Kulture: The Millennial Therapy Session We Didn't Know We Needed
From a young age, I harbored a unique desire—to be Nameless. Yes, I’m putting it out there. For days, I wrestled with how to start this story, drafting and deleting over and over, before realizing the most authentic introduction was hidden in my childhood memories all along. So here it is: I didn’t just admire Nameless; I wanted to embody him. Not imitate his style—the shades, the durag, the smooth voice that turned every song into an anthem—but to truly be him. He made growing up in the 2000s feel like we were part of a movement, a rhythm intrinsic to us, long before streaming platforms, hashtags, and algorithms dictated what we should love.
Here's a seemingly trivial detail, but bear with me—it helps paint the picture. One of my favorite bars in Nairobi lies quietly tucked away in Lavington. I’ll keep its name under wraps to avoid unsolicited promotion, especially since my relationship with their Sales and Marketing team is already complicated. What captivates me about that place isn’t just the whiskey or cozy dim lights; it’s the DJs who spin old-school tracks every single day. Mostly '90s American R&B, but occasionally sneaking in early 2000s Kenyan hits like secrets for those of us who remember.
You could be sitting there, lost in your thoughts, when suddenly the speakers explode with ‘Boomba Train’ or ‘We Kamu’ or any classic Amani track. In that moment, you're no longer at that bar; you’re transported to a bustling Buruburu matatu pulsing with graffiti and a subwoofer so loud it feels like it’s syncing with your heartbeat. That era didn’t just deliver music—it etched itself onto our identities. It was rebellion, youth, and unfiltered energy—before rent, heartbreak, and responsibility dulled our edges.
So when Tusker Oktobafest unveiled ‘Kulture’—an evening celebrating the legends of our childhood soundtracks—I didn’t hesitate. I had to be there. I needed to be part of it.
That’s how I found myself stepping into Carnivore last Saturday night. The sky above felt restless, pregnant with anticipation. Nairobi on a weekend always has a pulse, but this night bore the weight and wisdom of years past—as if the ghosts of the 2000s were sneaking back into town, donning fresh kicks and vintage cologne.
The entrance surprised me—no chaos, no throngs pushing or shouting, no frantic stampede typical of Kenyan concerts. Instead, there was a calm, curated atmosphere. Ushers greeted us with warm smiles, scanning tickets with respectful ease, as though fully understanding this wasn’t just another event but a reunion—a gathering of grown-up kids who once eagerly awaited Channel O countdowns and ‘Hits Not Homework.’
Inside, the crowd moved together like a gentle tide, not racing for front-row selfies or posturing for social media. The atmosphere was soaked in memories—conversations orbiting CDs, cassette tapes, Walkmans, and those magical first hearings of E-Sir, Nameless, Big Pin, or Wahu on a Nokia 3310. The joy on their faces was unmistakable, eyes sparkling not from idol worship but personal history. These attendees weren’t mere fans craving a live show; they were witnesses eager to relive their youth—clad in denim jackets, clutching Tusker beers, laughter already warmed up for every lyric about to be sung.
There was a rhythm in the air beyond the music, a beat from hearts long out of sync that night finally converging. The venue felt spacious—tents stretched wide, giving the spirit room to breathe. Every detail was thoughtfully placed: bustling but breathable food stalls offering grilled wings and choma simmering under soft orange lights, bartenders serving affordable cold drinks that didn’t demand your entire paycheck.
Then, the stage—a living, breathing marvel of light and sound. Behind it, gigantic LED screens flaunted visuals blending cartoonish graffiti with slick modern motion graphics, like someone had distilled the Kenyan 2000s music scene into an artful time-lapse, adding a splash of 2025’s flavor then releasing it beneath the Nairobi night.
This wasn’t merely a concert; it was a confrontation with time. This was ‘Kulture,’ a resurrection—not simply of songs, but of lives, voices, and legacies that shaped an entire generation’s pulse.
Let me pause here to share why this night held immense significance.
About two weeks earlier, a PR professional with a voice so smooth she could sell you insurance you didn’t want called me to invite me to the Tusker Oktobafest Industry Night—the official launch of the festival’s programme on September 25, 2025. A day before the event, she sent me a screenshot of a three-page guest list packed mostly with influencers and celebrities I couldn’t imagine chatting with beyond two minutes—no offense (okay, maybe a little). Only two names caught my eye: Marek Fuchs and Fakii Liwali.
Marek, known as the former manager of Sauti Sol, transformed the band from aspirational amateurs at Alliance Française into a global sensation that once performed at State House before Barack Obama. Marek epitomizes the dream maker, the man who polished ambitions until they dazzled. After stepping away from the band’s management, he founded AfricaCentric Entertainment (ACE), and somewhere along that journey, alongside a few ears at EABL, the idea for Oktobafest was born. But that’s a story for another time. Today, I want to focus on the other visionary.
Fakii Liwali is the kind of man who moves mountains quietly without climbing them for selfies. He manages rapper Nyashinski and has produced films like ‘40 Sticks’ (available on Netflix and Prime Video) and ‘2 Asunder.’ His impact permeates Kenya’s creative world—on stages, screens, and even the nation’s tourism branding, where he recently joined a 23-member rebranding task force. Learning that ‘Kulture,’ in collaboration with Tusker Oktobafest, was his concept made perfect sense; I was eager to hear his insights.
During our chat, Fakii explained his mission: to bring back pioneer Kenyan artists who never got their due spotlight. He wanted to reintroduce these trailblazers not just to their aging fans but also to younger generations who recognized their songs but not their faces. This event aimed to resurrect these legacies. He also spoke candidly about struggles with copyrights and streaming revenues that often leave pioneer artists rich in impact but poor in paychecks. To him, hosting a celebration like this was more than symbolic—it was a bold shake-up against the usual industry noise.
