Historically, Kenyan music served as the ultimate check on power. During the Moi era, Eric Wainaina’s “Nchi ya Kitu Kidogo” became an anthem for a nation exhausted by corruption, and Ukoo Flani Mau Mau used hip-hop to voice the struggles of the disenfranchised. These artists acted as the conscience of the people, demanding accountability through rhythm and rhyme.

However, the tides have shifted. Today, power has learned to speak the language of the streets. Instead of fearing art, the establishment has co-opted it, turning music into a sophisticated weapon of strategic communication and political branding.

The most glaring examples emerge during election cycles. We have moved from organic protest songs to high-budget “political anthems.” Consider the ubiquitous presence of Ben Githae’s “Tano Tena,” which transformed a political slogan into a catchy, repetitive earworm that simplified complex governance issues into a loyalist chant. Similarly, during the 2022 campaigns, we saw the weaponization of the “Firirida” dance craze and the commissioning of Gengetone-style tracks to appeal to the youth vote.

When politicians hire popular artists to remix their hits into campaign jingles, the art loses its critical edge. It ceases to be a tool for the public to question leadership and becomes a “vibe” that masks systemic failures. This “soft power” approach uses the emotional connection fans have with artists to bypass critical thinking.

When art stops being a mirror held up to society and starts being a billboard for the highest bidder, the public loses its most resonant voice. To reclaim the soul of Kenyan music, artists must resist the lure of being state influencers and return to the harder, more necessary work of being truth-tellers.