“If we don’t speak, no one will know we were here”: Kenya’s forgotten Nubians pick up the microphone

Image Description: A pair of brown hands reaches toward a glowing microphone floating in the dark, with faint geometric patterns in the background.

Nairobi, Kenya (Minority Africa) — On a humid evening in Kibera, Nairobi’s most crowded settlement, a cluster of young men and women hunch over a makeshift recording setup in a church basement. The concrete floor is cracked; the walls still hold the damp of last night’s rain. Their studio consists of a battered laptop borrowed from a cousin, a second-hand microphone taped to a chair, and two smartphones propped up to capture sound.

A young host clears his throat, leans towards the microphone, and begins speaking in Nubian Arabic before smoothly switching into Swahili. His voice is soft but steady as he recounts the challenge of getting a job — and receiving payment through mobile money agents — without a national identity card. 

For Kenya’s Nubian population, the answer at government offices has been the same for generations when they apply for an ID: No. The refusal has left generations in limbo, forced to negotiate belonging in a country they have called home since the 19th century.

Stories like this rarely find space on Kenya’s mainstream airwaves, where coverage often prioritises celebrity culture,  politics, or major urban issues, overlooking the everyday struggles of marginalised communities. The underground podcast fills that silence.

“We don’t have channels that tell our story,” says Musa, one of the podcast’s co-founders. “If you wait for someone else to tell it, they will erase half of it. So we decided to record it ourselves.”

 

A people without papers

Kenya’s Nubian community traces its roots to the late 19th century, when the British recruited Sudanese soldiers to serve in the King’s African Rifles. After years of military service, many were resettled in Nairobi on land that would later become Kibera. They built homes, raised families, and laid down roots. 

Yet when Kenya gained independence in 1963, Nubians were excluded from official lists of recognised tribes. They were labelled “presumptive foreigners,” required to prove their ancestry through a long and humiliating vetting process that other non‑border ethnic groups were spared. 

Colonial and post-colonial authorities defined identity through ethnicity and territory — frameworks into which Nubians did not neatly fit.  This lack of recognition has had profound legal and social consequences. Without  formal status as an indigenous community,  Nubians have struggled to make legitimate claims to land, public services, and equal treatment across national systems — from employment and education to political representation.

“When you don’t have an ID, everything stops,” says Samir, 23, a recent university graduate unable to find formal work. “It’s not just about work or school. It’s how you’re reminded every day that the country doesn’t fully see you.”

Issa, a Nubian youth who has been waiting months for his identity card, echoes this frustration. “You cannot access any government help, and you are viewed as an outcast among other citizens,” he says. “We would like to be recognised just like other Kenyans and enjoy the freedom of accessing government services.”

 

The Basement Studio

In Kibera, the state’s refusal to recognise Nubians has pushed many into informal labour. “I run a kiosk now, but before that, I did anything I could find,” says Ahmed, 22. says. “Day labour, helping people carry goods, selling airtime. Without documents, you take what comes, because formal jobs are closed to you.”

Ahmed met Fatima, 21, and Samir through a local youth arts group. Along with Musa, they began recording podcasts to document life in their community. 

“We were tired of people speaking about us without us,” Ahmed says.  “If no one was going to give us space, we decided to make our own.”

“We wanted something cheap but powerful,” Musa adds. “Even if it’s just a phone recording, at least it’s our voice.”

Their episodes range from the deeply personal — oral histories told by grandmothers, folk songs passed down through generations — to the openly political. They debate about what it means to live undocumented, how to navigate daily police harassment, and how to apply repeatedly for an ID card. 

“We pick stories that feel urgent in our lives,” Ahmed explains. “If it’s something our families or neighbours have struggled with, we know it belongs on the podcast.” 

Their process is collaborative. The co-hosts sit around the microphones, sharing experiences, debating which moments resonate most, and dividing responsibilities. One moderates, another records and edits, while someone else researches historical context.  Occasionally, a guest joins the discussion, adding a new perspective rather than becoming a permanent host.

Episodes can take hours to produce. Conversations form the backbone of each story, while careful editing ensures every voice is clear and preserved.

One episode, recorded in both Nubian Arabic and Swahili, offers a step-by-step guide to negotiating with mobile money agents without an ID. Another revisits the lives of elders who fought in colonial wars — men who carried British rifles, whose grandchildren are still treated as foreigners on their own land. 

