OUT OF FOCUS: 30 years of rap in the ears of a Kenyan male

by Jossi Tinga

My own hip-hop moment came in 1984 at the Kenya Cinema theatre Mombasa with the arrival of ‘Breakdance: The Movie’. I was in the throngs watched over by wary policemen as I jostled for a ticket to watch what was billed as the hottest movie ever. I was sixteen. Only the premiere of ‘Sarafina’ would rouse similar attention among Kenyan cinema-goers.

The fashion sense and imagery of hip hop is now part of Kenyan life

‘Breakdance’ brought hip-hop to Kenya. It also propelled the f-word, the b-word and irreverent reference to motherhood into our speech. What I saw in the theatre that afternoon has largely dissipated but the music still rings in my ear. Via Chaka Khan and a DJ’s improvisation our taste in music drifted from the crooning of soul and R&B, the lopping beat of reggae, soukous and rhumba. In came a vigorous beat with accompanying percussion plus new daring twists and turns. 

A few children sprained their necks or backs trying to imitate Shabba Doo and Boogaloo Shrimp. Many homes and schools attempted to ban the dangerous routines. Hip-hop lived on in Kenya propelled by a snazzy beat, rebellious lyrics and the blackness of the artist. American ghetto kids looked very much like us. It gave us a new snapshot into the lives of American ghetto youth. To our consternation there was an under-class in America. Soul Train and the sitcom did not quite tell the story of Black America.

I suspect hip-hop is especially appealing to African youth for incorporating vigorous dance to a fast-paced beat. Generally, popular African music is dance music.  There was another twist to hip-hop that made it stick. It came with a new fashion sense. Along with the middle-finger gesture; it made the blue jeans, the baseball cap and sneakers a must-have for urban youth.  It was not to rub its influence in fashion and speech alone- it spawned a home-grown equivalent best epitomised in the life of Poxi Presha our own bad-boy of hip-hop.

To its credit, hip-hop brought on an audacious sense of self-belief among the under-privileged youth.  They could look at their background with dignity and challenge for better things just as the characters in ‘Breakdance’. Poxi Presha did just that becoming an idol with hits like Otonglo Time and defying the local recording gurus to retain a fiercely independent brand. Hip-hop gave voice to the local urban slang, Sheng. To date, it is perhaps the only medium that freely gives voice to Sheng. I suspect this has made the tongue thrive.

The local variant has shied away from the explicit language of international rap. It has stuck with the self-exaltation theme and the imagery. I have never heard a single irreverent reference to mothers although women remain the focus albeit in less snide terms.

 Hip-hop was fun- until it shocked us quite some with the deaths in quick succession Biggie Smalls and Tupac.  An otherwise enjoyable duel between two rhythmic signatures in the hip-hop arena ended tragically. I had not heard of Biggie Smalls before the East Coast- West Coast madness broke. I did not like him much after but must acknowledge Tupac for making hip-hop sound good with California Luv. He had his own mouthful of expletives but had the sense to do a good song. His tribute to his Mom Dear Mama not only had us rocking but pointed at another trajectory in hip-hop. It was snuffed out before it could shine.

For all its class and youth appeal, hip-hop has never become family staple in Kenya. It has largely remained youth music some thirty odd years after it came with a bang. It has not followed in the path of reggae, soul or R&B. What initially aroused the censor’s ear on radio quickly meant hip-hop and its sometimes lurid lyrics cannot be standard African family entertainment.

The accompanying bare-all music video, with its wicked gyrations and rush to turn affection into sex will likely bring discomfort to the average Kenyan living room. Here, the television set is usually a shared family resource. It has taken the place of the traditional fireplace where stories were told. Raunchy sex and explicit language are not welcome. To beat the trap, TV stations use the slot immediately after school and just before six for teenage hip-hop viewers. Concerned parents may not be in the way to jostle for control. 

The initial promise of hip-hop; as a liberating experience for under-privileged youth has warped and dimmed somewhat. Its claim to test the limits of free speech is totally misplaced. It has shrunk the focus of free expression to the inches above the female knees extending all the way to the spread just below her shoulders. It is a very narrow focus for free speech.

Hip-hop has commodified women in a way the free market cannot. The gorgeous form and voice of Beyonce surrendered to the whim of Jay Z is stripped of dignity, bewitched and rendered a mere sex symbol. The caution thrown into the beat by Coolio for reflection on how violence and drugs wreck communities has not found prominent takers in the hip-hop arena. In its stead there is a stream of lyrics limiting the scope of pleasure to sex, drugs and violence.

T he crass presentation is smoothed over by beautiful renditions by the likes of Rihanna probably to mellow the vanity expressed therein. Accomplishment by any means and the deployment of assets for pleasure are the mantra chanted in present day hip-hop.  The guiding theme appears to be 50 Cent’s Get Rich or Die Trying. As recently as in Drop it like it’s Hot, my old favourite D-O-double-G is churning the same old s**t.  He never learnt from Dear Mama.

The message from the beat is threatening our children’s perception of reality. It is not measured or tempered and seeks to portray an individual miscreant’s material success despite his lack of other important intellectual faculties as reason for our youth to abandon the traditional values of discipline, devotion, dedication and duty.