Nigeria was now three months behind us. And we weren’t in the America we’d dreamt of. No, man. We were in trouble! No gigs! No bread! No shit! Nothing! And our visas finish-o! I said, “Now we’re illegal immigrant motherfuckers!” No visa, no work permit. . . . Stalemate! Terrible times, man. I had already made the rounds of all the big recording companies: not one would even audition us ’cause we were … Africans! That “racial shit” again, man! That’s when I met Duke Lumumba, a Ghanaian boy residing in America, who was in the recording business. I thought, “Well, maybe we’ll now get a break soon!”
The Biafran war was still on. One day Duke came up with an idea: to release a pro-government record just so we could get some bread, man. I wanted to hustle the Nigerian government to back my band. So I wrote a song: “Keep Nigeria One”. Now, wait a minute-o. You see, it wasn’t my idea. It was Duke Lumumba’s idea. It was he who was putting the money down. You see, Duke had this old woman he would take money from. He went to the old woman and she gave him $2,500. So he got this studio to do this recording and said to me, “Fela, I have to make just one record that the Nigerian government will like, just in case the government will want to back the band.” So we made this tune. It was just bullshit: “Nigeria, we must not fight ourselves we must be like brothers. . . .” I feel so bad about that record now; I was on Biafra’s side. But it wasn’t my idea. Anyway, nothing came of it.
Fela and Sandra, 1970
It was right after the record was released that I met Sandra. Saaaandraaa! Shit! Yeh, man! Let me tell you how I met her.
August 1969. Los Angeles. There was this African band in town, so they came to invite us to play at this club – Ambassador Hotel – in Los Angeles. I was on the stand playing when I saw this lady standing in the crowd, man. She stood out to me. She had come to this NAACP show there. The NAACP? A big political organization for Black civil rights in America. But at that time I wasn’t political at all-o. The NAACP wanted me to play, so my business manager said, and got me the gig, you know. So that’s how I got to play there, not because I was political. I wasn’t political. I just wanted to play, to make bread, to make myself a great artist. So that night I went on the stage to play and I saw this woman standing in the crowd there. Her eyes! Different from all the eyes there! She was very beautiful that day. She was the most beautiful woman there. I said to Allen, my drummer then: “Who is that woman?” He didn’t know. I said, “Look at that woman!” Then I saw her looking at me. I said to myself, “Good! Let’s go now.” I left my band then and went to speak to her. I said, “When I finish here, I’ve got a recording to do and I want you to come with me.” She said, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll come.” Then I went back on the stage, happy, man. After the show she took me straight – bam – to the recording studio. Then we decided to drive around after that in Los Angeles. Where to go? Who to visit to have some smoke?
We wanted to find some friends where we could smoke some grass, get high. That’s why we went to this Nigerian boy’s house. I don’t remember his name. Anyway, he brought out a tray of grass. Ohhhhhhh, it was too much! You know, I can’t fuck without grass, man. If you fuck with grass once you won’t want to fuck without grass any more. It would be a useless exercise, I tell you, I swear. It’s fantastic! That’s why I started smoking grass-o. The first time was in London with J.K. That day I felt to fuck, I felt nice, you know. By the time I went to Lagos, my older brother Koye had convinced me that smoke was bad. Anyway, this Nigerian boy, he knew what was happening and left Sandra and me there in the living-room. There were these plush carpets, man. And we did our thing, man. It was a beautiful, beautiful night, that night-o! When we woke up in the morning, Sandra drove me straight to my house. (When an African man say “his house” he mean where he’s living, man.) So she took me to my house and said she’d phone me later. She went home, phoned me, then came and picked me up. . . . That’s how it all started.
The second night I went to her house. I was feeling good. . . . The third night, she took away my clothes bit by bit because she said they be dirty. First my shirt, then another. Then she went to bring another suit for me to wear and took the one I had to wash it. When this other one got dirty, she took it too. Then she brought a whole bag of clothes for me to wear. . . . That’s how all my clothes gradually left my house to her house. She was the saviour of that my trip-o! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhh! Sandra Smith …!
