Here’s a bold statement: the music of our youth isn’t just a soundtrack—it’s a lifeline to who we were, and who we’ve become. But here’s where it gets controversial: What happens when the beats that shaped us start to fade into the background, overshadowed by newer rhythms and algorithms that dictate what’s ‘cool’? This is the story of ‘Kulture,’ a night that dared to resurrect the sounds, faces, and memories of a generation, proving that some things are timeless—even if the world tries to forget them.
Growing up, I had a secret aspiration: to be Nameless. Yes, you read that right. Not just like him, but him. The shades, the durag, the voice that turned every track into an anthem—he was the embodiment of cool I chased. His music, along with others from the 2000s, wasn’t just entertainment; it was identity, defiance, and the pulse of a generation before life’s responsibilities dulled our edges. This was long before streaming platforms and hashtags told us what to love.
Fast forward to today, and my favorite bar in Nairobi—a place I won’t name to avoid free advertising (the Sales and Marketing team already has enough on their plate)—is a sanctuary for old-school music. Tucked away in Lavington, it’s where DJs spin ‘90s R&B and, occasionally, sneak in 2000s Kenyan hits like hidden treasures. When ‘Boomba Train’ or ‘Tuendelee’ blasts through the speakers, it’s not just a song—it’s a time machine. Suddenly, you’re back in a graffiti-covered matatu, feeling invincible, before rent, heartbreak, and adulthood stole the show.
So, when Tusker Oktobafest announced ‘Kulture,’ a night celebrating the legends who soundtracked our youth, I didn’t hesitate. I had to be there. Walking into Carnivore that Saturday evening, the air was thick with anticipation. Nairobi’s weekend pulse felt different—older, wiser, like the ghosts of the 2000s had returned in fresh sneakers and vintage cologne.
The event was a masterclass in curation. No chaotic stampedes, no flailing arms—just polite ushers scanning tickets with smiles that said, ‘We get it. This is no ordinary night.’ Inside, the crowd moved like a tide, smooth and respectful. It wasn’t noise that greeted you; it was memory. Conversations flowed about CDs, cassette tapes, and the first time they heard E-Sir or Nameless on a Nokia 3310. These weren’t fans; they were witnesses revisiting their youth, denim jackets and Tusker in hand.
The stage was a masterpiece—a breathing entity of light and sound. Massive LED screens flashed visuals that blended 2000s nostalgia with 2025 flair. It felt like someone had bottled the essence of Kenyan music, shaken it up, and poured it out under the Nairobi sky. This wasn’t just a concert; it was a reckoning with time, a resurrection of voices and legacies that shaped us.
And this is the part most people miss: ‘Kulture’ wasn’t just about the music. It was about giving pioneers their flowers while they can still smell them. Fakii Liwali, the mastermind behind the event, shared his vision: to bring back artists who didn’t get the shine they deserved, and to introduce them to a younger generation. He also highlighted the copyright struggles and streaming challenges these legends face—their wealth lies in legacies, not bank accounts. This wasn’t just a celebration; it was a disruption.
The performances were electric. Kalamashaka, the pioneers of Kenyan rap, took the stage with no frills—just raw lyricism. Abbas Kubaff’s effortless flow, Prezzo’s presidential razzmatazz, and Nazizi’s seamless transition into Necessary Noize with Wyre—every act was a reminder of why we fell in love with Kenyan music. Wahu’s calm voice, Mr. Lenny’s throwback magic, Big Pin’s charisma, and Jua Cali’s Genge mayhem—it was a night of pure nostalgia.
But the highlight? Nameless. The man who made us believe in cool. His set was a whirlwind of hits and memories, culminating in a heart-wrenching tribute to E-Sir. For a moment, time stopped. The past was alive, harmonizing with the present.
As the night ended, nobody wanted to leave. Carnivore felt like a living museum—loud, joyful, sweaty, and beautiful. Fakii’s vision had worked, maybe too well. Now, we all want more. ‘Kulture’ wasn’t just a trip down memory lane; it was a reminder that our lane was, and still is, paved with greatness. Kenyan nostalgia doesn’t need fixing—it just needed a stage, good sound, and a cold Tusker.
Here’s the controversial question: In a world obsessed with the new, how do we ensure the legends of yesterday aren’t forgotten? And more importantly, are we doing enough to support them today? Let’s discuss in the comments—I want to hear your thoughts.