“When you’re denied an ID, you feel small. But when we record, we feel big,” Musa adds with a gentle laugh.

 

Circulating in the Shadows

Long before podcasts, Nubian culture was sustained through oral storytelling. Grandmothers recited genealogies by firelight. Songs carried news across households. Folktales taught children resilience and survival. The podcast continues this tradition in digital form — what once travelled from mouth to ear now moves through WhatsApp voice notes and Bluetooth transfers.

By recording proverbs, memories, and everyday struggles, the podcasters are creating what one listener calls “a living archive” — an insistence on Nubian presence in a country that continues to deny their paperwork.

Unlike polished podcasts uploaded to Spotify or Apple, these recordings rarely reach the internet. Data is expensive in Kibera. Hosting platforms require forms of registration that undocumented youth cannot provide.

Instead, episodes circulate hand to hand, phone to phone. One listener receives a 15-minute audio file via WhatsApp and plays it aloud for his friends on a cracked Tecno smartphone. Another stores an entire season on a memory card, swapping it between devices.

Bluetooth transfers in matatus. Voice notes forwarded in family groups. USB sticks borrowed for a day. The distribution is chaotic but intimate, built on trust and necessity.

“I first heard it from my cousin,” says Aisha, 19. “She sent me a WhatsApp file and said, ‘Don’t delete this, you’ll need it.’ I’ve listened to it maybe twenty times. This podcast means a lot to me; it’s the first time I’ve heard stories that feel like mine being told out loud. My favourite episode is the one about navigating life without an ID. Listening to it, I didn’t feel so alone, and it gave me ideas on how to handle things I’ve struggled with for years.”

This underground circulation allows the podcast to bypass mainstream media and official scrutiny. Yet it also makes it fragile: one broken phone, one deleted folder, and hours of collective memory disappear.

For many Nubian youth, hearing their language and experiences reflected to them is nothing short of revolutionary — a counterweight to the silence enforced by the state.

“I never thought anyone would care enough to talk about us,” says Jamal, who listens while walking home from his job selling vegetables. “When I hear someone speaking Nubian Arabic on a podcast, it’s like I’m not alone.”

For undocumented listeners, these episodes function as survival manuals: how to navigate police checkpoints without an ID, how to save money without a bank account, how to avoid exploitation by employers who know you cannot report them.

“The government doesn’t tell you how to survive without an ID,” Jamal says. “Only other Nubians can.” 

 

Living with Risk

The project is not without danger. In a country where identification is tightly policed, documenting undocumented life can attract unwanted attention. The hosts speak quietly about deleting episodes before crossing certain checkpoints. They avoid mentioning full names on air. Some voices are distorted with simple filters.

“We’re careful with everything,” Musa says. “Sometimes we use nicknames. Sometimes we cut out whole parts. It’s better to lose a story than lose a person.”

The fear is real: equipment could be confiscated, or worse, their voices could be used against them. And yet, they continue.

“Silence is also a risk,” Musa adds. “If we don’t speak, no one will know we were here.”

Although the basement studio is in Kibera, the podcast’s reach extends far beyond it.  Nubians living in Mombasa, Kisumu, and even in the diaspora receive episodes through family networks.  The irony is sharp: in digital space, Nubians move freely; in the physical world, borders and checkpoints still constrain them. 

The young people behind the microphones know recognition may never come, and documentation may remain out of reach. 

“This is our ID,” Musa says, gesturing towards the microphone. “When the state refuses us, the recording is proof we exist.”

Back in the church basement, the group is recording late into the night. A single bulb flickers overhead. Outside, Kibera hums with the noise of the evening: children playing, radios crackling, the distant whistle of a train.

Inside, the microphone glows red. A young woman leans forward and begins to speak in Nubian Arabic. The room is still. As her words fill the space, captured in a battered laptop.

The podcast will be edited, passed around, and shared in the shadows. It may be deleted by one listener, or saved for years by another. But in this moment, as the voices echo through the basement, one truth feels undeniable: as long as the mic records, they exist.

 

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Edited/Reviewed by Samuel Banjoko, Caleb Okereke, Awom Kenneth and Uzoma Ihejirika.

Illustrated by: Rex Opara