When I was younger and I had the bravery and stupidity to drink on Sundays I would drive past many roundabouts to watch Kidum perform at Psys Bar in Nairobi’s Langata.
Those Sundays were a vital beacon of my week, like a communion of sorts. Kidum was phenomenal. He had a raw musical panache.
He’d beat his drum and choke his microphone and you would be aware of experiencing something uplifting, not like gospel, but something intoxicating and dramatic.
A sort of euphoric journey as if the music was a recreational drug. Psy Bar was always bursting at the seams with fans. Men sang along. Women closed their eyes and opened their hearts and out flew butterflies.
So, yeah, I’m a great fan. Over time, though, I lost touch; life taking different paces, pandemic etc. I occasionally listened to his playlist in the car; Kwetu, Mapenzi, Number moja, Hayafai, Nipe Nguvu.
He released some songs that I didn’t feel connected like I didn’t connect to Fally Ipupa’s newer songs, but I thought, 'Oh, maybe it’s just me, it’s not them.'
In January when I heard he plays at Brew Bistro, Westlands every Wednesday I went to watch him. Save for one of his singers, a lady on vocals, his Bodaboda band was new; cool kids with cool pants and hairstyles.
There was another new female vocalist who had the moves on top of the voice. He played a few of his famous hits and a lot of his other hits that I didn’t know.
The crowd was sizable but the sound quality was wanting; the sound felt like it was reverberating in an empty room.
After slightly over an hour of playing, the show ended abruptly and a deejay took over. I felt a sense of loss and disappointment.
Like the end of a relationship that had once flourished and was going somewhere then it ended with its nose in a beehive.
My friend said I was selfish, to expect him to play only his hits. “He has new songs to promote!” I agreed. But still. I mourned.
