Turn up the Music, Get in Formation and Call Out Bad Governance
Even though artistic expression may not solve society's problems, not in Kenya or anywhere across the globe, it reminds us that visibility is power. Art is power. Identity is power.
When did people begin writing and singing protest songs? Probably about five minutes after the first person in the history of the world felt wronged, cheated, or treated unfairly. Protest songs aren’t often the sort of thing one studies—they’re songs that speak to the age you’re living in, to the time and place and problems of your particular moment.
They’re songs that you feel. I’ve always preferred protest songs that, rather than imagining some beautiful future when everything is gonna be alright, engage with the tension—and occasionally the terror—of the situation at hand.
The Kenyan Chorus of Discontent
Give me King Kaka’s “Wajinga Nyinyi” and Sauti Sol’s “Tujiangalie”—for my money, two of the greatest protest songs of the “twenty tens”—not a group of concerned baby boomers holding hands and singing “We Shall Overcome.”
It took a ”near insult” for Kenyans to appreciate some basic but hard truths about the country. I call it a ”near insult” because many Kenyans, at least those who gave their views in the social media, did not have a problem with the description of Kenyans as ‘Wajinga Nyinyi’ or ‘you fools’ by the artist.
The hard-hitting, spoken word largely stated what every conscious Kenyan knows: from the poor state of the economy to corruption, and divisive politics to false election promises.
What was new is, the rapper called out Kenyans for being so blind about their situation and for being so forgetful: amnesia he called it. I followed conversations online and realized many Kenyans, millions, actually agree with King Kaka.
But I say, that is not enough.It is not enough to just agree and to lament: Lamentations do nothing beyond perhaps drawing a tiny speck of sympathy from your tormentors.
Kenyans must not just lament, they must do something: they must draw the proverbial line in the sand and reject what in the rappers’ words, the systematic destruction of their country.I have had conversations with many young men and women, the youth of this country and many of their views reflect King Kaka’s words.
Many are frustrated that the presidential election is a tribal blood sport and an ethnic census. They are frustrated by the absence of ideology in electoral politics and a culture of tribal thinking forced down on them by among others their parents and politicians.
They are demotivated by electoral promises that mean nothing, just outright lies. They are also frustrated by what they say, the absence of options and the dominance of what one of them told me ‘the usual crop of bigwigs.’
‘Anguka Nayo’ carricature
Give me ”Anguka Nayo” the 2024 viral hit song by Wadagliz.Anguka nayo, a phrase coined from two Swahili words, loosely translates to ‘drop with it’, but if you speak Sheng (urban slang) it has an even deeper meaning.
According to Lugha Yangu, an online translation platform for over 150 African languages, the phrase is interlinked with honesty and forthrightness.“It could mean [to] call/say it as it is or do not spare or when they go low, go lower [aura for aura],” says the website.
With an infectious rhythm and catchy chorus, the song became a famous TikTok challenge for both children and adults, with some social media users even nicknaming themselves ‘Anguka Nayo’.
Artists even designed a logo from the phrase, which depicts a young man dancing with his hands and head pointing to the ground. The song has accumulated millions views on YouTube, sweeping through social media platforms like bushfire, after it became the anthem of the Gen Z protests in Kenya and morphed into an unprecedented cultural phenomenon.
Give me ”Daima Mimi Mkenya” by the iconic Eric Wainaina, a song that implores us to commit ourselves to the improvement of our country. With his melodious voice, Eric goes on to croon about the colours of the flag and what they mean – black for the people and red for the blood that flows in every citizen’s veins; green for the land and white for peace.
Utawala
The song concludes with Eric making his own promise – to continuously be patriotic. Released in 2001, Daima is a melody that has carried us through the darkest times of our history. “Naishi, Natumaini.” “I live, I hope.” Daima moves us to keep living and hoping.
When he released ‘Utawala’, 12 years ago, veteran Kenyan rapper Juliani, probably did not imagine that the hit would resonate with Kenyans more than a decade later, becoming the soundtrack to a fearless youth-led revolution.
In ‘Utawala’, the artist succinctly rapped about poor governance, decrying the country’s runaway corruption, inequality and economic sabotage. During the 2024 Gen-Z revolt, millions of young Kenyans chanted the classic song word-by-word, clenching fists raised high in the air, as the revolutionary spirit swept through the air.
While snaking through the teargas-filled streets of Nairobi and other major cities and towns across the country — choking in the toxic fumes and drenched in water, protesters repeatedly sang out the Juliani chorus in unison, their voices reverberating from skyscraper to skyscraper. For years now, the song’s evergreen lyrics have become the bedrock of all national uprisings and the singer himself has appeared in the streets alongside protesters as if putting an indelible stamp to a belief he pronounced years earlier.
