Kulture: The millennial group therapy we never knew we needed

I grew up wanting to be Nameless. There, I finally said it. I’ve spent the past few days agonizing over how to begin this story, overthinking and typing and deleting, only to realize that the perfect opener had been sitting quietly in my childhood all along. So Yes, there you have it: I grew up wanting to be Nameless. Take note; I said to be him, not to be like him. The shades, the durag, the voice, that effortless cool that made every hit sound like an anthem. He was the guy who made growing up in the 2000s feel like we were all part of something that truly mattered, a rhythm that belonged to us; this was way before streaming and hashtags and algorithms told us what to love.

Here’s another piece of barely relevant information, but just indulge me for a minute. My favorite bar in Nairobi sits quietly somewhere in Lavington. I will not mention its name because that would amount to free advertising and there’s already enough friction between myself and the Sales and Marketing department as it is. But I love that spot, not just for the whiskey or the dim lighting, but because the DJs are always playing old school songs. Monday to Monday. It’s usually mostly ‘90s American RNBs, but every once in a while the DJ will sneak in 2000s Kenyan songs into their sets like secrets meant only for those of us who remember.

You’ll be sitting there, minding your business, when suddenly the speakers burst into ‘Boomba Train’, or ‘We Kamu’, or ‘Tuendelee’ or just any Amani song ever. And suddenly you’re not in Lavington anymore, you’re in a Buruburu matatu with graffiti art and a subwoofer so loud it can distort your heartbeat. That’s what that era did, it branded itself into us. It wasn’t just music; it was identity, it was defiance, it was youth before rent and responsibility and heartbreak dulled our edges.

So, when Tusker Oktobafest announced ‘Kulture,’ a night dedicated to the legends who soundtracked our growing up, I didn’t think twice, I had to be there, I had to be seen.

That was how I found myself walking into Carnivore this past Saturday evening under a sky that felt almost restless and heavy with anticipation. You could almost smell the nostalgia right at the gate. Nairobi on a weekend night has always had a pulse, but this one felt older, wiser; like the ghosts of the 2000s were tiptoeing back into town wearing fresh sneakers and vintage cologne.

We were greeted at the entrance with no drama, no shoving, no flailing arms, no chaotic stampede that usually accompanies Kenyan concerts. This one was different. It felt curated even in its calmness, deliberate in its ease. The ushers smiled as they politely scanned our tickets, like they understood that this was no ordinary night, this was a reunion, a gathering of grown kids who once lived for Channel O countdowns and ‘Hits Not Homework.’

You walked in and the crowd seemed to know, instinctively, that tonight wasn’t about rushing for front-row selfies or testing the security fences. The people moved like a tide, smooth, measured, respectful. It wasn’t noise that greeted you, it was memory. The chatter sounded like a reunion of eras: people trading stories of CDs, cassette tapes, Walkmans, and the first time they heard E-Sir or Nameless or Big Pin or Wahu on a Nokia 3310. You could see it in their faces, eyes glinting with the kind of excitement that doesn’t come from celebrity worship but from personal history. These weren’t fans waiting for a show, these were witnesses preparing to revisit their youth; dressed in denim jackets, Tusker in hand, and laughter that already knew the lyrics to every song that would play.

There was a rhythm in the air that wasn’t coming from speakers, it was coming from hearts that hadn’t beaten in sync like this in years. The tents were stretched wide and tall, giving the soul enough room to breathe. Every corner had been thought through: the food stalls, busy but not suffocating; plates of wings and choma sizzling under orange bulbs; bartenders handing out cold drinks that didn’t demand a kidney for you to enjoy them.

And then there was the stage, a magnificent, breathing thing of light and sound. Behind it, the massive LED screens flashed visuals that felt like time-lapse art; cartoon-like graffiti textures dissolving into modern motion graphics. It was as though someone had bottled the entire Kenyan music scene of the 2000s, added a few dashes of 2025 flair, and poured it out under a Nairobi night sky.

This was not just a concert, it was a reckoning with time. This was ‘Kulture’, and what was about to unfold wasn’t just a performance of songs, it was a resurrection. It was a revival of lives, voices, and legacies that had shaped the heartbeat of a generation.

