Oktobafest: Khaligraph Jones and the architecture of an OG

This story is going to begin with Khaligraph Jones and, if the gods of narrative symmetry are on duty, will most likely end with Khaligraph Jones. So walk with me gently, keep your eyes where I point them and don’t wander, because this terrain is wide and full of distractions, and it’s embarrassingly easy to get lost.

Some time in that slightly chaotic, slightly hopeful year of 2022, the internet began buzzing with photos of a colossal mansion sprouting out of Ngong Road like it had been planted by an ambitious giant. It was Khaligraph’s house in progress; a massive, skeletal, unapologetic structure. As is the tradition in this country, people immediately gathered in the village square called social media to poke, prod, joke, and question the architectural audacity of a rapper thinking he deserved such a monster of a complex.

Two tweets in particular branded themselves into my memory. X influencer @5people wrote: “Ati Khaligraph ameamua kujenga nyumba inakaa Zetech College juu hakuenda campus (laugh emojis).” A classic Kenyan jab; shallow, slightly unnecessary, but undeniably funny. On his part, @keam254 got a little more creative, writing: “Khaligraph Jones badala ya kujenga nyumba, aliamua kujenga hospitali level 4 ya ku-nurse his sick lines!”

In November of that year, when an interviewer asked him why he kept posting the house despite the chatter circling overhead like starving vultures, Khaligraph simply said: “I show my successes because it’s something that wasn’t shown by guys who were here before us. I’m building a home to show other musicians that it’s good to invest because, with this industry, things can change.” That line stuck with me like a proverb you didn’t ask for but secretly needed.

Even now, after the mansion is complete and lived in, and after his living room became the subject of memes comparing it to LC Waikiki, people still have things to say. He even folded the LC Waikiki jab into a verse, because that’s the thing about Khali: he doesn’t run from noise, he recycles it into art.

Many Kenyans couldn’t fathom how a musician, a rapper no less, could erect something of that scale. I, however, was not one of those people. Let me explain.

I first met Khaligraph in 2016, backstage at some event at Nyayo Stadium. He had just released ‘Mazishi’ - which was a runaway hit - at the time, so the man was already orbiting stardom like a comet. I wasn’t in media yet. I was just a scrawny little campus boy with a blog, the kind of kid whose elbows peek through shirts and whose dreams peek through sentences. Muthoni Drummer Queen’s then-manager, Hillary Ng’ash, had seen my writing somewhere, liked it enough to take a gamble, called me up, slapped an All Access pass into my hands, and told me to do what I do.

So, there I was, loitering backstage with my photographer, trying to look important, when Khaligraph walked into our tent with a few of his people. He sat down, and after the awkward pleasabtries were out of the way, a conversation began on fame, money, drugs, the industry, and all the potholes life throws at you.

I remember him saying, in that deep voice that sounds like God speaking through a subwoofer, that he never wastes money. He explained that because of where he came from, he doesn’t do reckless spending. He may not remember it, but I specifically recall him telling us that even when he goes out - which is very rare, unless he’s performing at the club - he rarely spends more than Ksh.1,500. He said he doesn't pop bottles or order shots for everybody and walk around with a million groupies and hangers-on just because of his status. That stood out to me. This was not your typical artist chasing cheap thrills with expensive bottles. This was a man who’d tasted hunger long enough to never disrespect abundance.

Even years later, in 2021, when Eric Omondi ran his crusade to stop Kenyan artists from curtain raising for foreigners, Khaligraph shrugged the debate aside and said he doesn’t care whether he performs first or last, as long as he’s paid. In fact, he said then, he prefers performing early so that he can go home and be with his family.

It’s hard to be shocked by a mansion when the man building it has always been on business, with a discipline forged in scarcity. We will come back to Khaligraph in a moment, let me take you on a small detour, I hope I haven’t lost you yet.

Mombasa: Where the air is hot and the nights have a pulse

This past Saturday, November 1, I flew down to Mombasa for the Coast edition of the Tusker Oktobafest at the New Big Tree in Bamburi. The event was originally set for October 18th, but Tusker, being a brand with actual ears, postponed it after the death of former Prime Minister Raila Odinga; a man whom ‘The Conversation’ publication described as someone who “changed Kenya without ever ruling it.” His death struck the nation like a blunt instrument. It bent people. It bruised spirits. It turned conversations into eulogies, and for the Luo community that I hail from, it felt like losing a lighthouse, our True North.

The weather in Mombasa was doing what it always does, pulsing heat like its own heartbeat, occasionally cooled by a breeze that slapped you across the cheek like a wicked stepmother. I’ve learnt not to carry jackets when I go out at the Coast because I never need them. Hell, if my chest were even slightly more respectable, I’d probably walk around in vests like the native sons do.

