Michael Soi is many things—painter, provocateur, cultural documentarian—but above all, he is consistent. For over three decades, he has created a visual record of Nairobi’s contradictions: glitzy capitalism alongside grit, glossy femininity set against gendered violence, and politics laced with satire. His women—painted with deliberate boldness—are not just muses; they are metaphors for power, survival, and sometimes, protest.

In a collaboration with Mvua Press, one of Soi’s iconic women becomes the face of After 4.30, a timeless book that digs deep into the lived experiences of women navigating violence, survival, and solidarity. The character on the cover, with her knowing gaze and unapologetic presence, is not there by accident. She is emblematic of what this book stands for—and what Soi’s art continually confronts.

He spoke to Tracy Ochieng about women as recurring protagonists in his art, how he visualises resistance, and what it means to lend your voice, through brush and paint, to revolutionary literature.

Reading Maillu’s book After 4.30 and experiencing your art feels like encountering twin flames—one tells stories through words, the other through paint.

Absolutely. David is a storyteller, and I see myself as one too. The path I’ve chosen to tell my stories is simply different. He works in literature, while I express myself through visual art. My paintings are my voice—they carry the stories I want to share with the world.

Who inspired the art used on the new edition of After 4.30? 

I had to create a completely new character for the book cover. I made two variants, and that’s the one that ended up being chosen. I come up with my characters—I just create them from scratch. That’s something I’ve only been doing for a short while. If you look closely at a lot of my earlier work, the characters, especially the women, tend to look like they’re all related. They could easily pass for cousins or sisters. And that’s because, honestly, I’d been a bit lazy about creating new characters. I was just recycling the same ones. But sometime last year, I started taking that feedback more seriously. The character on the cover of After 4.30 is part of that shift. I’m still playing around with her, trying to see where she might go. And once I get comfortable, I think it’ll be time to bring another character to life.

Your work delves into the topic of commercial sex work, which is a central theme in much of your art. What drew you to this subject matter?

It’s a wide subject, but one of the most important aspects of my work revolves around commercial sex work. I’ve always been particular about how I approach this topic because there are so many layers to it. People often think back to the 1970s and 1980s, when young women from the countryside came to the city, unable to afford education, and ended up in the trade as a way to survive. But if you fast-forward to the early 2000s, the whole dynamic shifted—it became a bit more about vanity.

It’s no longer just about the struggle; it’s about status. Take, for example, the young university girls who, one day, show up to class driving a drop-top convertible Mercedes. You wonder, how can these people afford such luxuries? The shift from sharing a hostel room to renting an apartment in places like Kilimani or Lavington—it’s a sign that things have changed.

For me, the subject was born out of curiosity. I wanted to understand who engages in commercial sex work and why. There's so much misunderstanding around it. People often oversimplify the motivations, so I knew I needed to immerse myself in these spaces, have conversations, and build relationships. Over time, I formed friendships that gained me access to some of the most exclusive strip clubs in this country—places where only a select group of 10 to 20 men are invited.

What’s fascinating is that when you enter these spaces, you start to recognise the regulars—politicians, CEOs, the big buyers, the movers and shakers. These are the people who keep the wheels of this world turning.

You’ve already mentioned David Maillu as a storyteller and how you see yourself as a visual storyteller. This intersection between art and literature seems to be central, especially in a work like After 4.30, which touches on some of the themes that inspire your own art.

Yes, there’s a very deep, core relationship between art and literature. In a way, my work is literature itself. If you look at much of my art, you might miss the point entirely. I often use humour to cover very deep, complex subjects. People sometimes look at my work and see just the surface, completely overlooking the underlying themes—and that’s intentional. To me, that’s what literature does.

Literature isn’t meant to be obvious. It hides meanings within layers, much like art does. When I was studying literature, from Form One all the way through university, we were taught how to uncover these layers and decipher what was hidden beneath the surface to truly understand the story. My work mirrors that process. It's not just about what’s immediately visible; it’s about what lies underneath, waiting to be uncovered.

Africans try to be very cultured in their writing. How about in art?

What I am doing is documenting Nairobi, capturing it for posterity. I’m documenting what I see—people interacting with the spaces they find themselves in. Forty, fifty years from now, maybe I’ll publish a book, and people will look back and get a sense of what Nairobi was like at this moment in time. That’s the idea behind my work.

Why do you think that’s important?

I think it’s crucial because there are things no one else has documented. I’ve worked on two or three bodies of work that I believe hold value because they fill that gap. One example is the issue of commercial sex work. I spent a significant amount of time in strip clubs—not because I wanted to see topless women, but because I was interested in the men who frequent these places. I wanted to explore who these people are, how they interact with the women in these spaces. That curiosity led to a series of 100 pieces I called China Loves Africa—with “Loves” in quotes. This was during the time when Chinese influence in Africa was growing, and I wanted to capture the conversations people were having about China’s true intentions toward the continent. I’ve also documented the rise of the first strip club in this country, Applebee’s, which was in downtown Nairobi. I created a whole body of work around the things I observed there. My aim is simple: I’m not trying to force my views on anyone. I just want to present it, and it’s up to you to decide if you want to engage with it or not.

People say you create work that objectifies women. What do you say to that?

That’s a common criticism, yes. But if you look closely at my work, even when I paint a pole dancer, I try to give her dignity. I’ll cover her, not expose her unnecessarily. The women I paint, even when they’re performing in these spaces, are not my primary focus. If you look at a piece with a woman on a pole, you’ll notice a group of men surrounding her, observing her. They’re the ones I’m truly interested in, not the woman herself. My goal isn’t to exploit anyone, but to show a deeper narrative about power dynamics and human behaviour.

If you take the time to look at my work, you’ll understand what I’m trying to communicate. It’s not always obvious, but that’s the point.

What’s an unusual discovery you made in your strip club fieldwork?

Can I be honest with you? One of the things I’ve realised after spending so much time in these spaces is that, especially when people are getting lap dances, about 75% of the people receiving them are women, not men.

So what does that say?

Go figure. Honestly, I don’t have an answer. It’s fascinating, but again, no judgement. People have all kinds of weird fetishes, and as long as they’re not harming anyone, particularly children, it’s totally okay.

Do you find that locals resonate more with your artwork, or is it more appreciated by international audiences?

Honestly, my work is created with local people in mind—these are stories from within, drawn from our everyday experiences. Anyone who looks at it can relate to it in some way. But ironically, most of my pieces end up in Europe and America.

Tracy Ochieng is a staff writer with Books in Africa. Email: tracy.ochieng@ekitabu.com