FELA: This Bitch Of A Life By Carlos Moore
Imagine me, Fela, in America! That’s one big yeye country! I no dey tok fo’ dat one yet-o. Cos na one big nonsense’ story wey de full one book-o!* racist! … Hatred! … Violent! … A b***! Ohhhhhh, man, you ain’t seen shit till you hit America. I thought motherfuckin’ England was bad! America na worse than bad-o! America na-wa-o!** People in Africa don’t know how much their American Black brothers are suffering wey dey fo’ that place-o. I swear, they no know! But Black Americans were beautiful to me, man.
When I came back home, I said to myself: “All African countries should open their doors to Africans from everywhere, especially those in the Americas.” That’s what I wanted to do if I’d been in power. But I wasn’t. So the idea of creating a place open to every African escaping persecution began taking shape in this my mind. Was that my first pan-Africanist idea? Maybe. At any rate, that’s how the idea of setting up a communal compound –one like Africans had been liing in for thousands of years –came about
A place open to everybody. A real compound, you know. I’d think to myself: “Ah-ah! What is this city shit-o? One man, one wife, one house isolated from everybody else in the neighbourhood? Is an African not even to know his neighbours?” Man, even the Bible says, “Know thy neighbour!” So why all this individualism shit? This “mine”. That “yours”. That “theirs”. What’s that shit? Is it African? My communal compound came about naturally, right there in Surulere.
Later on, in ‘74, it was given the name “Kalakuta”. Then I added … Republic! Why Kalakuta? You see, when I was first put in jail, the name of my prison cell was “Kalakuta”. And “Republic”? Well, ‘cause I wanted to identify the ways’ of myself or someone who didn’t agree with that your Federal Republic of Nigeria created by British man. I was in non-agreement, man. General Yakubu Gowon was then in power. That foolish man! ‘Cause Biafra war had just finished, you see.* Federal soldiers were walking round with fuckin’ guns and sticks; pushing people around and acting so big-o! They’d been the “victors”, you see! You get me now? So I said, “OK. Good.” I changed the name of my club from Afro-Spot to Shrine. That was in ‘71, I think.
I’d just released my first hit, a record called “Jeun Ko’ku”, which means “Chop and Die” (Eat and Die). It was my first African record, you know. I’d also changed the name of my group from Koola Lobitos to Africa 70. To my knowledge, Koola Lobitos meant nothing. It was a foolish name, a stupid name, you see. How could other people think straight? Africa 70 had a meaning. It was looking to the future, to the coming decade. Then we opened the Shrine. Why Shrine? ‘Cause I wanted some place meaningful, of progressive, mindful background with roots. I didn’t believe playing any more in nightclubs. Right from the start, the Shrine was successful; it was getting on.
Since I’d just released “Jeun Ko’ku”, things were going well. It was a big hit then in Nigeria. But that’s when all my troubles began! At the Shrine. I was only singing my own songs: “Jeun Ko’ku”, “Buy Africa”, “Why Black Man Dey Suffer”, “Lady”. … But police came to try stop me from sing, man. First they tried to intimidate club owner. But me, I dey have contract-o! Then, they physically tried to bar my entry into the club. You see thaaaat? I said, “Ah-ah! These foolish people!” I went to court and won. Court said I was entitled to play in the club ‘cause I had contract.
kalakuta on fire
Imagine me, Fela, in America! That’s one big yeye country! I no dey tok fo’ dat one yet-o. Cos na one big nonsense’ story wey de full one book-o!* racist! … Hatred! … Violent! … A b***! Ohhhhhh, man, you ain’t seen shit till you hit America. I thought motherfuckin’ England was bad! America na worse than bad-o! America na-wa-o!** People in Africa don’t know how much their American Black brothers are suffering wey dey fo’ that place-o. I swear, they no know! But Black Americans were beautiful to me, man.
When I came back home, I said to myself: “All African countries should open their doors to Africans from everywhere, especially those in the Americas.” That’s what I wanted to do if I’d been in power. But I wasn’t. So the idea of creating a place open to every African escaping persecution began taking shape in this my mind. Was that my first pan-Africanist idea? Maybe. At any rate, that’s how the idea of setting up a communal compound –one like Africans had been liing in for thousands of years –came about.
