The never-dying relationship between Kenyan politics and music takes new turn

DP Kithure Kindiki (Center) when he met Kikuyu artistes in Karen [Courtesy] In Kenya, the relationship between music and politics has long been a tightly choreographed affair, conjoined twins at the hip, inseparable and mutually reinforcing. From the campaign trail to State House lawns, musicians have provided more than just entertainment; they have been the anthemic voice of political movements, singing power into existence. It is a union that has, over time, yielded hefty rewards. Artists who once toiled in obscurity have found themselves transformed overnight into national icons, all for aligning their melodies with a political message. Often, the public welcomes this symbiosis, embracing these songs as rallying cries, victory hymns, or sentimental signatures of political eras. The most iconic instance in recent history came during the late President Mwai Kibaki's tenure, when the rap duo Gidi Gidi Maji Maji struck gold, both figuratively and literally, with their hit song Unbwogable. The infectious chorus became Kibaki's de facto campaign anthem in 2002, energising crowds and setting the tone at rallies. Gidi Gidi and Maji Maji were catapulted into national consciousness, becoming Kibaki's de facto advance team, whipping up the masses before the President arrived. The song's resonance, combined with the political winds of change, helped usher Kibaki into office, and seemingly nudged the duo into early retirement, having, perhaps, earned enough from their smash hit. The symphony of politics and music returned to the national stage during the 2021 Kiambaa by-election, following the death of MP Paul Koinange. With Jubilee and the then-nascent United Democratic Alliance (UDA) locking horns, the battle quickly shifted to cultural fronts. In this contest of symbols, UDA sought to prove its mettle, fielding John Njuguna Kawanjiku as its "firstborn" candidate in Central Kenya. Both camps turned to musicians to sway public sentiment. Suddenly, politics was performed on a musical stage, with one-man guitarists, folk artists, and songstresses composing campaign-specific anthems. Among the marquee names were Samidoh Muchoki, Muigai Njoroge, Jose Gatutura, Ngaruiya Junior, and Kuruga wa Wanjiku. Their presence electrified rallies and drew crowds in droves, politicians merely followed suit to capitalise on the charged atmospheres. Cheque in envelope Each side spared no expense. Truck-mounted sound systems blasted campaign hits across Kiambaa's hills and valleys. Emotion, nostalgia, and rhythmic propaganda turned rallies into concerts. In the end, UDA claimed victory, and the fusion of music and message was credited with amplifying Kawanjiku's profile. While many Kenyan musicians typically devote their craft to social commentary, familial tributes, or love ballads, politics has crept in, shrewdly carving its space. For years, Kenya's music-politics marriage ran smoothly. But recent events have shown the limits of this romance, especially when public mood sours. When a group of Central Kenya musicians visited Deputy President Kithure Kindiki at his Karen residence, their social media posts sparked uproar. Fans, already disgruntled with the government's performance, saw the visit as a betrayal. What followed was a PR disaster: online insults flew, fan pages turned hostile, and musicians scrambled to salvage their reputations. Some issued lengthy apologies; others went further, publicly donating the envelopes they had received, presumably as payment for their support. In the court of public opinion, the once-adored artists had become villains overnight. Their only crime? Singing too soon. The backlash poses an urgent question: Should musicians, in the age of instant feedback and political polarisation, first take the temperature of the public before lending their voices to power? Music remains a potent political tool. But as Kenyan musicians are now discovering, aligning with unpopular regimes can strike a discordant note. The rhythms of politics may pay, but when the tune turns sour, the cost can be far higher than the cheque in the envelope.

The never-dying relationship between Kenyan politics and music takes new turn

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