An Interview with Nyokabi Kariũki

Sonic imaginator Nyokabi Kariūki will present her Birdsongs from Kīrīnyaga in collaboration with Cello Octet Amsterdam, this April at Rewire. Curious to hear more about the genesis of this project, and Nyokabi’s practice at large, we had a chat about how curiosities can turn into sound, Egyptian electronic music pioneer Halim El-Dabh, and labeling yourself as “anti-disciplinary.”

Sanae: Prior to this interview we had a conversation about funding applications, which started this piece a bit untraditionally––at what I would usually end an editorial with. But we are here to break norms, and it is relevant to sketch the foundation of how Birdsongs from Kīrīnyaga, the World Premiere you will be presenting with Cello Octet Amsterdam at Rewire next month, came about. Can you tell me more about what you have been working on the past year(s)?

Nyokabi: After releasing FEELING BODY in 2023, I started working on my next project during a residency in Finland. I initially thought I would be able to finish it in just a few months, but as I got deeper into it, I realized the scope was much bigger than I had anticipated––it has taken me longer than expected. There was some pressure to release new music, especially from industry voices, but I decided to take the time I needed to make sure the project was exactly how I envisioned it. I kept, unexpectedly, still getting shows offered, which kept me very busy the past two years. I ended up pitching the Birdsongs from Kīrīnyaga project to Cello Octet Amsterdam, who then pitched it to Rewire, which now will be shared before the album I initially started writing first.

S: How did your collaboration with Cello Octet Amsterdam come about?

The cello has always been my favorite instrument to write for––its rich, full-bodied sound, both in its low and high registers, deeply resonate with me. It is often said that the cello is closest to the human voice, and I really feel that in the music.

N: I first met the Cello Octet in 2022, right after my first record, Peace Places: Kenyan Memories, was released. About a month later, I received an email from the director of the Gaudeamus Festival, asking if the album could be performed. My background is in western classical composition, and during the pandemic, I shifted my focus to electronic music. This led me to write without the intention of live performance––I had no idea how to perform it live. Not wanting to pass on such an amazing opportunity, I opted to orchestrate the album for multiple musicians instead. When I got presented with Cello Octet Amsterdam, I was instantly drawn to the idea of composing for eight cellos. The cello has always been my favorite instrument to write for––its rich, full-bodied sound, both in its low and high registers, deeply resonate with me. It is often said that the cello is closest to the human voice, and I really feel that in the music. Working with Cello Octet Amsterdam is even more exciting because their format is not traditional, and I wanted to collaborate with musicians who are open to new ideas. My music comes from a very different background, and I am always intentional about working with curious collaborators who are willing to explore unfamiliar elements, especially in classical music.

Nyokabi Kariũki with Cello Octet Amsterdam, photo by Gaudeamus.

S: You mentioned your album Peace Places—what defines a “peace place” for you?

N: For me, peace places represent locations in Kenya that have held deep personal significance. They are places that brought me a sense of belonging and calmness, like the Indian Ocean along the Kenyan coast, which I have always loved, or my father’s hometown near Mount Kenya. It is in Kĩrĩnyaga, and on the mountain there are also these songbirds. All these elements, symbolizing a sense of home, are present in the project Birdsongs from Kĩrĩnyaga. Another piece, “Home Piano,” is about the piano I have had since I was eight—my fingers just know the keys.

S: Beautiful, it makes me think about sound in relation to the body––have you experienced sound making the body work through something, unconsciously?

N: I have always felt sound viscerally, and in my music-making, When I am making decisions, I respond to how it makes my body feel. Even though it is not something I do intentionally, the more I’ve performed, the more I’ve realized how much my body moves when I’m performing.  A lot of my music does not have a discernible rhythm. But when I perform it, I can not help but move: the music just moves through me.
I also have a project exploring body percussion and how the body has been used as a sound source in African traditions for a long time. Sound and the body are so intertwined. 

S: I want to refer back to care and attentiveness being important to your practice. Sound requires attention––even if you are not classically trained, you can hear if something sounds right or not. What about the visual? I read that you connect sounds to colors, are you a visual thinker?

N: For me, it’s all coming from the same place, so It feels awkward when you step into the real world and see how things are separated, especially in Western academia. In these contexts, for example, music and dance are treated as separate disciplines, which does not align with how humans experience creativity—we are all multifaceted beings. In many African cultures, music and dance are intertwined, but Western language separates them. Most artists, whether they intend to or not, work across disciplines.

S: Some artists prefer to hold on to a category because it gives them like a sense of identity, or belonging, it makes them understand themselves

N: I do feel attached to certain labels too, even though I shy away from the word interdisciplinary, 

S: You are quite literally blending disciplines: field recordings, electronics, classical music, writing, painting and singing.

N: I even came across someone who calls themselves “anti-disciplinary.”

S: That is the most counterculture thing I have ever heard.
How is it working and traveling between different worlds—both geographically and metaphorically? You’re often away from home, but your work is about your environment and home.

