New Music on the Radar JUN 6 ( Matata, TheLuchi, Willy Paul, An21 KE)

Welcome dear readers to the first weekly music round up of June 2025.We feature a punchy raw rap single from An21 KE and Karis from the Recipe EP that debuted earlier this week on radio 254 exclusively. Two Alternative or (Odi Pop if you love genre names so much) have released songs with almost similar titles, Tiki Tako by Matata and Tikitaka by TheLuchi, what are the odds of that? We also highlight Willy Paul’s new tune with Guchi, a tune that reminds us of his Better lyricism in duets. Enjoy!

Tiki Tako – Matata ft. Mejja

There’s something deliciously irreverent about “Tiki Tako,” a track that floats on the rhythmic high of Gengetone while dipping into the mellow bounce of Afropop. But beneath the breezy surface lies a rich commentary on youthful rebellion, sensuality, and social ritual. The title itself is a metaphorical sleight of hand—borrowing from the world of football, “tiki taka” becomes a stand-in for the rhythmic, stimulating effects of miraa (khat). It’s a stoner’s gospel wrapped in nightlife swagger: “Tuko juu ya jaba, tume seti tuko on / Zimekanashi ku arrest beyond (BEYOND)” proclaims a collective elevation, as if the herb has passed the mind from mere stimulation to spiritual departure. The metaphor sustains throughout—“Ka unadai form, tukona hadi miti shamba / Huku kuna hadi waganga and beyond”—suggesting a realm of infinite vibes, endless links, and no consequences.

Wuod Omollo’s production is key here. Known for his more melodic Afropop stylings, he strips down Gengetone’s usual rawness and replaces it with a looped natural guitar progression and a Near Eastern flute riff that feels hypnotic. The 808s are light and fluid, mirroring the “tiki taka” footwork referenced in the song—quick, nimble, coordinated. Matata moves in a similar fashion, each member layering playful, confident lines over the groove, never breaking its pulse. There’s a standout cheekiness in lines like “Nina keys to the city, give me keys to your kitty,” asserting charm and dominance without ever getting too heavy. Mejja, as usual, steals the show. His verse arrives like a punchline—measured, flirtatious, and drenched in cultural cues: “Me nataka manzi ako na beads kwa waist / Naskia wanakuwanga freak kwa bed.”The track follows a loose narrative arc—starting in grandiosity and ending with the romance of the personal: “We mpige block alafu give me a kiss.” The repeated “Tiki tako, ah ah / Tiki hiyo tako Ayy” chants transform the chorus into a sonic ritual, made for sweaty dancefloors and smoke-filled miraa dens. It’s a song equally at home in the neon-soaked nights of K1 Klubhouse as it is in the communal buzz of urban miraa joints, where conversation and laughter flow as freely as the tea.

But the true cultural heft of Tiki Taka lies in its convergence of generations and genres. Matata represents the new school: sharp choreography, glossy visuals, and a global ear tuned into Afrofusion. Mejja, on the other hand, is the bridge to Kenya’s early 2000s Genge roots, a poet of the ordinary with a knack for making the mundane magical. Their collaboration isn’t just about vibes—it’s a dialogue between eras, a musical handshake across Kenya’s evolving soundscape. By embedding khat, flirtation, and humor into a football metaphor, Tiki Tako doesn’t just entertain—it encapsulates a subculture, offering a mirror to Kenya’s urban youth and their relentless reinvention of pleasure.

Tikitaka by TheLuchi featuring Chris Kaiga,Ssaru and Mūrūthi Myna

TheLuchi, long a restless innovator in the gengetone scene, crafts yet another high-octane anthem that straddles joy and resistance. Produced in collaboration with Mūrūthi Myna, the beat loops a section of a classic dancehall sample—a high-pitched, frenetic loop that rides atop softer keyboards and electric guitar lines. There’s a raw elegance to it: a sonic push and pull where the drumming patterns constantly morph, offering a buffet of textures. The producers cleverly loop a guitar chord rapidly to mimic a drumline, syncing it with a heavy, booming 808 reminiscent of early 2000s dancehall. During the verses, they dial it down slightly, opting for softer modern 808s that give room for the words to land with clarity and weight.

