Shifting the conversation on climate change, one song at a time

The kind of music that Leshao Leshao writes and sings is dynamic and multifaceted. At times, the lyrics centre on love, capturing the joy and pain that come with human connections. Other times, it is about the struggles and triumphs of his community.

Leshao,22, comes from Narok County, a land where the stories of Maasai pastoralists are intricately tied to the rhythms of nature. He uses his art to sing about this connection and curate stories about the history of the Maasai community.  Yet, in recent years, those rhythms have been disrupted in ways that feel deeply personal to him and his community. From droughts to floods, climate change has become an undeniable reality, leaving its mark on almost every resident.

 “I was born and brought up in Kilgoris, Narok County and in my village, almost everyone has a story to tell—of droughts that have turned grazing lands into barren dust, of floods that have swept away homes, and of cow sheds that are almost empty because they have lost their livestock,” he offers. 

 These struggles, in his telling, are further compounded by social challenges such as conflicts over shrinking resources and the enduring shadow of practices like child marriages, often rooted in economic desperation.

 For communities like Leshao’s, a reality for many others in Kenya, rebuilding and fostering climate resilience is an uphill battle. Government funding in times of disasters such as floods and drought trickles in sparingly, and initiatives like Financing Locally-Led Climate Action (FLLoCA) designed to provide relief and help communities adapt at the grassroots levels, are stretched thin.

 “We simply cannot meet the demands of this crisis,” Peter Odhengo, head of the climate finance and green economy unit at the National Treasury, admitted.

It is because of such struggles, coupled with climate-related damages, that developing countries were demanding a climate finance deal amounting to 1.3 trillion US dollars every year at world’s largest climate talks—COP29 - held last month in Baku, Azerbaijan .

 While negotiators representing the different blocs are on the frontline of the discussions, civil societies in their numbers at these conferences act as the bridge between grassroots communities and global decision-makers. They amplify the voices of those most affected by climate change, ensuring their stories and struggles are heard in spaces often dominated by political and corporate interests. 

 With more than 60,000 attendees at the conference; from the packed plenary halls to bustling pavilions, every corner offers something to see, hear, or experience. In such a crowded space, how do you make your voice heard?

 Everyone is here for a reason, but not everyone gets noticed.

 Leshao stood out at COP29.

 Draped in a red and blue shuka accessorised with beaded jewellery, he sang and danced a Maasai tune, drawing delegates around the pavilion.

Daily routine

 It was a daily routine. And when he had amassed an audience, he would start: “The song I was just singing is called Esipata Oloingange. It calls for climate justice. You see, climate change is personal to me. To my people. It is responsible for wiping out my people’s livelihood and is greatly endangering my culture. I therefore take the matters of seeking for reparations very seriously and we are here to ask for it.”

The civil engineer, who has amassed more than 100k subscribers and over 20 million views on his Youtube channel, is part of a growing movement that is fighting the climate crisis with art.

 Multiple research show that many people struggle to understand the complexity of climate change, with some scientists affirming that there's indeed a messaging problem.

 “A few months before COP, I met the director of a youth-led not -for -profit organisation that advocates for the rights of pastoralists and promotes gender equality. She was pondering on how best to work around advocating for the climate justice rights of the pastoralists,” he says.

 The 22 -year old, who started his music career in 2020, offers that he immediately knew a song would work to reach into the hearts of people “who cannot be inspired into actions by scientific reports because a majority of them don't understand them.”

 Over the past three COPs, the right to protest has faced significant curtailment, with Egypt, the United Arab Emirates and Azerbaijan imposing strict restrictions on civil society. This trend continued in Baku during COP29, where no public protests were permitted. Meanwhile, across the halls, it was common to see activists paint, and use other imageries to pass the message of climate justice across.

 “I found a way to defy the stillness through music. Although I was singing in my native language, people would join in the dance and at times even before I engaged them, the audience would ask— what is the song about?” he says.

 “First, I paint a picture of our land, which is home to beautiful birds and wild animals. Then, caution people that if they don't take care of the environment, our culture and livestock will die,” he shares.

In the same song, he introduced the concept of climate justice. This time, in the form of conversation that challenges global audiences to confront the inequities embedded in the climate crisis, advocating for accountability from developed nations, from whom poor nations demand repatriation for historical emissions.

The message? That the Maasai and other vulnerable communities in Kenya are living the reality of climate change, and unless the world takes urgent action on adaptation and climate finance, their story might soon be one of irreversible loss. 

 “Our culture is deeply connected to the land,” the artist offers. “We sing to celebrate the rains, to honour the cattle, and to connect with the earth. But now, the rains don’t come when they should, and the grasslands we depend on are disappearing.” 

 In partnership with Spring of the Arid and Semi-Arid lands, the organisation that supported him in the writing and production process of the song, work began in village gatherings. 

“It is a great hit in my community,” he offers.

 In Baku, Leshao’s performances were nothing short of magnetic. The fusion of traditional Maasai chants and contemporary sounds, his music told the story of a community on the frontline of the climate crisis. But it wasn’t just a lament—it was a call to action. 

 Between performances, the artiste led conversations at the pavilion about climate finance—a topic that dominated much of COP29’s negotiations. The civil engineer argues that the Maasai, like many indigenous communities, have contributed the least to global emissions but are suffering the most. “Adaptation funding is not charity,” he says. “It is justice.” 

 Climate finance, he says, is a lifeline that indigenous communities desperately need. Without funding, he explains, Maasai pastoralists struggle to adapt to changing grazing patterns. 

 The much-anticipated progress on the Global Goal on Adaptation (GGA) that would see funding flow into developing countries for adaptation failed to materialise at COP29, leaving vulnerable communities without clear pathways to critical climate finance.

 The GGA, established under the Paris Agreement, aims to build resilience and reduce vulnerability to climate impacts by fostering global cooperation and securing funding for adaptation efforts. However, this year’s negotiations were mired in disagreements over metrics, financing and implementation timelines.

 Towards the last days of the global conference, countries launched Baku Adaptation Road Map, which ensures that talks continue next year. However, a review of the framework itself was deferred to 2028 after the second global stocktake. 

This occurs after every five years to assess countries’ collective progress on mitigating climate change, adapting to climate impacts and providing climate finance.

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