Then one day I was in her house sleeping. We weren’t talking about politics then, just business. I don’t remember what happened exactly. I must have said something ’cause she said, “Fela, don’t say that! Africans taught the white man. Look, the Africans have history!” I said, “They don’t have shit, man. No history, man. We are slaves.” She got up and brought me a book. She said I should read it. Then she said, “I was in jail for three months, Fela.” I asked her why. She got up, brought a newspaper cutting, showed it to me. She said, “Look, one day, I went to a Black Panther protest rally in Los Angeles and during the protest. . . .” You see, she was so mad, man. She had gone up to this policeman and kicked this policeman’s ass, man. Whaaaaam! She escaped that day. But when they played back what happened on the television, they recognized her. That’s how they found her. They went to her house to arrest her. She spent three months, man, in jail. I got jealous. “How can a woman do that and a man can’t do it, a man like me?” Then she started giving me the political reasons why she’d done it.
Sandra gave me the education I wanted to know. She was the one who opened my eyes. I swear, man! She’s the one who spoke to me about … Africa! For the first time I heard things I’d never heard before about Africa! Sandra was my adviser. She talked to me about politics, history. She taught me what she knew and what she knew was enough for me to start on. Yeah, Sandra taught me a lot, man. She blew my mind really. She’s beautiful. Too much. Nothing about my life is complete without her. Sandra was the woman … I swear.
I was heavy into the book she’d given me to read. It was the first book I’d read since I’d stopped reading all that nonsense from when I was in London. The only book I’d read then was a music history book for my college examination. But this book, I couldn’t put it down: The Autobiography of Malcolm X. It was the first book since the long spell of not reading. This man was talking about the history of Africa, talking about the white man. . . . Ohhhhhh! I never read a book like that before in my life. After Simon Templar – that fictitious man I’d wanted to imitate – here was a true story, about a MAN! Can you imagine how it took me? Ohhhhh! I said, “This is a MAN!” I wanted to be like Malcolm X! Fuck it! Shit! I wanted to be Malcolm X, you know. I was so unhappy that this man was killed. Everything about Africa started coming back to me.
Then one day I sat down at the piano in Sandra’s house. I said to Sandra: “Do you know what? I’ve just been fooling around. I haven’t been playing AFRICAN music. So now I want to write African music … for the first time. I want to try.” Then I started to write and write. In my mind I put a bass here … a piano there. . . . Then I started humming, then singing. I said to myself, “How do Africans sing songs? They sing with chants. Now let me chant into this song: la-la-la-laaa. . . .” Looking for the right beat I remembered this very old guy I’d met in London – Ambrose Campbell. He used to play African music with a special beat. I used that beat to write my tune, man. Later on, I said to Sandra: “Sandra, I must rehearse this tune.” Sandra said: “Use the back yard, man, my father’s back yard.” So I called my boys and said: “We’re having rehearsal tomorrow. We must make some new tunes, man, If we got to make bread in this country, let’s work for it.” I convinced these boys, so they all came to rehearse, man. And we did this tune.
By then, you see, we’d secured a gig at the “Citadel de Haiti”, a club at 6666 Sunset Boulevard. No joke, man: 6666 S-u-n-s-e-t B-o-u-l-e-v-a-r-d! The place was painted in black with the name in red. At first, we were playing there Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. Then later on we played Wednesdays and Thursdays too. Five days a week. The club wa
s owned by Bernie Hamilton, a Black guy. He has a series on television now; he’s getting back small-small now. Bernie Hamilton! Always on a trip, man. Besides he was the fucking barman of his own club. He dug my band. Let me tell you how I got into that place.
We’d been roaming around L.A., doing nothing. No place to stay. Going from place to place. Then this guy named Juno came up to me and said: “Fela, there’s this ’Haiti’ club. The guy who owns it wants you badly to come there and play. He told me he wants to hear you, audition you. You see, he ain’t got bread, but he ain’t got licence either, so he can employ you, see?” I said, “Shit, that sounds good!” You see, the reason why I couldn’t get work in America was because I didn’t have a visa to work. The clubs wanted me to work but immigration wouldn’t give me a visa to play ’cause I’d gone on a … cultural visa. So Juno said: “Bernie hasn’t got a licence, so he can employ you ’cause you’re not in the union. He can employ you and pay you anything he wants to pay and you can accept, man, ’cause you’re not in the union.” I said, “Yeah.” So I went to see Bernie Hamilton, who told us to come back the next day. When we went back, he said we should start the next week.