The song’s spirit is immediately captured in the recurring choral chant, “Ninaona mkikula vaibu / Sakata kiuno bila aibu”. It’s more than just a hook—it’s a manifesto of movement, an invitation to shed self-consciousness and find freedom in the body. TheLuchi opens his verse with a rhythmic flourish: “On your mark get ready ready / It’s a dance thing get steady / Ni weekend mambo ni mengi”, riffing on childhood rhymes to build a playful, nostalgic tone. Then comes the choreography: “to the head, to the waist / tingika tingika kiuno let it vibrate / move to the right, to the left / ichape chape ni ka zime arrest”. His lyrics are part instruction, part incantation—designed to animate limbs and loosen inhibitions.

Chris Kaiga enters next, following another blast of the titular chant. His delivery is cool, collected, but instructive: “dance kama belly dancer” he says, before throwing in a cheeky line that anchors the song’s identity—“style tikitaka ni kama zimevaa Nike”. Ssaru then takes the baton with characteristic swagger. She picks up the chant and turns it into a bridge to her own section, referencing Hapo Tu, the Nyashinski hit that Kaiga was part of: “Masaa ya kulala tunalala kwako tu / maintain kama tuko hapo tu / ukiniukta hivi nitakupa one two”. She closes with a spirited invocation of the title: “naweza tikitaka, ukitaka / ka kuna vaibu kuna kitu inawaka”.

But Tikitaka is more than the sum of its verses. It’s a space—a mood—for people who want to move, laugh, forget, and resist without saying it out loud. It’s club material, yes, but it’s also TikTok fuel, house party gold, and a sonic excuse to be joyfully unserious in serious times. What TheLuchi is building, track by track, is a new gengetone grammar: one where protest wears a dancing face, and resistance sounds like a good time.

Better by Willy Paul featuring Guchi

In Better, Willy Paul returns to familiar terrain—a love duet steeped in longing, confusion, and eventual resolution. But this isn’t the erratic, scandal-chasing persona often plastered across gossip blogs. Here, we find Pozze the vocalist, the lyricist, the collaborator—doing what he arguably does best: crafting deeply emotive ngonjera-style exchanges with women whose voices and presence match his own. Guchi, the rising Nigerian star known for her blend of Afrosoul and pop sensibility, is a perfect match. The result is a measured, mature ballad about two lovers caught in a cycle of conflict, trying to decide whether they’re better off walking away—or holding on.

Guchi opens the conversation with weary resignation: “I don’t know why we’re still fighting / it is still OK if you let me go… I don’t need this kind of loving, yeah!” Her words are not explosive but restrained, tired, honest. Willy Paul’s persona picks it up with a mirrored frustration: “Why are we always fighting, instead of vibing?”—a line that feels as much like an accusation as it is a plea. In the pre-chorus, he brings the conversation home: “Give me ghetto loving, Genge loving yeah”, grounding the sentiment in a local context, a subtle homage to the rawness and authenticity of Nairobi’s Eastlands, and to Kenya’s own Genge legacy.

The chorus is structured as a vocal call-and-response, each artist affirming the irreplaceability of their love. Pozze asserts, “Nobody loves you better, better than me / nobody forgives you better, better than me”, while Guchi answers with her own conviction: “Nobody go do you better, better than me / nobody go love you better, better than me.” They meet in the post-choral bridge, their voices layered in soft harmony, repeating “baby give me love”—a shared surrender that gestures toward reconciliation.The second verse shifts both tonally and emotionally. The storm of doubt has passed. The lyrics and delivery soften, embracing a newfound tenderness and certainty. The narrative arc completes itself not with grand declarations but with quiet mutual understanding.

Production-wise, Better is uncredited on streaming metadata, hinting at an in-house producer from Willy Paul’s camp. The instrumental leans toward Afrosoul, though it’s structured with bongo-inspired arrangement, softened and refined. A gentle keyboard lays the melodic foundation, accented by lively electric guitar riffs and occasional piano loops. Jazzy inflections, possibly a nod to West African highlife, fill the quieter moments—echoing Guchi’s sonic roots. The 808s remain subtle throughout, keeping the beat grounded without overpowering the mood. East African-style shakers inject a mild liveliness, giving the track just enough rhythmic motion to avoid dragging, making it suitable for late-night radio rotation and adult contemporary playlists. Better is not just another international collabo. It extends Willy Paul’s quiet legacy of pan-African duets, joining previous efforts with Tanzania’s Nandy and Jamaica’s Alaine. It’s a love song in both theme and production—sincere, grown, and reflective. While the younger crowd might miss the subtlety, older audiences will find something timeless in it: the ache, the hesitation, the slow return to each other, again and again.