As I walked around the venue, a few things immediately stood out. First, for reasons unknown to Science, men in Mombasa go to the washrooms with their beer bottles in hand. What kind of betrayal trauma are these men nursing? Who hurt you people?

Secondly, and I want to try and say this in a manner that will not get me cancelled, there was an unusually high concentration of stunning, slim, dark-skinned coastal women wrapped around white men who looked like they survived World War II. The age gaps were so aggressive they should’ve been wearing reflective jackets. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with it, but the sight will never stop feeling like a setup.

Another thing I noticed is that Mombasa holds Bongo music the way a firstborn holds resentment. And it’s the old school Bongo cuts that really unlock their souls. The moment the DJ dared to play ‘Anita’ by Matonya, or ‘Nyota Yangu’ by TID, or ‘Ndivyo Sivyo’ by Professor Jay and Chameleone, the entire crowd erupted, shouting the lyrics straight into their Tusker bottles like the beer itself was begging to be serenaded.

At 9:30pm, MC Gogo, dressed in ragged denim shorts that looked like they lost a fight with a tiger, grabbed the microphone and electrified the night. I already knew he was good, but I didn’t know he could also rap the way he did. When he tore through Nyashinski’s verse on ‘Tuendelee’, my eyebrows attempted to detach from my face.

Then at 11:30pm, silence. An old school, familiar, mischievous beat played, and then a voice bellowed out: “Man-ah man-ah…Ati black chocolate ni fine melanin bana toka nikapate…”

Listen, you hear that intro and you already know exactly who’s about to storm the stage. Tipsy Gee entered like a man with a mission and a playlist of certified bangers. Then he brought out Fathermoh to perfom ‘Kaskie Vibaya’ and the entire place vibrated like a speaker with a loose screw.

At around midnight, resident MC Chapatizzo, bless the man, dimmed the lights and led the crowd in observing a moment of silence for Raila Odinga. Phone flashlights lit the venue like a digital vigil. It was the single most thoughtful moment of the night. Wherever Chapatizzo is, I hope he’s having a good day. I hope his eggs didn’t overcook, matatu conductors didn’t overcharge him, and his boss didn’t ask him to “step into the office for a minute.”

Ndovu Kuu followed at 12:30am, unleashing ‘Kishash’ and other crowd favorites before clearing the stage, just in time for DJ Daffy to surprise MC Gogo with a birthday cake.

And then, at 1:30am, the OG stepped forward.

Khaligraph has the greatest stage entrance in Kenya, and the mystery of it is that he does almost nothing. He climbs the stairs, his bandana covering his snapback, walks to the front of the stage, and simply stands there. Motionless. Silent. Complete.

All the while, the crowd loses their collective minds, chanting “OG! OG! OG!” like a war cry. Then, when the tension is at breaking point, he drops that unmistakable: “Iyeeeaaaaahh!” and ZJ Heno unleashes the beats like a baptism.

After two songs, Khaligraph tried to fool us by pretending he was done, saying; “Thank you so much for coming, Khaligraph Jones is my name, have a good night!” The crowd revolted instantly. Bottles twitched in midair. People gasped like they’d just been evicted from paradise. But he was joking. Of course he was. He came back and declared his love for the Mombasa audience, and then the beat for ‘Omollo, nimetoka Bondo’ shook the night awake again.

At around 2am, Ndovu Kuu returned to perform the ‘Ndovu ni Kuu’ smash hit with him and then bowed, almost tearfully, thanking Khaligraph for changing his life with that single collaboration.

As someone who attends Kenyan concerts religiously, both professionally and for leisure, I want to say this plainly: Khaligraph is one of the last remaining artists who can perform without playback. No shortcuts. No lip-syncing. Just a man, a voice, a stage, a beat, and a higher calling.

He raps exactly as he does in studio. His presence is overwhelming. The aura, the movement, the control, the ad libs, the way he whips his bandana in the air and the crowd follows it like disciples following a prophet… It’s all pure, distilled OG.

When I watched Khaligraph command that stage - silent, still, towering, the crowd roaring at a man who didn’t need to move a muscle to shift an atmosphere - I couldn’t help but think back to that boy I met in 2016, in a tent at Nyayo Stadium, talking about money, discipline, family, and the long game. The mansion on Ngong Road, the jokes, the LC Waikiki living room, the tweets that aged like bad milk - it all made sense.

The aura on that stage wasn’t an accident; it was the natural evolution of a man who has always known exactly who he is, where he’s going, and why he refuses to waste even a shilling or a second on anything that doesn’t build him. The OG didn’t just perform in Mombasa; he stood there as living proof that the foundation he laid years ago - quietly, intentionally, stubbornly - is the same one holding up that mansion, that career, that presence, and that unshakable, chest-thumping “Iyeeeaaaahhh.”