The man who turned condoms from taboo to Nyanza songs

On a starry night in Kisumu in the mid-1990s, the guitars of Okatch Biggy surged through a crowd in a dancing hall where fans danced, couples swayed, and the air pulsed with benga’s irresistible rhythm. Mid-song, Biggy leaned into the microphone and crooned a line that sent the crowd roaring:

“Owino Daktari…” he sang, pausing, before calling out the name of a popular condom brand. The audience clapped, laughed, and sang along.

It was a moment of joy, but also of revolution. What had once been taboo—condoms—was now part of the lyrics, part of the laughter, part of the culture. And behind it all was a doctor who understood the power of music better than most.

In the early 1990s, a condom in Luo Nyanza was more scandal than solution. Speaking about it in public could draw laughter, shame, or outright dismissal. Yet, as HIV/AIDS spread relentlessly through the region, one man and his team chose creativity over silence. Their bold mix of radio plays, benga music, and market activations turned a taboo subject into a life-saving conversation.

Born in Huma village, Kisumu West, Dr. Nafa Owino was the bright boy of Huma Primary before earning a place at Maseno School, perched at the Equator. In the mid-1980s, he studied medicine and Surgey at the University of Nairobi, qualifying as a Medical Doctor just as HIV/AIDS began ravaging Kenya.

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His first years as a doctor took him to Kisumu, Chulaimbo, and Nyamira, where he witnessed the epidemic at its worst. “He saw wards full of young patients, families broken, funerals every week,” recalls Mary Atieno, a retired nurse in Chulaimbo. “He kept saying prevention was the only way forward. We couldn’t just keep treating—we had to stop people from getting infected.”

That conviction drove him to pursue a Master’s in Public Health at Tulane School of Tropical Medicine in the U.S. He returned home determined to do prevention differently. Though a teetotaller who never drank alcohol, Owino loved and respected Luo social life. He knew the place of music and performance in its social fabric—how a song could shape attitudes more deeply than a lecture.

Unlike most doctors, his expertise and creativity didn’t stay behind clinic walls. He attended the benga shows himself, slipping quietly into the audience, observing social aspect of the people . And the stars noticed.

“Biggy would see him in the crowd and acknowledge him,” says James Ochieng, a longtime fan. “When Biggy chanted ‘Owino Daktari’ followed by the condom brand, people cheered. It was like the doctor and the musician were giving us permission to talk openly about it.”

By being present in those spaces, Owino showed he wasn’t an outsider imposing ideas—he was part of the community, listening, learning, and guiding.

Back in Kenya, Owino served as a Medical Officer of Health, but bureaucracy slowed his ideas. He opted to partner with like minded organizations such as UNICEF, Care Int’l, and Population Services International (PSI) among others. Here, he and his teams found freedom to innovate, tackling the condom taboo with creativity.

“He believed condoms were not just a medical device but a cultural issue,” recalls a Care colleague. “So he asked, how do you shift culture? His answer was music, drama, and laughter.”

Owino’s team collaborated with thespians to script radio dramas in the Luo language. Characters faced love, betrayal, and temptation, with condoms woven into the storylines. Listeners tuned in for the plot twists, but left with safer-sex messages.

Luo music legends like George Ramogi and Okatch Biggy became allies. Their songs, peppered with references to condoms and shout-outs to “Owino Daktari ” reached crowds that no health brochure could. At shows, condoms were handed out alongside education on their use.

“It was genius,” says Ochieng. “The music made condoms less shameful. If Biggy could sing it, then we could say it too.”

At markets and barazas, Owino would use jokes to ease the tension. “He’d make people laugh first,” remembers a mobilizer. “Then his team would talk about HIV and its prevention, and instead of silence, you’d hear applause.”

By the mid-1990s, condom use in Nyanza was rising. Clinics reported more demand. Shops and chemists stocked them more openly. Couples began to negotiate safer sex without shame.

“Before, asking for a condom was like confessing a sin,” says Grace Achieng, a public health officer. “After those campaigns, it was easier. He and his team made it normal.”

The ripple effect extended beyond Nyanza. National campaigns later borrowed heavily from his playbook: storytelling, music, and community engagement. Public health experts now call this culturally grounded behavior change communication. But in the 1990s, it was seen as risky—even radical.

“He was far ahead of his time,” says a colleague. “He believed in meeting people where they are—on the radio, in the dance halls, at the market. And it worked.”

Though Dr. Owino died in 2001, his presence remains in memory and music. Benga records still carry his name; condom campaigns still use the creative methods he championed. Most importantly, a generation once silenced by stigma now speaks openly about protection. Every time a condom is picked up in Kisumu, Chulaimbo, or Homa Bay, it carries an echo of the man who helped make it acceptable.

“He didn’t just introduce condoms,” says Atieno, the nurse. “He introduced courage to talk about them. And he did it with music, with laughter, and with love for his people.”

In a time when silence was deadly, Dr. Owino chose creativity. He showed that health impact is not only about medicine—it is about culture, rhythm, and the courage to weave life-saving messages into the fabric of everyday life. His story is a reminder for public health today: if you want change, you must sing it, act it, and live it with the people you serve.