A dream, a voice, and beautifully stubborn resilience: This is Damackline.

There's this one uniquely Kenyan statement, a phrase that I'll ask you to keep in mind, because we'll get back to it later. It's not context-specific, nor is it confined in its use in scenarios ranging from the weighty to the humorous. Yet its ubiquity across Kenyan society is without question. 

The phrase? "Nilijiita mkutano."

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Backed by some of the other phenomenal talent from the Ghetto Classics collective, her live rendition of "Ndaya" - the effortlessly recognisable rhumba classic by Faya Tess - has her audience fully in sync with her, some on their feet fully immersed in the rhythm. 

One thing is without doubt: She has just poured her soul into this performance. This particular stage happens to be something somewhat personal to her; it's part of an Art of Music event, an organisation that stands as a key skilling partner within the Sanara programme - a partner that has also served to sharpen her skill for this moment.

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Later, away from the applause, the story behind that voice unfolds. 

"I'm Damackline, a young girl from the slums," she begins, her tone straightforward, grounded. "I come from Kibera slums. That is where I have grown and raised."

That seed of passion was planted early. "It began when I was a young girl, a teenage girl, when I was interested in music, but I didn't have the capability to pursue it." The dream was present, but the resources, the clear path, were not. Yet, the music within her refused to be silenced. "I kept on moving and strengthening my vocal muscles in choirs and bands back in my home village."

The journey eventually led her to Nairobi, to Kibera, where "I engaged myself in the Chemichemi Choir at Springs of Life Lutheran Church. I started muscling my voice up to become who I am today, making progress each and every day."

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She's getting more comfortable in the conversation, her voice ever more affirmed by the truth of her own story. It's a confidence that's almost deceptive, not once betraying the doubt and discouragement on her path to this point.

"Was it (pursuing music) always something that you got support for?"

Her candour is striking. "Nilikuwa navunjwa moyo (I was feeling very discouraged) at some point," she admits. "And even my family members could not see it as something that will come one day to be what it is right now." 

The familiar refrain of "Hio ni nini unafanya?" (What are you doing?) echoed around her. It’s a sentiment that countless young creatives, particularly those from challenging backgrounds, know all too well. "But the passion that was in me was really pushing me, and [I kept telling myself that] I have to be intentional about what I want to be in life."

This intentionality became her shield and her compass. She watched her role models, ceaselessly visualising herself on those same stages, moving crowds. 

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Then came a pivotal moment: "So one day I was called to present praise and worship. And when I saw the crowd move, I felt, 'Dama, you have to do this, and you can do it even better than this.'" 

That connection, that shared energy with an audience, was a powerful affirmation.

Even as she gained personal conviction, the external validation was slow to come. The opinions of others, though sometimes unspoken, still carried a sting. "I could not even sing on the keys, I kept being told that I was too shallow." But Damackline’s response was to turn inwards, to that resilient core of self-belief. "But I called myself to a private space and talk to myself, I'm like, 'Dama, you have to do this and you will do it and you will make it to where you want to be.'"

There it is. That uniquely Kenyan phrase, transliterated into English, as happens in many a Kenyanese conversation. 

'I had a moment of self-reflection.'

'I had a conversation with myself.'

'I called myself to a private space.'

'Nilijiita mkutano.'

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This unwavering self-belief was coupled with relentless effort. "It meant a lot of practice. I would come across a video of a vocalist trying to train on social media, and I'd try it out but I wouldn't make it. I just decided that I will give it my all. I sacrificed all that I could for me to practice well and push on."

Her just-concluded performance in this Art of Music gathering in Korogocho is a testament to those sacrifices. 

"It was a very tough beginning, because at some point, I didn't even have the required attire [for the church choir]. I could not even afford little things like petroleum jelly for my skin; I could not afford basic things because of my family, where I come, even they couldn't afford it. I didn't have any support from both the family and friends."

She doesn't shy away from the rawness of these memories. The inability to afford a choir uniform, the pain of being left behind because she couldn't pay the fare to events - these were not just logistical hurdles, they were deeply emotional wounds. "I could not afford the fare to get to where the choir practised or performed. But I kept telling myself that maybe one day, I'd manage to have those things so that I can do the singing, and do everything forever, just... forever."

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"Forever." The word hangs with the weight of her enduring commitment. And indeed, she has come a long way. She now sees a future where her life and lifestyle are fully supported by her passion. 

Her dream is not just personal; it's communal. "I will mentor those people. There are some people outside here that think that music can't pay, but music pays."

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So strong is her passion and her conviction, that she leaves a time capsule of a message for her own child, a 3-year-old who she lovingly calls "Queen". 

"Queen, as a young girl at 14, I was there as your mother. And I tried my best to become who I am today. But what can I tell you, now that you're 14? Work on the basics, keep working on your talent. Explore yourself at 14, because I know one day through the sacrifices that you can give now as a young girl, you will be more than where I am today. Let not the traumas around you discourage you."

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Damackline’s story is a present reminder of the immense talent that exists within our communities, talent that often needs to fight against incredible odds to be heard.

This is where the significance of initiatives like the Sanara programme, and its dedicated skilling partners such as Art of Music, comes into sharp focus. While Damackline's journey has been profoundly shaped by her individual tenacity, the aim of such programmes is to create more accessible and supportive pathways. They strive to provide the skills, the platforms, and the networks that can help nurture talent, potentially easing the burden of sacrifice for the next generation of "Queens." 

Damackline’s performance, facilitated by Art of Music, was more than just part of a programme; it's a beacon, illuminating what’s possible when raw talent is met with opportunity and belief. 

A parting shot from Dama, borrowing her words for Queen, and perhaps for everyone: "Keep pushing, keep going. You can do it."