Allow me to digress for just a moment right here.

About two weeks ago, a PR lady with the kind of voice that could talk you into buying insurance you don’t need called to invite me to the Tusker Oktobafest Industry Night, the official launch of this year’s festival programme. The event was slated for Thursday, September 25, 2025. A day before the big night, she sent me WhatsApp screenshots of a three-page list of celebrities and industry stakeholders who would be attending. She wanted me to go through the list and pick out who I’d like to interview for prior planning on their side. A noble request, sure, except the list contained the names of mostly influencers and entitled celebrities whom I did not imagine myself having even a two-minute conversation with, no offence (Okay, perhaps just a little.) Only two names caught my attention: Marek Fuchs and Fakii Liwali.

Now, Marek is the former Sauti Sol manage. He’s the guy who turned Sauti Sol from polite young boys singing at Alliance Française to the global act that once serenaded Barack Obama at State House. He’s the definition of someone who took a dream, ironed out its wrinkles, and made it wear designer shoes. When he “retired” from managing the band, he started his own company, AfricaCentric Entertainment (ACE), and somewhere in his brain along that path, together with “a few people at EABL” as he told me, the idea of Oktobafest was born. But we’ll talk about Marek another day. Today is about the other guy.

Fakii is the kind of man that moves mountains but never stands on them for photos. He’s rapper Nyashinski’s manager, and a film producer with ‘40 Sticks’ (streaming on Netflix and Prime Video) and ‘2 Asunder’ to his name. He’s also a certified behind-the-scenes legend, the quiet thunder that rolls before Kenya’s biggest creative storms. His influence is everywhere; from stages to screens to now the country’s tourism image, where he was this year appointed to sit on the 23-member rebranding task force. So, when a little bird told me that ‘Kulture,’ in partnership with Tusker Oktobafest, was his brainchild, it made perfect sense to pick his brain.

That evening, he told me his vision for the concert was to bring back pioneer Kenyan artists that he felt didn’t properly get the shine they deserved. He wanted to bring them back, not only to those that grew up listening to them, but also to a younger generation that may have grown up knowing their songs, but not their faces. He said he was seeking to resurrecting those faces. He also spoke of copyright struggles and streaming challenges of pioneer artists whose wealth exists in legacies but not in bank accounts. A celebration like this, he said to me, would not only be symbolic, but also disruptive to the usual industry brouhaha.

Alright, now that you’re all caught up, where were we?

Voices that raised a generation

The stage setup was fresh and clever: a radio studio was recreated on stage, with the hosts, the legendary Muthoni Bwika and Jimmi Gathu, sitting behind mics like it was a live broadcast from heaven’s FM frequency. They didn’t just emcee, they weaved stories. By their side, DJ Pinye and DJ John Rabar held the decks like proud uncles at a family reunion and churned out hits with that ‘They don’t make music like this anymore’ bullish attitude. They controlled the energy and warmed up the crowd, dropping basslines like it was a live mixtape of our youth, guided by the very voices that had first delivered those songs to us.

Then the lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted as Kalamashaka took the stage. The ultimate pioneers. The reason Kenyan rap ever found its tongue. They didn’t need pyrotechnics or dancers; their presence was enough. Every lyric hit like scripture from the book of real hip hop. The crowd rapped along to every line, fists in the air, word for word, like we were reciting the national anthem. When they finally left, the energy they’d ignited hung in the air like smoke.

Abbas Kubaff swaggered onto stage like a man still very aware of his power. His flow was effortless, and the crowd roared back his hooks as though over a decade hadn’t passed since ‘Toklezea’ first dropped. Prezzo came, in all his presidential razzmatazz. His entrance was preceded by a short skit on the giant screens - part drama, part ego, part art - because of course Prezzo would give us theatre before the music. And then he emerged, larger than life, dripping in his signature bravado, spitting bars like he’d never left the scene. Midway through, he brought out Nazizi, and suddenly the whole place shifted. The cheers, the nostalgia, the warmth; you could feel the crowd’s affection for the First Lady of Kenyan hip hop.

