“I do this not for fame, not for numbers, but for the feeling.” In Conversation with Sofiya Nzau

They say music is a universal language — one that speaks straight to the heart without the need for translation. And few artists embody that truth as beautifully as Sofiya Nzau. The first time I heard her voice on Mwaki and Wacuka — and anyone who’s ever shared a car ride with me knows I’ve had Wacuka on repeat for months — I was fascinated by her energy and her unmistakable tone. All the more special it felt to sit down for a conversation with such an exceptional artist.

Born in Murang’a County, Kenya, Sofiya Nzau brings the rhythm and poetry of her Kikuyu heritage to the global electronic scene. With her new single Hutia, created together with Dutch producer Madism, she breathes fresh life into Robert Miles’ legendary track Children — a piece of music history that once defined a whole era. Now, Hutia carries that same timeless emotion into a new space, weaving in Kenyan storytelling and Afro-house rhythm. As Sofiya says in our talk: “It felt like giving something old new life, while also honouring what made it beautiful in the first place.”

In our conversation, we hopped from music to heritage, fashion, freedom, and authenticity—and what can I say? It was a joy getting to know the heart and soul behind her incredible voice. Every word she spoke carried an undeniable passion and love for music.

photos supplied by Urban Rebel PR

Hey! It’s so nice to be sitting down with you. How are you feeling today? (smiles)

I’m doing really well, thank you! A mix of excitement and gratitude, honestly. Every time I release something new there’s that jitter in my belly, nervousness paired with hope. But mostly I feel blessed to be able to do what I love and share it with people.

Wow, I have to say right away that I love your new track. I’ve always loved Children, and this version feels so different — it carries a piece of the past while bringing out the best of the new, in my opinion. How did this collaboration come about?

Thank you so much. It really means a lot to hear that from someone who already loves Children. The collaboration with Madism came through mutual admiration and respect. He approached me with the idea of reimagining Children in an Afro-House style, bringing in Kenyan elements. I listened to the piano melody and was immediately drawn in. Even though I hadn’t heard Children in full before (more on that in a bit), as soon as I heard his production, I fell in love with what he was building. He wanted vocals, authenticity in the language, and I felt honoured to bring Kikuyu lyrics into it. We worked together in the studio, back and forth, reshaping melody, rhythm, how my voice would merge with the piano motif, until it felt like Hutia was born. Not just a cover, but a bridge between worlds.

I honestly can’t wait to play this while driving — it gives me that liberating, open-road kind of feeling. Was that sense of freedom something you consciously tried to convey?

Yes! That’s beautiful that you hear the open-road feeling. I think freedom has become a kind of motif in my work lately, not just because of the sound, but because of what this moment represents for me. When Madism and I were crafting Hutia, I wanted pacing that breathes; space in the production where the melody can float; places in the arrangement where you lean back, windows down, wind in your face, letting the sound wash over you. So yes, consciously, I tried to preserve that atmospheric, almost cinematic space from the original Children melody, but also allow the rhythm and my vocal lines to pull you forward, feeling grounded and free at once.

“I want to write not just love songs, but stories of home, displacement, identity, hope for the future.”

What did Children mean to you personally? Were you familiar with the track before working on your version?

Before working on Hutia, I’ll be honest, wasn’t deeply familiar with Children. I’d heard it in passing, maybe in DJ sets or playlists, but not studied it. When Madism played it for me in the studio, the melody hit me hard, it felt timeless. It carried so much emotion without words; it felt like memory I didn’t know I had. For me, Children represents a kind of purity in music, the ability to move people without needing lyrics, to create mood, to make space. Reimagining it with voice and with my own lived cultural perspective (Kikuyu, Kenyan life, longing, love), it felt like giving something old new life, while also honouring what made it beautiful in the first place.

Collaborations often feel like crossing rivers between different cultures, opinions, and sounds. What bridge did you and Madism build together on this track, and what surprised you most in the process?

True, collaboration is like crossing rivers, sometimes calm currents, sometimes fast rapids. With Madism, our bridge was mutual respect for the original: neither of us wanted to disrespect Children. We set out early that if this was going to work, the piano motif couldn’t be lost, it had to be honoured. But also, I wanted the lyrics in Kikuyu, I wanted the feeling of Kenyan longing, closeness, audible human presence, texture. We built from that intersection: the iconic piano, the afro-house rhythm, the emotional weight of my voice.

What surprised me most was how generous Madism was with space. He didn’t try to smother the original or force vocals everywhere; there are moments in Hutia where the piano just breathes, where there’s echo, reverb, moments of silence. And also, how quickly I could connect emotionally with a melody I was hearing for the first time. That kind of instantaneous love doesn’t always happen in music, but it did here, which made the process feel magical.

“Sometimes I have to fight for my voice, fight for singing in Kikuyu, fight for vulnerability instead of always polished production.”

There’s so much strength and immediacy in your lyrics — they really stay with the listener. I read in one of your interviews you said: “We have a tea plantation, and with tea, you spend the whole day plucking, so it can get boring. My dad and I used to sing in the garden while we were working, singing with very loud voices. I also sang a lot in church—in Sunday school, junior youth, and senior youth. After high school, I joined another church where I sang even more and started vocal training.” This sounds so beautiful, like singing was simply a natural part of life. What do you think remains with you most from those beginnings — the discipline, the community, or the joy?

All three are in me still, but maybe the thing that remains strongest is joy. Singing in the tea plantation, in church groups, even when the work was hard and the day was long, there was joy, voices raised, laughter, moments of release. That joy taught me why I do this: not for fame, not for numbers, but for the feeling.