Man, the Citadel de Haiti was the emptiest club on the whole Sunset Boulevard. When I got there I saw this ugly thing painted in black, a warehouse, with a big yard. It was the afternoon. I said to myself, looking at that big yard, “This is where all the cars must park.” So when we went there in the night to audition we were expecting the whole place to be filled with cars. What do I see when we get there? One car, man. Only Bernie Hamilton’s car. And his car was the oldest thing in town! You imagine how I felt, man? Then we went inside the club. They’d put red cloth on all the tables. Inside it was a nice place, you know. There were two people sitting down, friends of his. He said, “Set up. Set up. Let’s hear it.” I said to myself: “Shit, I’ll take this job. ’Cause even if his club is empty if I can play my music I’ll pull a crowd in here.” So we auditioned and he told us to start next day. Then we talked deal. He said he would pay me $300 a week for the whole band (seven guys, one woman and myself). Then he said he’d give us a place to stay. I was so happy.
When Bernie said he had a place for us, I thought to myself: “What place isn’t good in America? When someone says a place isn’t good in America, it’s still better than Ikoyi, in Lagos.” That’s what I was thinking. So I said, “Let’s go.” Now when we got to that house, man! Heeeeey! It was so bad, I can’t describe it. I was still staying with Sandra at that time, but my boys, they were suffering. That bothered me. So I’d made up my mind to get a room in this house with them. Solidarity, you know. Besides, I’d have two places. If I wanted to sleep with another woman, apart from Sandra, I could go to my house and stop going to hotels. That was my plan. It was a good one. But when I saw the house – oh, shit! – I said: “I am going to stay in Sandra’s house-o! I can’t stay here-o.” My boys, though, they suffered-o. That house was too much! There was a carpet in the back of the house but none nowhere else. It was a small comfort to keep them happy ’cause that house was a complete suffer. That’s how I saw it. It was around September, October, getting cold. We were all wearing coats, man. That’s how I got to play in this club, OK?
Coming back to what I was saying about the tune I wrote. I didn’t put any words to it, you know. At that time I only sang short songs. Things like, “Why did you take our wife from us? Now we’ve come to take our wife back.” Finish. Another one went: “You rich woman, you will go home and you will bring back what you saw.” I was just singing nonsense. Nothing. But on this day, I didn’t want to sing any song. I knew I wasn’t going to sing any song in that tune I wrote. I was going to chant.
Sandra asked me, “Fela, what are you gonna call this thing, man? Why not call it ’My Lady’s Frustration’?”
It has a meaning today-o. It had a meaning on that day too. But I told her I couldn’t call it that ’cause I hate to name my tunes after women. So I challenged her:
“Why should I call it ’My Lady’s Frustration’?”
You know what she answered? She said:
“Fela, I’m your woman, man. And you’ve been in America for five months and you haven’t made it and we’re frustrated, man. I’m frustrated. I’m a lady frustrated, man! Yeh, that title does have a meaning!”
And she was right.
Oh, this woman, she has helped me in America-o. She has fed me for five months. There are telephone bills I’ve run up; they’ve even cut one telephone line of their house. . . . I’ve almost made her family bankrupt. . . . I’ve spoiled their cars. . . . This was what was going on in my head, you know. So I said to myself, if I’m gonna sing about any one woman, I would sing about this one. At least to clear my conscience. That’s how low I was at that time, man. I hated to give women any fucking credit, man. Everybody was singing about women. How could I sing about a woman in my tune? I didn’t want to start singing about women.
