Imagine we are sitting together by a fire. The Kenyan night is cool, the crickets are providing the percussion, and the sparks from the wood are dancing toward the stars. If you look at me now, you see a woman who knows her worth. But I want to tell you about the Lydiah who almost disappeared before you ever knew her name.
I didn’t stop loving music. I just started wondering if music had forgotten how to love me back.
In those early days, my biggest mountain wasn’t talent, it was a thin wallet. Studio time in Nairobi was a luxury I had to negotiate for. I would save my shillings for weeks, skipping meals and walking long distances, just to afford a single hour under the lights. I would rehearse until my throat was sore because, in that booth, there was no room for a mistake. Every second was money.
The Weight of the Control Room
Back then, almost every studio was a kingdom ruled by men. Some were kind, but many were gatekeepers who didn’t see an artist rather, they saw a target. I remember handing over my hard-earned savings, trusting a producer to breathe life into my songs, only to be met with silence. I waited for calls that never came. I watched my music sit on dusty hard drives, unfinished and abandoned.
You learn a strange skill when you are a young woman in this industry. You learn how to ask for your own money back so politely that you don’t sound “difficult,” even when your heart is breaking.
Then came the radio. I used to think a beautiful song would simply find its way to the airwaves, like smoke rising from this fire. I was wrong. I found out that songs don’t just “play”, they are allowed to play. Some presenters were blunt. They wanted things I wasn’t willing to give. They wanted money I didn’t have, or parts of myself I wouldn’t sell.
I sat with my recordings in my hands, feeling small. The exhaustion wasn’t a loud crash but a quiet, heavy blanket. I began to ask the fire, “Am I forcing a door that is meant to stay locked?”
The KORA All Africa Music Awards Spark
I was ready to walk away. I was ready to let the silence win. And then, the universe spoke.
Before the industry in Kenya even knew my name, my very first song was nominated for a KORA Award. I remember receiving the news and just… sitting. I didn’t scream. I didn’t celebrate. I just sat in the stillness of my room, realizing that my music had traveled across borders I hadn’t even crossed yet.
Someone, somewhere, in a boardroom in South Africa had heard the soul of the work. They didn’t see the empty pockets or the closed radio doors. They just heard the “sweetness.” And that’s how I boarded my first flight ever.
Why We Must Keep the Fire Burning
That nomination didn’t make the studios cheaper or the industry fairer overnight. But it changed the way I walked. I realized that the system wasn’t hard because I lacked talent. It was hard because it was built to keep people like us out. And an uneven system doesn’t get to decide who stays.
So, I stayed.
I am sharing this because I know there are other women engineers, technicians, and artists sitting in the dark right now, wondering if they should quit. In East Africa and the world, the path can ask too much of us too soon. Many brilliant minds disappear quietly because the friction is too great.
I am still here because I refused to leave when the night was at its coldest. If you are reading this and you feel like quitting, stay a little longer. Pull your chair closer to the fire.
Sometimes, staying isn’t just survival. It is the moment you finally begin to belong.