YEAR ONE by An21 KE & Karis

YEAR ONE is a lyrical blitzkrieg—a final statement on The Recipe EP that cements Karis as a formidable writer and performer with a rare ear for nuance. This is not your typical single. There’s no hook, no chorus, no breath. Instead, Karis barrels through bar after bar in a single take, building a world with nothing but wit, pop culture, and pent-up ambition. At its core, YEAR ONE is rap in its rawest form: hungry, clever, and sharply self-aware.The song opens with an almost throwaway couplet—“Two times two is four, that’s foreplay / I open her world, I told it’s roleplay”—a line that reads like it’s aimed at a love interest, but quickly reveals itself as a clever nod to fans and listeners. Karis stretches the metaphor of a romantic entanglement to name-drop figures like Sia, Aaliyah, and Mother Teresa while weaving in jabs at climate change, philanthropy, and legacy. “She know global warming, she giving me fever / Brown skin gal, yeah she hotter than Aaliyah.” It’s highwire writing, reminiscent of Lil Wayne’s Carter III era—equal parts outlandish and poetic, structured chaos.

Pop culture references run thick throughout, landing with the ease of someone who grew up immersed in both Nairobi’s Eastlands and global Black culture: “Homies ni familia, naishi fast and furious,” and “Dreads nimepiga ka drum za kapuka.” But the standout moment comes when Karis shifts his energy to critique the Kenyan music ecosystem. “Infact nimekumbuka hampendi kapuka / Manze hadi E-Sir sio jina kwa ninja / Hamjui ma pioneers, hamjui kupika / Hii ndio recipe from chef wa Eastlando.” It’s a moment of honesty and grief disguised as braggadocio—a reckoning with collective cultural amnesia. And more than that, it defines the thesis of The Recipe EP: reclaiming Kenyan sonic heritage with style, skill, and bite.

Just as the energy threatens to plateau, Karis pivots to a meditative moment. He repeats “Nipee miaka kumi nitakuwa millionaire” like a chant, only to flip the narrative seconds later with a gut-punch: “F##k it, next year nitakuwa millionaire / Show zitaflow hadi wine iwe water / Where? East, Karis ndio king.” That tension—between doubt and divine certainty—marks the emotional peak of the track.The final portion of the song is both homage and flex. Karis references, name-checks, and mimics the flows of Kenyan rap giants: Khaligraph and Nyashinski as well as new comers Trio Mio, and Lowki the Great. It’s done with reverence, but also with a clear sense that he sees himself in the same lineage. The transitions are seamless. His flow stretches, stumbles, morphs—mimicry as mastery.

An21 KE’s production across the EP is crucial, and on YEAR ONE, it’s at its most bold. The beat rides a sample from a zilizopendwa classic—faint guitar melodies loop and shimmer before giving way to a synthesized keyboard and sub-bass line. Then the drums kick in—rapid, heavy, almost militaristic. This sonic palette, laced with Kapuka DNA, underlines the ethos of the record. Karis even references this shift in production within his lyrics, creating a loop between sound and meaning, artist and engineer.But the larger significance of YEAR ONE lies in the cultural bridge it constructs. An21 KE, a producer and tastemaker originally from Kilimani, has helped platform breakout names like Sabi Wu, Ouma wa Mafegi, and Korbs. By teaming up with Karis, a son of Nairobi’s Eastlands, The Recipe EP becomes more than a collection of tracks—it becomes a cross-class, cross-sonic experiment. Where Wakadinali and TNT have walked similar paths, Karis now steps with his own signature—gritty, hyper-literate, and deeply Kenyan.If The Recipe was a kitchen, YEAR ONE is the flaming final dish—a rap monologue that scorches, sways, and leaves no doubt that Karis and An21 KE came to play with fire.

Written by Otieno Arudo