Zawadi finally speaks, not for the report, not for the headlines, but for Shiku. What begins as a secret love between a queer kibanda cook and a pastor’s daughter grows into Bloom, a hidden backroom cinema where queer bodies can breathe, laugh, and exist without apology. It is fragile joy, stitched together behind sufurias and fairy lights, and it works, until someone is watching.

A single text becomes a flood. Photos turn into threats. Love becomes leverage. When blackmail seeps into the sanctuary, the leak doesn’t just expose a relationship, it detonates it in the most violent place possible: the church. Shiku’s private joy is projected as public shame, and by the time the music stops, she is already gone.

When Amina returns to Lamu for her mother’s funeral, she carries more than grief in her suitcase. She carries a choice. One outfit will let her sit quietly with the family. The other will tell the truth about who she is and might cost her safety.

Set between a tense matatu journey and a homecoming thick with memory, silence, and judgment, Kanzu or Burqa follows a trans woman navigating mourning, faith, gender, and belonging in a town that remembers her only as who she used to be. As relatives sharpen their tongues and tradition tightens its grip, Amina must decide whether survival means hiding or finally arriving as herself.

In the chaos of Gikomba where chickens panic, sufurias sing, and “viazi tano kumi!” is basically a national anthem, Akinyi leans in to tell the juiciest “scandal” in the market: two widows, Njeri and Adhis, have fallen into a quiet, tender love that grows not with roses, but with extra sukuma bundles, shared thermos tea, and baskets lifted before a back gives in.

Of course, every love story needs a villain, and theirs comes wrapped in a Kamba accent and unlimited airtime: Kamene, the CNN of Gikomba, whose gossip has more salt than the Indian Ocean. She turns stolen glances into BREAKING NEWS, dowry into sukuma bundles, and romance into a ridiculous rumor cyclone, until the market realizes her noise is doing the opposite of harm. Her exaggerations become a shield.

After his homophobic dad kicks him out, Kamau drags his “I’ve been exiled” bag to his guka’s house in the village, expecting judgment, maybe a lecture, definitely not muratina. Instead, Guka Kinyanjui reacts like a chaotic elder with zero fear and too much tea: he roasts Kamau’s dad, asks wildly inappropriate “so who’s the girl?” questions, then casually drops the bombshell, he once had a secret Mau Mau lover.

Enter Gichuki wa MaThighs: a legendary freedom fighter with hips that preached, thighs that could distract a hyena mid-hunt, and enough rizz to turn roasted maize into foreplay under a mugumo tree. Through hilarious memory lapses, filthy one-liners, and war stories that swing between ambush and aftercare, Guka recounts “shoot and smooch” romance in the forest, kisses with gunpowder on the breath, love as rebellion, and tenderness hidden inside a revolution.

By the end, Kamau doesn’t just find shelter he finds inheritance: a ridiculous, raunchy, unexpectedly healing queer history lesson… plus the horrifying realization that his guka is never running out of details.

A breathless pirate-radio presenter goes live from the mabati maze of Dandora, running for his life as DCI boots, drones, dogs, and Subaru doors hunt him down. His crew has already been folded into the backseat, their studio at the dumpsite ripped apart like it’s contraband, because their “crime” was building a queer frequency: Dandora Dreamscape, the station where erased people could still hear themselves exist.

As he ducks through alleys and chang’aa dens, the broadcast turns into a prophecy: this static isn’t noise, it’s memory. Love notes disguised as playlists. USB sticks traded like currency. Names that refuse to die.

With the raid closing in, he does a final roll call of the last-seen, a guide on how to become a transmitter when the signal dies: write memories behind bus tickets, graffiti what algorithms can’t scan, tuck love into chapati, breathe like breathing is broadcast. Then the lock rattles, the door slams, and the mic explodes into static.

In a refugee safe house where hope is rationed by red marker and names on a whiteboard, Tuesdays are survival. Open-mic nights soften the blow of asylum decisions that never come, until Alain arrives. Six-foot-four, Congolese, hips preaching freedom and a voice that slips past language and straight into the ribs. He doesn’t just dance; he reminds people they’re still alive.

For Ahmed, a Somali, queer, stateless, and exhausted by bureaucracy, love blooms where it’s forbidden: between bunk beds, boiled eggs shared like communion, and whispered dreams under stained sheets. But when Ahmed’s name is finally called for resettlement, it comes with a cruel choice: freedom alone or danger together.

They choose together.

What follows is a desperate escape, bribes paid in last shillings, fear swallowed at checkpoints, and a rebirth in Nairobi’s shadows, where Alain becomes a music force and Ahmed builds a life stitch by stitch in Eastleigh. The Waiting List is a tender, defiant love story about borders, bodies, and choosing each other when the world insists you wait or disappear.

Written and Directed by: Thayũ

Sound Producer: Santuri

Voice Actor: Koome Kinoti

produced by: Creatives Garage

Try and Twirls follows a soft, sharp-tongued boy from Kibera who accidentally discovers ballet and, in the process, himself. Between rooftop pirouettes, viral humiliation, bullies with too much confidence, and a body that refuses to fit Nairobi’s rigid idea of masculinity, he learns that grace can be an act of rebellion.

When a leaked video turns his joy into public ridicule and pushes him to the edge, an unexpected ally steps in: his rugby-playing brother, Lwanda. What starts as survival turns into solidarity, and eventually, celebration, culminating in a national stadium moment where ballet meets football and the world finally dances along instead of pointing.

Try and Twirls is a funny, tender coming-of-age story about softness, brotherhood, queer joy, and finding balance in a place that tells you to harden up or disappear.

Written and Directed by: Thayũ

Sound Producer: Santuri

Voice Actor: Brian Baneki

produced by: Creatives Garage

In the middle of Sunday service at Kanisa ya Ndugu Joseph, the choir is droning “Nasadiki” when the real gospel drops: a leaked photo of Father Daniel and superstar worship leader Heavenly D; hand on thigh, scandal in 4K. Elder Njoroge storms the pulpit, screaming “the devil is BUSY!” and the sanctuary erupts into a full Nairobi meltdown: tongues, gasps, auntie-level condemnation, and a fresh church “guideline” advising people not to breathe near suspected homosexuals like it’s COVID.

But while the church serves an unlimited shame buffet, the internet is doing what it does best, turning trauma into trend. Hashtags rise, TikTok remixes go rainbow, DJs chop hymns into vogue anthems, and #UnholyButUnbroken becomes a nationwide crusade of memes, support, and petty divine beef. Caught between hypocrisy in the pews and liberation on her phone, the narrator realizes something dangerous: maybe love isn’t the devil’s work, maybe it’s survival.

Written and Directed by: Thayũ

Sound Producer: Santuri

Voice Actor: Kevin 'Manjoro' Waithaka

produced by: Creatives Garage