & the Luhya Drummers. The South African amapiano pulse is felt in the transitions, giving the track its groove, while 808s tie the layers together with bounce and punch. During the chorus, heavier digital drums and gospel-style vocal echoes transform the track into a kind of musical altar call—one where Bien plays both lead singer and victorious psalmist. His voice, always compelling, is stretched, layered, harmonized, and fed back to us like a wave of confidence swelling in full rhythm.

Culturally, All My Enemies Are Suffering is more than a hit—it’s an assertion. In a continent where spirituality, social commentary, and humor frequently co-exist, Bien manages to capture that intersection masterfully. The choice to reimagine a Nollywood-style narrative of justice through a comedic yet deeply African lens makes the track widely relatable across generational and national borders. The symbolism of the cockerel—often referenced in Bien’s performance persona—isn’t lost either. In his Luhya culture, it is a figure of honor and vitality, and here, it represents a masculinity that dares, wins, and sings while doing it. Whether as a meme, a mantra, or a moment of sonic celebration, this track reinforces Bien’s status as the genre-blurring artist of his generation—rooted, witty, and gloriously defiant.

Decompress – HR the Messenger

Lo-fi keys loop softly under HR the Messenger’s voice as “Nadai ku decompress, nime grind sana nadai punguza stress”floats in—a mantra, an invocation. From the opening bar, Decompress situates itself as a raw, deeply human track. The song is both confession and offering: a space for vulnerability, especially for men who often carry the quiet weight of pain in silence. Over minimalistic production threaded with trap 808s and wistful flute phrases, HR uses his gift not only to express but to testify: “Nadai ku decompress, ndani ya booth let loose on a pen, nadai ku get some rest”. The booth becomes both sanctuary and battleground, where inner demons are named and wrestled with.

The emotional heft of the first verse comes from its sheer honesty. There’s nihilism (“nimechoka ku bet on life”), rhetorical pleading (“can a young ngga just breathe?”*), and a grim recognition of depression masked by smiles on social media: “Nilidhani uko fiti when I saw pose with your guys on your highlight reel”. HR pulls no punches as he admits the unspeakable, “But nikiwa solo I never cry like this / Nights like this when I grab a knife and slit my wrist”. Yet the second verse lifts the veil toward a more assured self: “Nadai kuji express/Using my words vile sir Jah alini bless”. He steps into his prophetic role, an artist tasked not only with survival but with bearing witness. “Sijawai taka ku pretend /head above water ndani ya deep end”, he raps—still struggling, but no longer silent.

The production is deeply intentional. HR, who self-produces and founded Philosophy Records, balances softness and sharpness: the lo-fi chords echo introspection while sparing but heavy drums give the track a pulse, like a heart too stubborn to stop. An electric guitar melody washes over the beat, offering both friction and peace, mimicking the emotional ebb of a man caught between resilience and breakdown.

HR the Messenger’s story is one of conviction. An award-winning rapper, writer, and producer, his sonic signature combines soulful storytelling with hip-hop authenticity. Collaborating with artists like Wakadinali and Boutross, and crossing borders with talents from Botswana, Malawi, and the UK, HR has carved out a space in African hip-hop where introspection and artistry co-exist. “Karatasi, kalamu na white shirt/wajuanga ni producer na writer”—the line is both resume and reminder.

But Decompress is more than a personal song. Its cultural relevance lands with the weight of urgency. In Kenya, suicide rates among men vastly outnumber those of women, with a male-to-female ratio of 3:1. HR’s choice to center men’s mental health, especially through the video that features Boutross and others affirming vulnerability, strikes at the heart of a national silence. Though released in July, the track could easily be the anthem for Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month in June, a reminder that even in the darkness, you are not alone.

Fala Alibonga Bad (Chuo) – Noisey Boi & Mambah

The streets speak in code, and Fala Alibonga Bad (Chuo) is fluent. The third installment in Noisey Boi’s upcoming mixtape Street to Soul, this track delivers a gripping snapshot of urban Nairobi, not as seen from a drone or a news lens, but from within—the pulse, the tension, the language. Over a haunting instrumental stitched together from an eerie high-pitched digital loop and jittery trap 808s, newcomer Mambah narrates the unvarnished truth of everyday survival. “Fala alibonga bad nikampelekanga chuo / Heart iko mad niko gin tu ma chuom”—the hook lands like a cold warning. There are no masks here, no metaphors to soften the blow; just reality and the ever-shifting rules of respect, perception, and power.