A place open to everybody. A real compound, you know. I’d think to myself: “Ah-ah! What is this city shit-o? One man, one wife, one house isolated from everybody else in the neighbourhood? Is an African not even to know his neighbours?” Man, even the Bible says, “Know thy neighbour!” So why all this individualism shit? This “mine”. That “yours”. That “theirs”. What’s that shit? Is it African? My communal compound came about naturally, right there in Surulere.
Later on, in ‘74, it was given the name “Kalakuta”. Then I added … Republic! Why Kalakuta? You see, when I was first put in jail, the name of my prison cell was “Kalakuta”. And “Republic”? Well, ‘cause I wanted to identify the ways’ of myself or someone who didn’t agree with that your Federal Republic of Nigeria created by British man. I was in non-agreement, man. General Yakubu Gowon was then in power. That foolish man! ‘Cause Biafra war had just finished, you see.* Federal soldiers were walking round with fuckin’ guns and sticks; pushing people around and acting so big-o! They’d been the “victors”, you see! You get me now? So I said, “OK. Good.” I changed the name of my club from Afro-Spot to Shrine. That was in ‘71, I think.
I’d just released my first hit, a record called “Jeun Ko’ku”, which means “Chop and Die” (Eat and Die). It was my first African record, you know. I’d also changed the name of my group from Koola Lobitos to Africa 70. To my knowledge, Koola Lobitos meant nothing. It was a foolish name, a stupid name, you see. How could other people think straight? Africa 70 had a meaning. It was looking to the future, to the coming decade. Then we opened the Shrine. Why Shrine? ‘Cause I wanted some place meaningful, of progressive, mindful background with roots. I didn’t believe playing any more in nightclubs. Right from the start, the Shrine was successful; it was getting on.
Since I’d just released “Jeun Ko’ku”, things were going well. It was a big hit then in Nigeria. But that’s when all my troubles began! At the Shrine. I was only singing my own songs: “Jeun Ko’ku”, “Buy Africa”, “Why Black Man Dey Suffer”, “Lady”. … But police came to try stop me from sing, man. First they tried to intimidate club owner. But me, I dey have contract-o! Then, they physically tried to bar my entry into the club. You see thaaaat? I said, “Ah-ah! These foolish people!” I went to court and won. Court said I was entitled to play in the club ‘cause I had contract.
fela and sandra
Was that in ‘70, ‘71 or ‘72? In any case, my mind was still heavy with the US thing-o: Black Panthers … Malcolm X … racism … the horrors … Sandra. … At the time, and even today, man, I think about that woman! A wonderful woman, man! She’s definitely one of the most important women that ever crossed my life! Because of what she’d done for me in America, I’d promised to bring her to Nigeria for a visit. Sandra’s visit to Nigeria was one of the heavy experiences of my life. It was my first fight with government officials. I didn’t know it was so difficult for people to come to a country. I’d simply said to Sandra, “Come to Nigeria and have a show with me.” I wrote her that in a letter in 1970, when I’d started to make small-small money. At the time the club was still called Afro-Spot. So I sent her a ticket. She phoned me and told me she had to have a visa to come. “Ah-ah! What is this visa for come to Nigeria?” She said she would go get visa in Washington, at the Nigerian Embassy there, ‘cause she was living in Los Angeles. I told her, “Me, I will go get visa for you here in Lagos.”
So I went to the office to get a visa for her. Then I phoned her and told her, “Take a plane and come.” She went to Washington anyway ‘cause she still wanted to get the visa. The Embassy told her she cannot get it yet. She insisted to see the Ambassador. “Why won’t you give me a visa?” He started giving her a lot of shit. … She cut him off, man, and cursed his ass out. What didn’t she say? Ooooooooo! You don’t know Sandra, man! Batabatabatabatabatabata! “Idiot. … Bastard. … Son of a bitch. … Motherfucker. …” Man, Sandra is something else!!! The ambassador got pale! Imagine that? An African Nigerian get pale, man! Ohhhh, Sandra, she’s a motherfucker. She’d kicked a policeman’s ass in America, so what wouldn’t she do to an ambassador? You know what she told him? “You nigger! Shit! You with your slave mentality! You should be in chains permanently!”
