There are artists who make music, and there are artists who make history. Fela Aníkúlápó Kuti
belonged decisively to the latter. He was not simply a musician; he was a force—an idea, a
provocation, and a relentless argument with power. Fela collapsed the distance between culture
and politics, rhythm and resistance, art and truth.
My relationship with Fela was never academic. It was personal, gradual, and shaped by
proximity, time, and experience. His records were part of the atmosphere of my childhood, but it
took years before I truly understood what he was saying—and why it mattered. Like many of my
generation, I first fully heard Fela in my teens, through the lens of hip-hop, Black consciousness
rap, and the global Black struggle. When artists like X-Clan sampled him, it clicked: Fela wasn’t
just influential—he was foundational.
For me, Fela is hip-hop. Not simply because of sampling or call-and-response, but because of
the posture: the fearlessness, the refusal to soften truth, the unapologetic challenge to power.
Afrobeat and hip-hop come from the same spiritual place. Different accents. Same fight. Black
Power and Consciousness wrapped in rhythm and performance. Public enemy and others were
giving us the same energy in my generation but nobody was more profound than Fela maybe
only Bob Marley.
I first saw Fela perform as a child in Enugu in 1974. I didn’t yet understand the politics, but I
understood the presence. Even then, he filled space differently. Later, as a student in the UK, I
began playing Fela in my DJ sets, blending him with hip-hop and soul. One unforgettable night
in 1990—during celebrations marking Nelson Mandela’s release—I opened a packed university
party with blends of De La Soul and Fela’s Teacher Don’t Teach Me Nonsense. The room
erupted. That was the thing about Fela his music remains timeless.
In the early 1990s, I encountered him again—this time with adult eyes—at the Shrine and at
landmark moments like the Children of Africa. I witnessed him debut songs that remain
legendary like Big Blind Country and Clear Road for Jaga Jaga, which are unreleased until
today, and I saw firsthand how deeply respected he was by artists, activists, and intellectuals
from across the world. I met him severally but was never sure he know I was his friends son and
I still regret that i never got a photo with him. I was just another young man in awe, absorbing
the music, the politics, the performance, the totality.
That sense of responsibility stayed with me.
Between 2007 and 2010, I was privileged to co-produce Felabration, helping curate line-ups and
ensuring a new generation of artists showed up for Fela—not for money, but for respect. We
introduced Fela Is Hip-Hop nights, bringing rappers and alternative voices into the festival and
reinforcing the bridge between generations.
My engagement continued in different forms: from Omawumi’s interpretation of Fela’s only true
ballad on her timeless album in 2016, to Journey of the Beats (2022), a documentary series that
traced the evolution of African rhythm and featured voices from Fela’s world still showing on
Showmax. In 2021, we explored new ground with a Fela NFT project bringing Dike
Chukwumerijie, Debbie Ohiri to deliver spoken word and oriki’s poetry, music, visual
art—reframing his spirit for the digital age.
At the heart of Fela’s endurance is his family. Through Yeni Kuti, Femi Kuti, Seun Kuti, and now
Made Kuti, Afrobeat has remained a living, breathing practice—not an archive. Felabration, the
New Afrika Shrine, and decades of touring have ensured that Fela’s work is not frozen in time,
but constantly renewed. Femi Kuti himself with 40 years on stage is a legend in his own lifetime
and must also be celebrates
Fela is immortal because his questions remain unanswered. His music still confronts us. As
Afrobeats dominates the global stage, the time has come for Afrobeat and Afrobeats to fully
meet—deliberately, respectfully, and creatively. Reinterpretations, tributes, touring revues,
biopics, and new recordings can carry his message forward without diluting its power.
Fela spoke truth to power without apology. He fused highlife, jazz, funk, juju, and rhythm into
something entirely his own—and then used it as a weapon for consciousness.
I saw him perform. I felt the impact. I’ve spent part of my life helping ensure his legacy stays
alive. Now the responsibility belongs to all of us.
Fela lives. And the work continues.