Nazizi held her ground and seamlessly rolled into a second act, this time with Wyre. Together, they became Necessary Noize again, the duo that once made us believe Kenyan music could conquer the continent. They performed their hits back-to-back, and the crowd sang like they’d been waiting twenty years for that moment.

Wahu, glowing with that familiar calm, her voice cutting through the night like warm light through fog, showed up. She sang, the crowd swayed, and for a few minutes Carnivore felt like a massive karaoke of shared memory, as she warned women to be wary of men…erm, I meant liars.

Mr. Lenny, the undisputed throwback king of collabos, also took the stage. You could tell the audience wasn’t expecting him to sound that good, but he did, and then some. Every hook he dropped was met with cheers that could wake up ancestors. Then came Big Pin, charismatic as ever, commanding the stage with his deep voice. He didn’t come alone either, Sanaipei Tande joined him and together they set the stage ablaze.

Sanaipei, being the powerhouse she is, carried the mic after Big Pin’s exit and melted seamlessly into her own set before inviting Jua Cali on stage. And at that point, it was pure Genge mayhem. The chants, the dancing, the bass…Carnivore was shaking. Jua Cali did what Jua Cali always does: turned nostalgia into adrenaline.

Then came P-Unit, a burst of energy and coordination, with delivery tighter than Taveta (see what I did there?) They reminded everyone why their name once meant instant chaos on dance floors across the country. And just when you thought the night couldn’t possibly climb higher, Kleptomaniax stormed in - Collo, Rawbar, and Nyashinski - the original bad boy band of the streets. The crowd nearly lost its mind. It was as if the 2000s had walked back in wearing all back and a cheeky grin.

And then, finally, Nameless. The man himself. The reason half of us tried to sing in the shower while growing up. He walked onto stage to the kind of roar usually reserved for football goals and political upsets. His set was electric, nostalgic, alive. Hit after hit, memory after memory. He moved with that same effortless grace that made us all believe in cool before we even knew what it meant.

When the clock struck a few minutes past midnight, and exhaustion was just starting to set in, Nameless called everyone back to the stage. One by one, the legends reappeared, all standing shoulder to shoulder under the glow of stage lights. Together, they performed a heart-wrenching tribute to E-Sir, featuring his little brother Habib. The screens filled with his image, flags bore his face, the music softened, and suddenly thousands of people were singing his lyrics; some smiling, some crying, all united by a shared grief that had somehow become a shared grace. Even my eyes got a little misty. Because for that one moment, time stopped. The past wasn’t gone; it was right there, alive, harmonizing.

Oktobafest on the move

“Working with Tusker to bring this experience to life has been amazing,” Fakii Liwali said after the show, still presumably running on adrenaline and gratitude. “The 2000s defined a uniquely Kenyan sound, and seeing the massive turnout proved that the music and the culture are timeless.”

That sentiment was echoed by Tusker’s Senior Brand Manager, Brigid Wambua, who described the event not as a concert, but as “a cultural reunion.” She stated; “Witnessing artists who shaped a generation share the stage and feeling the passion from the attendees confirmed that Kenyan heritage is alive and thriving. This is exactly the spirit we want to carry across the country as Tusker Oktobafest connects with local communities and celebrates what makes our beer and music truly Kenyan.”

And the journey is far from over. The ‘Kulture’ night at Carnivore was just the first stop in Tusker Oktobafest’s regional tour, set to roll out across Kenya in the coming 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 finally The Stinger Lounge in Nanyuki on November 1st.

By the time the lights dimmed and the crowd began to trickle out, I realized that nobody really wanted to leave. People stood around in little circles, replaying their favorite moments, laughing, debating who aged the best. You could tell this night had done something rare, it had hit a nerve we didn’t even know was still alive. And in that moment, Carnivore felt like a living museum; a loud, joyful, sweaty, yet still achingly beautiful museum.

As I staggered into my house early that morning, I thought about what Fakii had said to me those two weeks prior, about resurrecting faces and giving pioneers their flowers while they can still smell them. He pulled it off, maybe even too well, because 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. Time may have moved on, but that night proved that Kenyan nostalgia doesn’t need fixing, it just needed a stage, good sound, and a dripping cold Tusker.