How street rappers are rewriting Tanzania’s cultural script

By Kizito Makoye

DAR ES SALAAM, Tanzania (AA) – In the overcrowded slum of Buza, where sewage flows perpetually between shacks, life clings stubbornly to every inch of cracked concrete and rusted tin roof.

Children dash barefoot through the sludge, chasing each other with a joy that defies the stench. A woman with a baby strapped to her back squats beside a plastic basin, scaling vibua fish with deft hands and tossing them into a blackened pan of sizzling oil. The aroma of frying fish merges with smoke and the smell of rotting garbage.

Inside a shack patched with plywood, 22-year-old Mbwana Rashid, known by his stage name Majivu, crouches over a microphone.

As the beat kicks in, Majivu explodes into a flurry of lyrical verses in crisp Swahili, his flow slicing through the rhythm: fierce, honest, and unmistakably local.

Majivu isn’t on the radio nor is he trending online, but in these alleyways of sound and struggle, he’s a star.

“This mic is my weapon,” he says later, breathless, sweat streaking down his brow. “It’s how I fight my battles, how I speak for my people.”

In Dar es Salaam, the commercial center of Tanzania, rap and hip hop is more than music, having become a mirror to society and a megaphone for those fighting for survival.

Since the 1990s, when economic liberalization brought global television to Tanzanian households, a generation of youth turned to rap to process their urban realities.

The glossy exterior of American hip hop was stripped down and reshaped in the slums, giving rise to a cultural movement that fused Swahili poetry with gritty, local narratives.

Underground rappers – often unemployed, seldom recorded, and struggling to survive – have created their own stages. They call them “maskani,” a word for impromptu street concerts where powerful lyrics echo through cracked loudspeakers, drowning out the noise of the city.

“They rap not because they want fame, but because they have something to say,” says Hashim Rubanza, a street MC and mentor.

“They’re gifted orators with microphones, and they use it effectively to vent off their woes.”

- Global anthem of resistance

From the favelas of Rio de Janeiro to the housing blocks of the Bronx, rap has always been the language of the marginalized.

In France, North African youth use rap to confront racism. In South Africa’s Soweto township, rappers blend Kwaito with verses about post-apartheid inequality.

The same is happening now in Dar es Salaam, where 70% of the population lives in informal settlements, youth unemployment is endemic, and where public services routinely bypass the poor.

In Buza, a clever punchline or searing verse can earn a young rapper street cred, admiration, and perhaps even a meal. For some, it’s a way to escape crime or the crushing hopelessness of life in the slums.

“It’s better than stealing,” says 19-year-old Muba, who lives with his grandmother. “Even if I don’t make money, I still get to tell my truth.”

Their lyrics draw from the rawness of everyday life, touching on issues such as corrupt landlords, broken pipes and missing infrastructure, and jobs that never materialize.

Their delivery is rich with metaphor and Swahili proverbs, deeply rooted in the region’s oral traditions.

One of the defining elements of this scene is its embrace of “kujitegemea,” the Swahili word for self-reliance. Without radio play or record deals, these artists circulate their music via flash drives, WhatsApp, Bluetooth, or simply by word of mouth.

Bedrooms become studios, and boda-boda drivers and neighbors their audience.

While commercial artists like AY and Roma Mkatoliki dominate East African airwaves, these underground voices are seen as closer to the soul of Tanzania’s hip hop movement. They rap in street Swahili, speak to local grievances, and remain fiercely loyal to the communities that shaped them.

The tension between authenticity and commercial success is palpable.

“Once you’re on TV, people say you’ve sold out,” says Witness Mwaijaga, one of the few female rappers to break into the male-dominated scene. “But we all start on those street corners.”

- Back to the roots

Mainstream Bongo Flava – a nickname for Tanzanian music – tends to lean on love songs and autotuned choruses, but the underground artists are pushing in the opposite direction, embracing truth and tradition.

“Poetry was once a social weapon, and now the youth are reviving it with beats,” Vitalis Maembe, a renowned Tanzanian musician and activist, told Anadolu.

Known for his rebellious lyrics and love of indigenous instruments, Maembe believes the fusion of Swahili storytelling and hip hop is revitalizing Tanzanian cultural identity.

“What makes Dar es Salaam’s street rap powerful is that it reflects the exact life its artists are living. They’re not talking about silver chains – they’re talking about cholera outbreaks, police brutality, land evictions, and unemployment,” he said.

In Mbagala, a grassroots group of teen rappers holds weekly sessions under a baobab tree. Here, teenagers like 17-year-old Dulla deliver fiery verses about police harassment and corruption. Though he’s never attended school, his verses are sharp, informed, and deeply emotional.

“Rap taught me to think critically,” says Dulla, whose father is a street vendor. “Now, when politicians come around with empty promises, I write a song instead of throwing stones.”

For female rappers, the stakes are even higher. Aisha, known as Mama Mic, says she’s been booed off stage, insulted, and even called a witch.

“But I won’t stop. Girls in Mbagala tell me my music saved them. That’s worth any insult.”

- Government watch, but little support

While officials recognize the cultural value of street rap, tangible support remains limited.

“Our role is not just to regulate, but to nurture,” says Edward Buganga, director of arts development at Tanzania’s national arts council BASATA.

“We encourage these young artists to harness their talent responsibly, especially when their work challenges social issues and promotes critical thinking.”

According to Buganga, the government is working on mentorship initiatives that support underground artists without compromising their authenticity. “It’s important that they don’t lose their voice in the face of commercial pressures,” he says.

Back in Buza, kids as young as 10 gather around a cracked speaker while a rapper known as Mbaya Wao belts out lyrics accusing politicians of “eating the people’s tears.”

The crowd erupts. Someone hands him a cup of kahawa, or Tanzanian street coffee, a sign that he has earned their respect.

“We don’t have money,” says Majivu, who is among the crowd of listeners, “but we’ve got words – and those words travel faster than a bus.”