A waab, as I am sure you know (I did not), is the proper name for those little dome-shaped bendy huts, made of sticks lashed together and covered with cloths or sheets of plastic — whatever comes to hand.

They are made by Somalis and much copied by peace and eco protesters everywhere. But for the Somali Kenyan artist Deqa Abshir, a waab is so much more than a traditional home.

Rooted in custom, it stands as a vehicle for her exploration of the conflicts of identity, culture and tradition among young urban Africans.

For Abshir, the waab is both a symbol of Somali life and a foundation of nomadic culture. It is the subject of her first solo exhibition, called Foundations, at the One-Off at Rosslyn, to the west of Nairobi.

There are 10 paintings of which five are multiples of two, three or four panels. It is this fragmentation of the image that is a tangible representation for her of the disintegration of nomadic lifestyles; a sort of visual onomatopoeia that some might find a touch laboured, a rather simplistic demonstration of her thesis… our lifestyle is falling apart and to show that, this waab is in pieces too.

The paintings are pleasant and well executed however and clearly Abshir can draw. She studied art in New York and teaches it at Nairobi’s Peponi School. A couple of A4 pencil studies of waabs in this exhibition (on until July 22) bear witness to her grounding.

Abshir has a strong sense of design too. Many of her paintings focus on the rhythm of the huts, either the panels of their construction or the huts themselves as they recede into the distance. Together as a polemic these paintings make for an interesting and forceful exhibition. But how they will stand alone, other than as souvenirs of a vanishing lifestyle it is hard to tell.

A selection of work by some of One-Off’s stable of artists can be seen, appropriately, in the newly repurposed tack room of the actual stables that adjoin the main gallery.

Tricked out with new white walls and spots, it promises a breathing space in a crowded gallery complex.

There can be found provocative paintings by Richard Kimathi, a group of watercolours of chickens by Florence Wangui and a couple of Ehoodi Kichapis on the wall, with many more inviting inspection on the central table.

A corner of the room is devoted to the glassware of Naomi van Rampelberg, a twinkling display of vases, candle bowls and jewellery pendants.

Kimathi delights in tackling edgy social issues, with a painterly, oblique approach. His delicate colouring and subtle drawing beguils, even as his subjects reward inspection. Couples in love — hetero and homo — cuddle quietly in pastel hues.

Wangui, it is a pleasure to note, handles watercolours with the skill previously seen in her charcoal drawings, even if some might by now find her dedication to presenting the many moods of chickens a trifle tiresome. No matter, the subject is hers to choose and her technical skills are undoubted.

This group of six paintings is a delight; the subjects well observed and beautifully realised. I hope, perhaps in vain, that one day she will, er, spread her wings, and turn her attention to, for instance, the nightmare flappings of marabou storks.

Kichape’s response

And then there is Kichape.

On the table a donkey ambles, head heavy, across a green pasture while on the wall The Dancer arcs across a rowdy matrix of scribbles and wild splashes of colour; Kichape’s familiar, jaunty response to our chaotic city life.

Next to it, his Punda is the latest essay in the artist’s preoccupation with the Bible story of the Ass and the Angel, recounted in Numbers 22: 21-39.

In it the sinful Balaam is rebuked by his donkey when he beats it as it steps off the path to avoid an angel that only the donkey can see. In a human voice the donkey asks: “What have I done that you should beat me?”

The artist writes in Kiswahili, as though completing a crossword on the donkey’s back, “I am a donkey, why do you beat me?” but scrambles the letters to transform them into random symbols, a part of life’s graffiti.

In so doing he deconstructs the parable and offers it as a triumph for the seemingly inarticulate.

Thus it becomes a metaphor for the cry of all artists, who can see angels, to potential clients and casual viewers, who often cannot.

Frank Whalley runs Lenga Juu, an arts and media consultancy based in Nairobi.