N: I think about this constantly. Recently, I gave opening remarks at the Kilele Summit in Nairobi, a music tech and innovation symposium. I spoke about dissonance, which is a recurring theme for me. As a teenager, I was told I had to leave Kenya to pursue music, but in the past few years, I’ve found a strong community and thriving music scene in Nairobi. Still, there is this irony: most of my income comes from gigs abroad, while my work centers on home, it is an ongoing reconciliation. What has helped me is understanding that I am part of something bigger––I love being home and contributing to the scene, building it  with my people. Everything I do is for my community. For example, I wrote an essay on Halim El -Dabh, an Egyptian composer and early electronic music pioneer. I gave the same listening session in both Nairobi and Portugal. While it was important to share his story in Portugal, the real love came from presenting it back home. When people came up to me and were like, “I didn’t know we had a claim into so-called electronic music”, that was incredibly fulfilling.

Even though I navigate many worlds, both physically and metaphorically, everything I do is for my people, my ancestors, and those who resonate with it. The true joy comes when my work is understood here.

Nyokabi Kariũki, photographed by Muthukia Wachira.

S: In the description of FEELING BODY you write:

However, in the first track, I foretell that I do get better, and in the final track, I confirm it. The music is not only about the pain and the weight accompanied with being sick; but it is about the appreciation of the body, and how it understands hope and patience before we ourselves believe it.

You also mentioned River Therapy, when doing some research on this, I found a text on a traditional healer from the Kikuyu community. One of the words described for this medicine person is Muraguri, which means both prophet and fortune-teller. What is your relation to prophecies?

N: I was not necessarily thinking about prophecy in the context of this album, though it is something I have been exploring in my current work. But I think your observation is interesting. Writing Feeling Body was unique because it was about my illness, both from the perspective of going through it and in hindsight, as I reflected on my recovery. It was almost like a twofold experience—what I felt in the moment and what I understand now that I’m in a healing phase. As for the role of the future in my practice, both in healing and sound, I am deeply interested in indigenous knowledge, especially from the African continent. I believe this knowledge should be centered in our future and the way we move forward. There is so much wisdom that has been lost, and systems in place have severed the ways this knowledge was passed down. What I focus on is imagining futures that reconnect with past philosophies and ideas—because the people who have lived on this land for centuries know it best. It is not only about creating something new, but also about revaluing and restoring the knowledge that has been held for so long.

It is not only about creating something new, but also about revaluing and restoring the knowledge that has been held for so long.

S: Your work is described as “sonic imagination”. Can you share a memory of how your imagination made you reconnect with parts of your culture which has undergone centuries of colonial erasure and oppression?

N: Imagination is important, and as artists, we have the gift of imagining things that do not exist or are hard to understand, and making them tangible for others. Art allows us to express the unspoken and helps others experience it. Growing up in Kenya, I still felt a disconnect with my own history. While my parents speak Kikuyu, I was educated in English, and living in Nairobi created a dissonance between me and my culture. Art has helped me make sense of this and has been a journey of rediscovery. I am learning Kikuyu, a language I understand but do not speak, and I am writing lyrics in Kikuyu for one of my current albums. 

There is a certain strength in coming into this as an “outsider”––even though it’s my language and culture, not being fluent allows me to see things in the language that a native speaker might take for granted. It makes the process more interesting and unique, and I think the result might be different, even new, because I’m approaching it from a different perspective. Through this, I am reconnecting with my culture and using imagination as a tool for rediscovery. 

S: What do you keep in mind when you appropriate parts that might not be fully familiar to you? What projections matter?

N: This is a great question, and it is something I think about often. As a Kenyan from the Kikuyu community, I do have a say in what my own journey of reconnecting to that heritage looks like, though I also recognise my privileges. I have been very open to feedback and different perspectives, discussing the project with people from various backgrounds, including my parents and community members. It becomes more than just my story—it is a collective project. While my work often starts with my personal experiences, I approach it with care and attention, and I always consider how others may relate. In any artistic practice, you are negotiating with everything and everyone around you. For example, when I showed my Kikuyu-speaking family my music, they made fun of my accent, but we used it as an opportunity to engage and discuss why it sounds different. That is the process for me—acknowledging diversity and community in my work. I think storytelling starts with curiosity—asking myself, “What do I want to know about myself, my surroundings, or my history?” From there, I build a world that feels true to me.

I tend to get deeply invested in things, and my way of understanding the world is often through study. For example, during the pandemic, I randomly got interested in wine, so I took a wine course. Similarly, with Birdsongs from Kĩrĩnyaga, it all started as I came across a study about a species of East African birds that have been singing the same song for hundreds of thousands of years. I found it fascinating and could not ignore it. What does it mean to compose with a song that predates modern humans? From there, the project expanded, and I’ve even started birding—now I can identify the birds that visit my home by sight. It is all part of my process—studying and noticing the world around me. 

Nyokabi Kariūki – score of Birdsongs from Kīrīnyaga.

Nyokabi Kariũki’s Birdsongs from Kĩrĩnyaga world premiere takes place at Rewire on Sunday April 6th. It is brought to life by Cello Octet Amsterdam, a revered cello ensemble known for their renditions of newfangled interdisciplinary compositions. More info here.