Mambah’s delivery is unhurried but heavy, laid out in confident flows laced with the nonchalance of lived experience. He paints street life with eyes wide open, tapping into the unspoken knowledge that lingers in gazes: “macho nyanya ndio persona”. He conjures smoke-filled rooms, coded language, and a sense of controlled chaos: “keja ni lit utadhani tuko sauna”. But it’s not all smoke and bravado—there’s grit beneath the bars, a daily rhythm of hustle, tension, and mistrust. He throws side-eyes at informants: “macho za gava informer / macho za gaza nageuka the wrong one”, aware that in the streets, who’s watching you might be more dangerous than who’s chasing you. Drug use and petty crime are mentioned not to glorify, but to situate—this is a neighborhood report, and Mambah is its scribe.

The production from Noisey Boi mirrors the unease of the content. It’s deliberately unsettling, with minimalist keys that screech just above comfort and layers of trap drums that feel more like footsteps than rhythm. Between bars, the beat stretches and recoils, mimicking the tension of real street moments when things could flip in seconds. This isn’t production for mass appeal—this is curation for truth. Even the drum layering—a mix of trap, grunge, and traditional rhythmic tension—builds a sonic environment that traps the listener inside the world being described.

That Noisey Boi would handpick Mambah, a virtually unknown voice with no other DSP releases to his name, speaks volumes about the producer’s vision. The only previous recording from the rapper is a raw performance in Cypher 33, also produced by Noisey Boi, which celebrated the spirit of Embakasi. With Fala Alibonga Bad, Mambah doesn’t just ride the beat—he earns his name. And as the second entry in Street to Soul, the track encapsulates the duality that Noisey Boi says drives the mixtape: the self we show the streets, and the truths we carry in silence. Mambah’s persona may be new to digital audiences, but in the world he’s documenting, he’s already fluent in survival. This song doesn’t just add to Kenyan hip-hop—it announces a raw, uncompromising new voice that underground heads will want to watch.

Malaika – Kethan, Okello Max

There’s something tenderly cinematic about Malaika—a love ballad rooted in emotional truth, composed with the deliberate elegance that Kethan has come to be known for. Framed as the third chapter in the unfolding narrative of his much-anticipated album Dr. Flow Will See You Now, the song introduces a patient in love, not just waiting to be seen, but already beginning to heal. The instrumental, helmed by the ever-reliable Hendrick Sam, balances acoustic intimacy and soulful groove. A soft keyboard melody holds hands with an electric guitar, while Kethan’s trusted acoustic strings weave through like a whisper from the heart. Gentle drums and light 808s pace the beat like a slow, sure heartbeat, joined by quiet amapiano pulsations that subtly anchor the song in its Afro identity.

Kethan doesn’t waste time with buildup; he lets vulnerability lead: “Mtoto mrembo njoo kwangu njoo / something special never seen before.” It’s a plea wrapped in reverence. The verse unfolds into a tale of recognition and surrender, “Nilijua maramoja wakati nisije poteza”—a classic love-at-first-sight line that manages to feel fresh. Yet this isn’t naïve romance. He acknowledges how rare true love is: “Haija kuwa rahisi kupata penzi halisi”, before turning spiritual, “naomba wenye wivu Maulana niondolee”. The fear of loss becomes as loud as the joy of discovery, and in this tension, the soul of the song glows. “Roho yangu nyepesi itashindwa kupiga damu”—a line that aches in its sincerity. Okello Max steps in with the bruises of the past still visible, yet hopeful. “It’s been a while since I said goodbye”, he confesses, before committing with a quiet resolve: “Round hii nabaki ground.” His voice, warm and rhythmic, contrasts Kethan’s more fluid phrasing, creating a dialogue between pain and possibility. He speaks of beauty, both physical and emotional: “Na tabia bado sija guza,” before making his promise clear: “Na hapa kwako sitoki / jaber hera mit kodi.” The love being sung here isn’t just infatuation; it’s a shared belief in starting again.

Beyond its musical richness, Malaika arrives with cultural weight. The track marks a key release from Dr. Flow Will See You Now, a project delayed by personal and national turbulence—including Kenya’s June 2025 anti-police brutality protests. As part of a concept album built around a fictional couple’s therapy session, Malaika becomes a moment of light in an otherwise tense waiting room. Its arrival also follows Kethan’s online spat with the Light Art Club collective, a public fallout after a canceled concert at Chuka University that momentarily clouded the artist’s year. But Malaika returns the conversation to what matters: music, healing, and the human desire to be seen, chosen, and held. It’s a quiet triumph—a song that doesn’t shout its greatness, but sings it with every note.

Scar Mkadinali – Finya

Boutross – Left, Right (Shake It Off)

Emotion ft Njerae

Ally Fresh and Polaris Pauline – Baba