In the grand scheme of Kenyan politics, language of music informs the populace on the direction of the political windsock, way above the consecrations of the tribal chieftains.
Saul Alinsky quips in his book Rules for Radicals that “The Prince was written by Machiavelli for the Haves on how to hold power; Rules for Radicals is written for the Have-Nots on how to take it away.” As one may posit, Kenya needs organised radicals and not ambitious coconut heads full of hate and haranguing bitterness hidden in divisive songs and genres.
The place of music, especially protest music, as a genre to speak truth to power cannot be gainsaid. It is as old as human civilisation. Songs of protest have always been all-encompassing, innately patriotic, and nationalistic. That is a perfectly acceptable situation.
Kenya's leadership, at different epochs of our existence as an independent state, has not been spared from music of protest. During the leadership of Jomo Kenyatta in the 1960s and '70s, as despondence and despair against the hopes and expectations of independence began to set in, subtle music of protest was composed to capture the frustrations.
One of the most poignant examples was Ishmael Ng'ang'a's Gathaithi PCEA Church Choir's 'Maî nî Marûrû' (The water is bitter). Though couched in biblical and religious language surrounding the bitter water described in the Book of Exodus, where the Israelites encountered bitter water at Marah in the wilderness, it spoke truth to power and expressed the frustrations of immediate post-independence directly to the selfish Kenyatta. The song was promptly banned.
Daniel arap Moi was not spared either. Osumba Rateng's Baba Otonglo captured similar frustrations and economic hardships that almost every Kenyan identified with. The lyrics "... budget iko high, vyakula vimepanda, ukame umezidi, vitu vyote vimepanda," still resonate with those of our generation who sang along. Recently, during Uhuru Kenyatta's leadership, King Kaka sang the political parody 'Wajinga sisi', which rubbed some politicians the wrong way. That is all perfectly in order and acceptable.
Now, truth be told: The language of music is expected to be universal. It is not unusual to find a Luo dancing and passionately singing along to 'Mwendwa wakwa Marirû' or a ‘Molima’ fellow doing the same to 'Kanungo eteko'.
Where we should all draw the line is when some erstwhile harmless musical theme is taken within the prevailing political context to subtly alienate or create political division or inter-ethnic anxiety, stereotypes, and suspicions. Coded ethnic and political undertones that elevate one community or region above other Kenyans are unacceptable from whatever angle one looks at it.
Let's loosely thematically interrogate the first line of the 'Itungati' song within the context of the attitudinal chest-thumping "we are sons of Mau Mau (read itungati)." The lyrics open with the rhetorical question: "andû moragia Kenya nî yaû..." (People ask who owns Kenya). The qualification of that rhetoric, though harmless within the context of ‘Molima’, more or less rubs other communities' noses in it. That does not sit well in our multi-ethnic society.
As Kenyans get consumed by political self-hate, regrets, and bitter swearing amid gleeful sharing of caricatures, Kasongo clips, and itungati ballads, we should be reminded that politics is both an art of the possible and a craft of cunning. All too often, an astute and pragmatic politician has no choice but to positively embrace new and emerging political circumstances, stealthily leave his base, and mutate like an amoeba. Realpolitik is the name of the game.
To be fair, realpolitik is a two-sided coin that presupposes give-and-take: Accepting and moving on. It has positive realities on one side and crass Machiavellian underhand tactics on the other. We stick with the positive side while remaining keenly aware of its flipside.
The maxim that there are no permanent friends or enemies in politics may be idly bandied about but reflects the living reality of politics. To those who are politically bitter, conservative, and unyielding, dust is their constant portion. What are we saying? Some people may feel betrayed by former President Uhuru Kenyatta hosting President William Ruto for lunch at his rural home amid pervasive hate and bitterness. However, you haven't seen anything yet.
From any perspective, whether considering personal or national interests, Uhuru understands this reality better than anyone else. Rather than subscribing to the potentially disruptive "Must Go" mantra, he acknowledges that Ruto has a residual contract with the Kenyan people that is set for potential renewal on October 8, 2027. We celebrate him.
Raila precedes him in this understanding; we celebrate him too. Now you Gen Z individuals—apart from your beautiful renditions of itungati ballads—do you expect your loud shouts of "Must Go" to yield anything? Without an electable regional leader to negotiate with others at the national table, how can a headless crowd—aka Gen Z—consummate "Must Go"? And this is meant for those of our generation—how many years from 1990 did we shout "Moi Must Go?" When did he go? How did he go? And why?
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