Echoes of Resistance: A Global & Local Symphony
The use of songs as a narrative and a tool to convey an important message continued into the 20th century with Black Americans using their voices to help their fight for freedom and equality.Today, many of the songs of the past eras still remain relevant as Black Americans continue to fight for various social issues, including environmental and voting rights, economic and healthcare equality, and criminal justice reform.
In Childish Gambino’s music video, “This Is America,” Donald Glover forces us to relive public traumas and barely gives us a second to breathe before he forces us to dance. Photograph from Donald Glover / YouTube
Give me Beyonce’s “Formation” and “Freedom”, Donald Glover’s “This is America”, and Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright,” all since adopted as rallying anthems by many Black Lives Matter activists.
‘Formation’, the politically charged lead single from her critically acclaimed 2016 album Lemonade.Set in New Orleans, the clip conjures images of Hurricane Katrina, Mardi Gras, Southern Black culture, and the weight of America’s racial history.
There’s natural hair, “hot sauce in my bag” swag, and fearless Black pride. One of the most arresting scenes features a young Black boy dancing in front of a line of heavily armed police officers.
At his command, they raise their hands in surrender — a haunting reversal of the power dynamic that reflects the fatal reality in places like Ferguson, Missouri, where unarmed teen Mike Brown was shot dead by police.Then, the words flash: “Stop shooting us.”It’s a moment loaded with pain and defiance.
Even in harmless contexts, Black bodies — especially when clad in something as everyday as a hoodie — are criminalized. Trayvon Martin’s killer used his hoodie as a justification for fear. That garment became a global symbol of protest and mourning.
But in ‘Formation’, the child in the hoodie is neither afraid nor submissive. He is bold, brilliant, and beautifully unbothered — a celebration of Black resilience in the face of systemic violence. And it struck me, watching from Kenya, how familiar this dance with state violence is. In Kenya, the police are not protectors — they are feared enforcers.
Their history is marred by brutality, corruption, and impunity. From extrajudicial killings in Nairobi’s informal settlements to the recent harassment of Gen-Z protestors and the poor, our relationship with law enforcement mirrors the dysfunction seen in the U.S. but carries its own painful legacy.
Boniface Kariuki was shot as police cracked down on a protest in the capital Nairobi against the death in detention of blogger and teacher Albert Ojwang, 31. Kariuki, a mask vendor, was shot at close range on 17 June,2025.
Here, being young, poor, or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time can get you detained, disappeared, or worse — killed.It has been nearly three years since two brothers, Emmanuel Mutura and Benson Njiru Ndwiga, lost their lives in the hands of the Kenya Po-lice ‘Service’ officers. The two brothers were allegedly murdered on 2 August 2021 by police officers.
Release Date January 31, 2020
The Kenyan police force has long been accused of targeting those most vulnerable: the jobless youth in Mathare, Kibra and Dandora, the sex workers on Koinange Street, the queer community in clubs and underground safe spaces, and the inmates in prison who are often forgotten by the system.
Complaints rarely result in justice. Only a tiny fraction of abuse cases ever make it to court — fewer still lead to convictions. So when I watch and rewatch Beyonce’s ‘Formation’, I don’t just see an American story. I see a Kenyan one too. I see Gen-Z’s struggles for dignity and justice reflected in bold political art presented by these artists.
But perhaps what makes such a kind of musical composition so provocative is that it doesn’t just perform empowerment — it demands it. It centers the very identities most often erased or vilified: queer people, impoverished people, dark-skinned women.
It honors the marginalized. Our own “key populations” — those who face the dual burden of social stigma and state-sanctioned violence: sex workers, men who have sex with men (MSM), people who inject drugs (PWID), the transgender community, and those behind bars. These are people at the intersection of oppression — blamed for everything and protected by no one.
So yes, Beyoncé told her girls to “get in formation” — and from New Orleans to Nairobi, that call still echoes.
Writing in the newspaper Libération, French historian Clyde Marlo-Plumauzille said, “Because it can move people and make them move, because it speaks to everyone, because for so long it was the art of people whose voices were not heard, music has been part of popular protests since the Middle Ages.”
Today, at worldwide political protests in places like Kenya, the US, Chile, France, Algeria and Hong Kong, the classics of protest music can be heard alongside songs taken from popular culture, often from the most unlikely sources.
At the same time, new songs by socially engaged artists are also making history as the new revolutionary anthems with the emotional power of the combination of music, symbolism and communal action lighting up the internet and sending shockwaves to the highest seats of power.
Even though artistic expression may not solve society’s problems — not in Kenya or anywhere across the globe– it reminds us that visibility is power. Art is power. Identity is power.
And maybe, most importantly, joy is power. It’s a reminder to all of us navigating hostile systems with grace, that we, too, slay.
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