Back to the night itself.
The stage design was ingenious—a live radio studio setup with legendary presenters Muthoni Bwika and Jimmi Gathu behind microphones, as if broadcasting straight from heaven’s FM. They didn’t just host; they spun narratives and memories. On their sides, DJs Pinye and John Rabar manned the decks like seasoned uncles at a family reunion, dropping basslines and hits that stirred memories of youth, powered by the very voices that once introduced these songs to us.
When the lights dimmed, the crowd erupted as Kalamashaka—titans of Kenyan rap and the very reason the genre found a voice in this country—took the stage. No pyrotechnics or dancers needed; their sheer presence was commanding. Every lyric hit like sacred text from hip-hop’s gospel. The audience recited every word, fists raised, as if chanting a second national anthem. Their departure left an energy that clung like lingering smoke.
Abbas Kubaff then strode on with undeniable swagger, flowing effortlessly, his classics still echoing decades after ‘Toklezea’ dropped. Prezzo followed with theatrical flair, preceded by a dramatic video on the screens that was part storytelling, part bravado—because, naturally, Prezzo always brings a bit of drama before the music. His performance carried the same charismatic power he’s known for. Midway, he invited Nazizi onstage, and the vibe shifted as fans celebrated the First Lady of Kenyan hip-hop with cheers and warmth.
Nazizi seamlessly transitioned into the second act alongside Wyre, reviving Necessary Noize, the groundbreaking duo that once made us believe Kenyan music was destined for continental conquest. Their back-to-back hits had the crowd singing along like it was twenty years in the making.
Then came Wahu, radiant and calm, her voice slicing through the night like rays of golden light breaking fog. She sang with passion, and Carnivore turned into a massive shared karaoke session—as she warned women about... well, less than honest men.
Mr. Lenny, the ultimate throwback king of collaborations, surprised everyone with his stellar live performance. Each hook he unveiled lifted the crowd’s cheers to ancestral heights. Big Pin followed, commanding the stage with his deep, resonant voice and was soon joined by Sanaipei Tande. The duo ignited the night.
Sanaipei, ever the powerhouse, held the spotlight before inviting Jua Cali for a full-on Genge extravaganza. The crowd’s chants, dancing, and pounding bass shook Carnivore to its core. Jua Cali did what he does best—transforming nostalgia into pure, unfiltered energy.
P-Unit brought a burst of synchronized vigor, reminding everyone why their name once stood for instant mayhem on dance floors nationwide. Just when it seemed the night couldn’t escalate, Kleptomaniax—Collo, Rawbar, and Nyashinski—stormed the stage. The original street bad boys sent the crowd into near madness, as if the 2000s had strolled back in, wearing black and flashing knowing smiles.
And finally, Nameless appeared. The very reason many of us tried singing in the shower as kids. His entrance was met with a roar usually reserved for football victories or political upheavals. His set was vibrant, steeped in nostalgia and alive with energy. Hit after hit, memory after memory, he carried himself with that timeless grace that defined cool before we even knew what cool meant.
As midnight edged past, and fatigue began to settle, Nameless beckoned all the legends back to the stage. Shoulder to shoulder under glowing lights, they performed a deeply moving tribute to E-Sir, featuring his younger brother, Habib. Screens displayed his image, flags bore his face, and the music softened—thousands sang in unison; some smiling, some tearful, united by a collective grief that transformed into a shared blessing. Even I got misty-eyed. For that fleeting moment, time stood still. The past wasn’t lost; it was alive, harmonizing.
The Evolution of Oktobafest
“Collaborating with Tusker to bring this vision to life has been incredible,” Fakii Liwali reflected post-show, riding a wave of gratitude and adrenaline. “The 2000s forged a distinct Kenyan sound, and seeing such a huge turnout confirmed just how timeless that music and culture truly are.”
Tusker’s Senior Brand Manager, Brigid Wambua, echoed this sentiment, describing the event not simply as a concert but a “cultural reunion.” She said, “Watching artists who shaped a generation share the stage and feeling the passion of the attendees affirmed that Kenyan heritage isn’t just alive—it’s thriving. This spirit is what Tusker Oktobafest aims to carry nationwide, connecting communities and celebrating the unique soul that makes our beer and music distinctly Kenyan.”
And this celebration is only just beginning. The ‘Kulture’ event at Carnivore marked the kickoff of Tusker Oktobafest’s regional tour, set to travel across Kenya over the upcoming weeks—from Eldoret’s Tamasha on October 11th, to New Big Tree in Bamburi on the 18th, Atella Beach Resort in Kisumu on the 25th, and wrapping at The Stinger Lounge in Nanyuki on November 1st.
When the Night Ended
As the lights flickered off and the crowd slowly dispersed, it was clear no one was in a hurry to leave. People lingered in small groups, reliving favorite moments, laughing and debating who had aged best. That night stirred something rare, striking a chord we didn’t even realize was still beating. Carnivore transformed into a living museum—rowdy, jubilant, sweaty, yet achingly beautiful.
Walking home in the early morning, Fakii’s previous words echoed in my mind about resurrecting the faces of pioneers and offering them their due recognition while they could still appreciate it. And indeed, he pulled it off so well we’re all now hungry for more. ‘Kulture’ wasn’t just a nostalgic journey—it was a powerful reminder that our cultural path was, and remains, paved with excellence. Time moves on, yes, but that night was proof Kenyan nostalgia doesn’t need an overhaul; it simply needs a stage, quality sound, and a cold Tusker in hand.
What do you think? Was the revival of this era just a pleasant nostalgia trip, or does it challenge how we should value pioneering artists today? Share your thoughts below—do you agree that events like 'Kulture' are essential, or are they just rehashing the past without creating space for new voices?