She told me all that later. “I cursed his ass out!” she said. So I told her over the phone: “Good. Just come directly to the airport. I’m coming to get you.” Sandra arrived. I met her at airport and brought her in. Sandra started playing with me in the band. She was fantastic. Everybody loved Sandra. Newspapers wrote about her. All over Lagos people started talking about“Sandra … Sandra … Sandra. …” When I was teaching her to sing, I saw that she had a very unique voice. I swear that that woman’s voice is the wildest woman’s voice you’ve ever heard. I never heard any voice like it. I wanted for people to hear her. So I recorded her on an album, Upside Down. That was in ‘76, on her second trip to Nigeria. She came back specially to record it. Everybody liked her. And, ohhhh, the way she dressed! She was so. … She wore see-through top, halfway short skirts. … She was fuckin’ popular, man. Now when the Nigerian ambassador to Washington arrived in Lagos and saw this Sandra in the newspaper, it cursed him out. “So this motherfuckin’ woman is here!”
He quickly contacted the officials. He set up a plan for her, to throw her out. You see, her three months’ visa was up. And they wanted to get her out. They began to chase Sandra about the country, those immigration officers. They were really chasing her physically, looking for her everywhere. We went to hide her out in our village, in Abeokuta. My mother took her, I swear. She liked Sandra. And she hid her in village for one week. Sandra only left Nigeria when she was ready. They were looking for her to deport her, but they didn’t find her. When she was ready to go we let them see her and we said, “She’s going.” So she left. I can’t remember how many months she stayed, but it was a long time-o, a long time.
I was confident now. I knew I would succeed. Success was in reach, man. And I thought: “J.K., J.K. Now is the fuckin’ moment!” That same year – ‘71 – we got the chance to hook up again. ‘Cause, you see, I wanted to record in a proper studio. I insisted that a proper studio be set up in Nigeria, otherwise I wouldn’t record. Or else they’d have to take us to London to record again. So they changed the studio from two tracks to eight tracks. In the meantime, I went to London anyway. I was already successful in Nigeria, but they wouldn’t release my records overseas. Why? I didn’t know that EMI was against me ‘cause they were saying I was too “political”. So I said: “Fuck these bastards!” I left EMI and became independent. I started releasing records on my own, with my own musicians. It got to be heavy-o. I was making eight albums a year in Nigeria. I was getting very powerful. Very listened to. Very liked. But, for the authorities, very … daaaaannnnngerous!
To Be Continued
Culled From The Book : Fela : This Bitch of A Life By Carlos Moore
When I came back home, I said to myself: “All African countries should open their doors to Africans from everywhere, especially those in the Americas.” That’s what I wanted to do if I’d been in power. But I wasn’t. So the idea of creating a place open to every African escaping persecution began taking shape in this my mind. Was that my first pan-Africanist idea? Maybe. At any rate, that’s how the idea of setting up a communal compound –one like Africans had been liing in for thousands of years –came about
A place open to everybody. A real compound, you know. I’d think to myself: “Ah-ah! What is this city shit-o? One man, one wife, one house isolated from everybody else in the neighbourhood? Is an African not even to know his neighbours?” Man, even the Bible says, “Know thy neighbour!” So why all this individualism shit? This “mine”. That “yours”. That “theirs”. What’s that shit? Is it African? My communal compound came about naturally, right there in Surulere.
Later on, in ‘74, it was given the name “Kalakuta”. Then I added … Republic! Why Kalakuta? You see, when I was first put in jail, the name of my prison cell was “Kalakuta”. And “Republic”? Well, ‘cause I wanted to identify the ways’ of myself or someone who didn’t agree with that your Federal Republic of Nigeria created by British man. I was in non-agreement, man. General Yakubu Gowon was then in power. That foolish man! ‘Cause Biafra war had just finished, you see.* Federal soldiers were walking round with fuckin’ guns and sticks; pushing people around and acting so big-o! They’d been the “victors”, you see! You get me now? So I said, “OK. Good.” I changed the name of my club from Afro-Spot to Shrine. That was in ‘71, I think.
I’d just released my first hit, a record called “Jeun Ko’ku”, which means “Chop and Die” (Eat and Die). It was my first African record, you know. I’d also changed the name of my group from Koola Lobitos to Africa 70. To my knowledge, Koola Lobitos meant nothing. It was a foolish name, a stupid name, you see. How could other people think straight? Africa 70 had a meaning. It was looking to the future, to the coming decade. Then we opened the Shrine. Why Shrine? ‘Cause I wanted some place meaningful, of progressive, mindful background with roots. I didn’t believe playing any more in nightclubs. Right from the start, the Shrine was successful; it was getting on.