Discipline also remains. Because those early days, no fancy studios, no big teams, they demanded consistency, doing small things well, learning, practicing, not giving up. Community taught me humility, collaboration, how voices blend, how you listen, how you draw strength from others. But joy is what imbues everything I do. Without joy, it would be hollow.

I already loved your vocals in Wacuka — it’s one of my all-time repeat songs! Did you expect it to get so much attention?

Thank you, that means a lot. I don’t think I expected Wacuka to travel as far or reach as many ears as it has. When I worked on it with AVAION, I thought “this feels special,” but I didn’t imagine just how deeply people would connect with it. So many messages from fans, people writing about finding their own voice, or tension between tradition and identity, they made me realise how universal some of these themes are. So no, I didn’t expect that much, but I’m grateful every day.

For many listeners around the world, Kikuyu lyrics sound like pure melody, while for you they hold deep meaning. Do you enjoy this double life of your words – as sound for some, as story for others?

Yes, I do. It’s one of the richest parts of being a singer in a language that others may not speak. There’s power in words carrying emotional weight even if you don’t fully understand. The melody, tone, phrasing communicate something. But for those who know Kikuyu, there’s more layers of meaning, cultural references, personal memories. I like that my music can sit in both places. It means the song is doing its work on multiple levels, on aesthetic, emotional, and cultural levels. It challenges me to be precise, true, honest in my lyrics, because even if someone doesn’t understand the literal meaning, I want the feeling to be real.

“There’s power in words carrying emotional weight even if you don’t fully understand.”

Being the first Kenyan artist to reach milestones like Tomorrowland is historic. Do you feel you’re creating more space for other Kenyan voices on the global stage?

I do feel that. Sometimes I don’t fully take in what these milestones mean in the moment, but looking back, I see paths opening that weren’t there before. When people in Kenya, in East Africa see someone like me in Tomorrowland, or collaborating internationally, perhaps they think “that could be me.” It becomes less dream and more possibility. I want to carry that responsibility, with humility but also with fierce intention, to bring Kenyan sounds, Kenyan stories, Kenyan languages to the global stage, and to do that with integrity. So yes, I hope it makes space, widens the stage, shifts assumptions.

You also said something that was so interesting for me to read — that the hit song ‘Mwaki’ opened so many doors for you. You had the opportunity to work with some of your favorite artists, travel the world, and perform your songs. Does this new world still feel like magic to you, or is it something you’re beginning to get used to?

It still feels like magic most days. Sometimes I wake up exhausted, with crazy schedules, press, flights, and it can feel like this is what happens. But then I see someone in Nairobi dancing to Mwaki, or families singing along in a place I never expected, or I get messages of how a lyric comforted someone, that’s when the magic floods back. So maybe it’s a balance: you grow used to some parts (logistics, travel), but the heart stuff, the connection with listeners, the impact, that never stops surprising me in the best way.

Your fashion is so bold and colorful, almost like an extension of your stage presence. Do you see your personal style as another way of storytelling, just like your music?

Absolutely. Style and image are part of the same language as melody and lyrics. What I wear, the colors I choose, how I move, it all contributes to how I present the story. If Hutia is about longing, love, closeness, there are emotional textures too, the softness, the intensity, and I think visual styling helps express those textures. Also, using Kenyan fabrics, colours, patterns, sometimes mixing tradition and modernity, that tells something about identity, where I come from, who I am, and where I hope to be.

“Freedom has become a kind of motif in my work lately — not just because of the sound, but because of what this moment represents for me.”

I’d love to ask you about another side of music. Lately, the talk is all about algorithms and formulas — how do you feel about that, especially from an artist’s perspective?

It’s a double-edged sword. On one hand, algorithms can help you reach so many ears you’d never reach otherwise, they open doors, help people find your music who would never have heard it. On the other hand, there’s pressure. Sometimes you wonder if you’re making decisions for art, or for what will trend, what peaks in streams, what playlists algorithms favour. It can be tempting to lean into formula, but I try hard to guard the part that is authentic, vulnerable, messy, unexpected. Because those moments are often what move people most.

And do you feel these systems leave enough space for emotion and authenticity — or do you sometimes have to fight to keep that part of your art alive?

I think they do leave space, but it’s up to you to claim it. It doesn’t always come easily. Sometimes I have to fight: fight for my voice, fight for singing in Kikuyu, fight for vulnerability instead of always polished production. But when I lean into that, the rewards, both emotionally, and artistically, tend to be deeper. So yes, there’s struggle, but I believe it’s worth it. The authenticity is what builds a bridge to people that stays.

Music is always moving forward. Where do you imagine your own journey leading in the next chapter?

I imagine growth in both sound and story. I want to explore more fusion of traditional Kenyan sounds, maybe more spoken word, maybe working with instrumentalists from different backgrounds, perhaps moving even outside Afro-house into spaces I haven’t yet tapped. I’d love to write more, not just love songs but stories of home, displacement, identity, hope for the future. Also, mentoring or collaborating with younger artists, helping build infrastructure so voices from Kenya and East Africa are heard with fairness. And of course, more live shows, more festivals, more moments where I can look out and feel people singing back.

Maybe as a last question… When all the shows are over and the noise fades, what moments in everyday life bring you the most peace?

Quiet mornings, hearing birds, being in nature (I grew up around tea plantations, so that kind of calm feels like home). Cooking something simple, laughing with family, watching children play or listening to people close to me sing just for the joy of it. A cup of tea, sky in soft colours. Those are the moments I carry with me, they remind me why I started, and keep me grounded.