Music was an essential part of my family’s household when I was growing up. Our day-to-day lives always had a soundtrack. Sometimes, we washed dishes to American greats like The Supremes, Aretha Franklin , The Jackson 5 and Stevie Wonder. Other times, usually when my parents were feeling particularly homesick for their native country, Kenya, they’d blast artists like Nameless, E40 or Ogopa Deejays. I loved it all, from Diana Ross’ dreamy vocals to Ogopa Deejays’ vibration-inducing beats. Outside of the house, the music sounded very different. American artists filled what the radio stations played and reached the Billboard Hot 100. White American artists, usually. It was the early aughts—back then, most Americans and other people in the Western world believed Africa was a war-torn, poverty-stricken row of huts. I asked my mom once why African artists, particularly my beloved Kenyan rappers and singers, were so unknown in the United States. “Americans don’t care about what we have to...