Since I’d just released “Jeun Ko’ku”, things were going well. It was a big hit then in Nigeria. But that’s when all my troubles began! At the Shrine. I was only singing my own songs: “Jeun Ko’ku”, “Buy Africa”, “Why Black Man Dey Suffer”, “Lady”. … But police came to try stop me from sing, man. First they tried to intimidate club owner. But me, I dey have contract-o! Then, they physically tried to bar my entry into the club. You see thaaaat? I said, “Ah-ah! These foolish people!” I went to court and won. Court said I was entitled to play in the club ‘cause I had contract.
kalakuta on fire
Imagine me, Fela, in America! That’s one big yeye country! I no dey tok fo’ dat one yet-o. Cos na one big nonsense’ story wey de full one book-o!* racist! … Hatred! … Violent! … A b***! Ohhhhhh, man, you ain’t seen shit till you hit America. I thought motherfuckin’ England was bad! America na worse than bad-o! America na-wa-o!** People in Africa don’t know how much their American Black brothers are suffering wey dey fo’ that place-o. I swear, they no know! But Black Americans were beautiful to me, man.
When I came back home, I said to myself: “All African countries should open their doors to Africans from everywhere, especially those in the Americas.” That’s what I wanted to do if I’d been in power. But I wasn’t. So the idea of creating a place open to every African escaping persecution began taking shape in this my mind. Was that my first pan-Africanist idea? Maybe. At any rate, that’s how the idea of setting up a communal compound –one like Africans had been liing in for thousands of years –came about.
A place open to everybody. A real compound, you know. I’d think to myself: “Ah-ah! What is this city shit-o? One man, one wife, one house isolated from everybody else in the neighbourhood? Is an African not even to know his neighbours?” Man, even the Bible says, “Know thy neighbour!” So why all this individualism shit? This “mine”. That “yours”. That “theirs”. What’s that shit? Is it African? My communal compound came about naturally, right there in Surulere.
Later on, in ‘74, it was given the name “Kalakuta”. Then I added … Republic! Why Kalakuta? You see, when I was first put in jail, the name of my prison cell was “Kalakuta”. And “Republic”? Well, ‘cause I wanted to identify the ways’ of myself or someone who didn’t agree with that your Federal Republic of Nigeria created by British man. I was in non-agreement, man. General Yakubu Gowon was then in power. That foolish man! ‘Cause Biafra war had just finished, you see.* Federal soldiers were walking round with fuckin’ guns and sticks; pushing people around and acting so big-o! They’d been the “victors”, you see! You get me now? So I said, “OK. Good.” I changed the name of my club from Afro-Spot to Shrine. That was in ‘71, I think.
I’d just released my first hit, a record called “Jeun Ko’ku”, which means “Chop and Die” (Eat and Die). It was my first African record, you know. I’d also changed the name of my group from Koola Lobitos to Africa 70. To my knowledge, Koola Lobitos meant nothing. It was a foolish name, a stupid name, you see. How could other people think straight? Africa 70 had a meaning. It was looking to the future, to the coming decade. Then we opened the Shrine. Why Shrine? ‘Cause I wanted some place meaningful, of progressive, mindful background with roots. I didn’t believe playing any more in nightclubs. Right from the start, the Shrine was successful; it was getting on.
Since I’d just released “Jeun Ko’ku”, things were going well. It was a big hit then in Nigeria. But that’s when all my troubles began! At the Shrine. I was only singing my own songs: “Jeun Ko’ku”, “Buy Africa”, “Why Black Man Dey Suffer”, “Lady”. … But police came to try stop me from sing, man. First they tried to intimidate club owner. But me, I dey have contract-o! Then, they physically tried to bar my entry into the club. You see thaaaat? I said, “Ah-ah! These foolish people!” I went to court and won. Court said I was entitled to play in the club ‘cause I had contract.