So on this day, I went to play this new number. By this time, I’d been playing there for about two months and we had a steady crowd then. About sixty, seventy people on weekdays. Weekends two hundred. That was good for an American club. So Bernie was getting happy. That’s why he had us play five days a week and raised the pay to $500. So on that day, I took the microphone and said I was going to play “My Lady’s Frustration”. I didn’t know how the crowd would take the sound, you know. I just started. Bernie was behind the bar and he almost jumped over it. . . . “Fela, where did you get this fucking tune from? Whaaaaaat!” The whole club started jumping and everybody started dancing. I knew then I’d found the thing, man. To me, it was the first African tune I’d written till then.
Ten months in America. Ten terrible months. I can now say it could fill a book. America had been both bitter and sweet. As me and my band headed back to Lagos, I remembered a joke told to me only a few days before getting on the plane. I kept laughing to myself, thinking about it. . . . It was about this man in Los Angeles who had thrown a party in his house. LSD liquid, acid, was passed around. They all took small-small. Then this guy went to the toilet. Suddenly, he runs out with a towel around him. “Goddamn, there’s a fucking gorilla in the bathroom!” Everyone was so high, man. “A gorilla?” they asked. “In Los Angeles?” The man himself was so fucking confused, he said: “I tell you I saw a fucking gorilla in the bathroom. Shit! I know what I saw. Fuck L.A.!” So they all decided to go and see the gorilla in the bathroom for themselves. They’re all so scared, but they go and push open the door ever so s-l-o-w-l-y. Then put in head bit by bit to see the gorilla, “There ain’t no fucking gorilla in here, man. Shiiit!” Now the guy who said he’d seen a gorilla came and went inside. There was a mirror on the wall. When the guy looked up, he screamed: “The gorilla! The gorilla!” They all said, “That’s you, motherfucker!” I laughed and laughed over that one.
Who was I? It was in America I saw I was making a mistake. I didn’t know myself. I realized that neither me nor my music was going in the right direction. I came back home with the intent to change the whole system. I didn’t know I was going to have … such horrors! I didn’t know they were gonna give me such opposition because of my new Africanism. How could I have known? As soon as I got back home I started to preach. I had decided to change my music. And my music did start changing according to how I experienced the life and culture of my people.
Sandra
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Sandra
Woman, Lover, Friend
Her “dreadlocks”, like her varied African headwraps, offset an oval face and large, almond-shaped eyes. Brown-satin in hue, of average height and slight build. With numerous bead necklaces and gris-gris to complement an attire of African cloth or Indian cotton, Sandra, with a style all her own, hardly goes unnoticed. A frank, open look and a dynamic, self-assured gait. Sandra, with her lively, rhythmic voice and animated gestures, loves to talk … which she does movingly, passionately.
Born Sandra Smith in Los Angeles, California, to Posey and Sulil
lian Smith, she now goes by the name of Sandra Isidore. Her parents come from Arkansas in the south of the USA, as do her grandparents and great-grandparents. On her maternal side, little is known. But on her father’s side, she has traced her genealogy to her great-grandfather, Ned, who was born into slavery; as well as to her great-grandmother, Mary, who as a child was sold in Jamaica to slave planters in Arkansas. Going back even further, Sandra traces her origins to the Ashanti people of Ghana.
Holding a degree in computer science, Sandra did both her secondary and university studies in Los Angeles (including courses in anthropology “to discover the true history of Blacks”). Of devout, Protestant parents, Sandra began singing quite young in the church choir. “My mother wanted me to be a pianist and she paid for me to have private lessons. But I wanted to be a dancer. So I wouldn’t do the practice although I do know the theories.” In any case, music made its imprint, for “throughout my life,” says Sandra, “every man I ever met or became involved with was musically inclined or had a musical background.”
Q: So when you met Fela you were just meeting another musician?
A: No, it wasn’t just another musician. There was something in particular about Fela. . . .
Q: Were you a member of the Black Panther Party when you met Fela?
A: Yeah. Black power was very, very strong at that time. I wasn’t a leader in the organization. Then I wanted to participate, I was a member. It was Black. It was something that was making a connection to my roots. I was very rebellious because I thought I had been taught wrongly about being Black. I went through the whole stigma of being ashamed of my colour, of wondering why I had been born with black skin. . . . I grew up in white America with no knowledge of myself, no self-pride.
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