The political use of art in Kenya dates back to the pre-independence period, when oral poetry and traditional songs were used to preserve memory and critique colonial injustice.
During the 1970s, figures like Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o and the Kamiriithu Community Theatre pioneered the use of drama as a tool for political awakening.
Their performances, rich with metaphor and cultural symbolism, galvanized the working class until the government swiftly cracked down, arresting artists and dismantling community theatres.
The Moi era saw tighter control of expression, but artists found coded ways to speak out. Protest music flourished underground, and satire became a vital form of subtle rebellion. Despite repression, the arts never died, they adapted.
Fast forward to today, and Kenyan artists are no longer operating in the shadows. From rap lyrics to protest photography, creative expression is becoming increasingly direct and unapologetic.
Visual artist and activist Boniface Mwangi exemplifies this shift. Through provocative photography and installations, He has fearlessly exposed police brutality, land grabbing, and electoral fraud. His political documentary, Softie (2020), tracks his personal journey from activist to parliamentary candidate, showing the stakes of confronting power head-on.
Similarly, different musicians like Juliani, Wangechi, and Sarabi Band turned stages into platforms for civic consciousness. Their lyrics question leadership, push for policy reform, and rally youth to demand accountability.
Street art collectives, particularly in Mathare and Kibera, have transformed informal settlements into vibrant canvases of resistance, using murals to address extrajudicial killings, economic inequality, and systemic neglect.
Nowhere was this fusion of art and activism (artivisim), more visible than during the June 2024 Maandamano protests. Sparked by public outcry over high taxation, rising living costs, and controversial government policies, the protests swept across Nairobi and other urban centres. And once again, art rose as the voice of the people.
From the streets to digital platforms, art became the medium of defiance:
Murals with phrases like “Freedom is not given, it is taken” and “Watoto wa ghetto pia ni watu” sprang up overnight, especially in Dandora, Umoja, and Pipeline. Artists responded to police violence with visual narratives showing bleeding flags, blindfolded justice, and broken scales.
Musicians and poets, particularly those on TikTok and YouTube, created viral protest anthems. Songs like “anguka nayo” and “Daima by Erick Wainaina” emerged not just as entertainment, but as rallying cries bridging language, class, and geography to unite citizens around common grievances.
According to creative Njuguna Muthama, art is a powerful tool but not more powerful than protest or advocacy. It’s just different.
“Art reaches people emotionally, it is subversive, accessible, and it lives online long after a rally ends. But the frustration is that even when artists or youth speak up, it often feels like nothing changes. I mean, look at what happened during the 2024 maandamano,” he added.
Spoken word pieces, such as those by Teardrops and Mufasa Poet, were performed live at solidarity forums and streamed widely online, with lines like; “They tax our breath and call it policy, but forget it’s the youth who write the pulse of the nation.”
Even fashion became a form of political expression artists wore jackets spray-painted with slogans like “Reject Finance Bill 2024” and “Don’t Shoot, I’m Just Hungry.” With printed Tshirts and bandanas, everyone was in full support, with jokes on the internet, “ata baddies wamekuja maandamano”
“We say, ‘Sanaa ni kio cha jamii.’ Creative expression reflects the times and analyses the existing social structures and power dynamics,” said Gloria Gakuru, a human rights activist and art student.
“Because art is political, it is automatic that if there is some sort of oppression, art will be used as a voice of the people to resist. Creativity is important in any kind of resistance, and we can trace that throughout history, from Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ during the French Revolution, to intense theatre in the Philippines under Japanese occupation, to jazz during Apartheid,” she added.
“Even in Kenya,” she continued, “Wimbo wa Mapambano was sung by Mwakenya political detainees. The KLFA and Mau Mau used songs in the forest. And most recently, during the Gen Z uprising, poets and singers used their art as an outlet for resistance,”
One of the most powerful examples of this, was a mural created at Jacaranda Grounds by the Wahenga Youth Group; a vibrant collective of young artists based in Nairobi.
“We did a mural of Rex Masai, the first martyr of the Gen Z uprising, and Bob Njagi, who was abducted for over 30 days,” said Samuel Omare, Chairperson of Wahenga Youth Group. “It was symbolic, it represented those who had died from the protests and urged the Government to end the abductions that were on the rise during that period,” he added.
But creativity does not always sit comfortably with power. Kenyan artists often navigate a fraught space where censorship, intimidation, or manipulation can curb expression.
Events have been cancelled due to “security concerns,” plays banned for “subversive content,” and artists harassed for pushing boundaries.
“In the past, some of our murals have been painted over and vandalized. Local administrators even summoned and threatened our members, they have vandalized property in our space before painting over the murals. We had to learn to navigate that carefully, we now work closely with the community and local authorities to avoid escalation,” Omare mentioned.
The state’s inconsistent relationship with art, sometimes funding cultural events, other times restricting them reveals the tension between art’s transformative potential and the state’s desire for control.
“We condemn the growing pattern of artistic censorship. Events have been cancelled, advocacy murals have been covered up. Artists using AI, musicians, even silhouette painters have been abducted, threatened, and stopped from working. Look at what happened to Butere Girls after their play Echoes of War, this is unacceptable,” Omare added.
A striking example of how political art is still contested unfolded at the 2025 Kenya Drama and Film Festivals, when Butere Girls High School’s powerful play “Echoes of War” was disqualified, before the High court ordered them back for Nationals.
The play, which has critiqued governance and championed Gen Z consciousness, was deemed too provocative sparking nationwide debate.
This case mirrored the earlier ban of Shackles of Doom in 2013 a play also staged by Butere Girls, and also silenced for its political message.
The repetition of such patterns shows that while artists continue to push boundaries, state institutions still wrestle with discomfort around dissenting narratives, especially when voiced by youth.
This incident has shown that even in institutions meant to foster free thought, art’s power to challenge the status quo still triggers censorship. Yet it also showed the courage of a new generation unafraid to critique leadership, even though school drama.
There is also the risk of co-optation, where art is used by political elites for campaign optics rather than genuine transformation. Slick campaign music videos or staged performances can mask deeper structural issues, turning art into decoration rather than disruption.
While art has an undeniable emotional and cultural impact, the question remains: Does it lead to real change? The answer is both yes and no. Political art in Kenya has succeeded in raising awareness, shifting conversations, and energizing movements but systemic change is often slow, complex, and requires more than expression.
Art in Kenya is not just decoration, it is documentation, protest, and vision.
It tells untold stories, amplifies silenced voices, and reimagines what democracy could look like. Whether sprayed on walls, sung on stage, or shared through a screen, art remains a potent political force in the country’s unfolding story.
And perhaps that’s the point not that art alone will save us, but that it keeps the fire of civic imagination burning, even when politics tries to snuff it out.