fela and sandra
Was that in ‘70, ‘71 or ‘72? In any case, my mind was still heavy with the US thing-o: Black Panthers … Malcolm X … racism … the horrors … Sandra. … At the time, and even today, man, I think about that woman! A wonderful woman, man! She’s definitely one of the most important women that ever crossed my life! Because of what she’d done for me in America, I’d promised to bring her to Nigeria for a visit. Sandra’s visit to Nigeria was one of the heavy experiences of my life. It was my first fight with government officials. I didn’t know it was so difficult for people to come to a country. I’d simply said to Sandra, “Come to Nigeria and have a show with me.” I wrote her that in a letter in 1970, when I’d started to make small-small money. At the time the club was still called Afro-Spot. So I sent her a ticket. She phoned me and told me she had to have a visa to come. “Ah-ah! What is this visa for come to Nigeria?” She said she would go get visa in Washington, at the Nigerian Embassy there, ‘cause she was living in Los Angeles. I told her, “Me, I will go get visa for you here in Lagos.”
So I went to the office to get a visa for her. Then I phoned her and told her, “Take a plane and come.” She went to Washington anyway ‘cause she still wanted to get the visa. The Embassy told her she cannot get it yet. She insisted to see the Ambassador. “Why won’t you give me a visa?” He started giving her a lot of shit. … She cut him off, man, and cursed his ass out. What didn’t she say? Ooooooooo! You don’t know Sandra, man! Batabatabatabatabatabata! “Idiot. … Bastard. … Son of a bitch. … Motherfucker. …” Man, Sandra is something else!!! The ambassador got pale! Imagine that? An African Nigerian get pale, man! Ohhhh, Sandra, she’s a motherfucker. She’d kicked a policeman’s ass in America, so what wouldn’t she do to an ambassador? You know what she told him? “You nigger! Shit! You with your slave mentality! You should be in chains permanently!”
She told me all that later. “I cursed his ass out!” she said. So I told her over the phone: “Good. Just come directly to the airport. I’m coming to get you.” Sandra arrived. I met her at airport and brought her in. Sandra started playing with me in the band. She was fantastic. Everybody loved Sandra. Newspapers wrote about her. All over Lagos people started talking about“Sandra … Sandra … Sandra. …” When I was teaching her to sing, I saw that she had a very unique voice. I swear that that woman’s voice is the wildest woman’s voice you’ve ever heard. I never heard any voice like it. I wanted for people to hear her. So I recorded her on an album, Upside Down. That was in ‘76, on her second trip to Nigeria. She came back specially to record it. Everybody liked her. And, ohhhh, the way she dressed! She was so. … She wore see-through top, halfway short skirts. … She was fuckin’ popular, man. Now when the Nigerian ambassador to Washington arrived in Lagos and saw this Sandra in the newspaper, it cursed him out. “So this motherfuckin’ woman is here!”
He quickly contacted the officials. He set up a plan for her, to throw her out. You see, her three months’ visa was up. And they wanted to get her out. They began to chase Sandra about the country, those immigration officers. They were really chasing her physically, looking for her everywhere. We went to hide her out in our village, in Abeokuta. My mother took her, I swear. She liked Sandra. And she hid her in village for one week. Sandra only left Nigeria when she was ready. They were looking for her to deport her, but they didn’t find her. When she was ready to go we let them see her and we said, “She’s going.” So she left. I can’t remember how many months she stayed, but it was a long time-o, a long time.
I was confident now. I knew I would succeed. Success was in reach, man. And I thought: “J.K., J.K. Now is the fuckin’ moment!” That same year – ‘71 – we got the chance to hook up again. ‘Cause, you see, I wanted to record in a proper studio. I insisted that a proper studio be set up in Nigeria, otherwise I wouldn’t record. Or else they’d have to take us to London to record again. So they changed the studio from two tracks to eight tracks. In the meantime, I went to London anyway. I was already successful in Nigeria, but they wouldn’t release my records overseas. Why? I didn’t know that EMI was against me ‘cause they were saying I was too “political”. So I said: “Fuck these bastards!” I left EMI and became independent. I started releasing records on my own, with my own musicians. It got to be heavy-o. I was making eight albums a year in Nigeria. I was getting very powerful. Very listened to. Very liked. But, for the authorities, very … daaaaannnnngerous!
To Be Continued
Culled From The Book : Fela : This Bitch of A Life By Carlos Moore
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