Q: But what triggered off your own Blackism?
A: You see, my parents were religious, so I heard about Martin Luther King from them. From that it was Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X, Rap Brown, Stokely Carmichael, Ron Karenga, Huey Newton … all these voices, different speakers coming from different places at different times. You’d never know where the message was coming from. It might be Martin Luther King one day, Elijah Muhammad another. . . . There were all these Black leaders talking and you had to pick it up.
Q: Weren’t you thrown in jail at one point?
A: I was thrown in jail a couple of times behind political activities.
Q: Connected with the Black Panther Party?
A: Not necessarily. It was the movement that was happening at that time. There was a lot of rioting, things that were just happening in the streets. I would see things. One incident was when police officers were unjustly harassing a brother and I happened to be there and I came with rhetoric, questioning them as to “Why?” Coming to his defence, they arrested us both. Another time. . . .
Q: How long were you in jail?
A: They arrested me and then my parents came and put up bail. Then they let me go like that.
Q: And the second time?
A: The same thing. They came and arrested me but this time they locked me up for five days. After that I vowed I would never go to jail again. Even if they had found me guilty of other charges, my parents were prepared to pay my passage out of the country.
Q: When you met Fela you were therefore very, very aware of your Blackness, of Africa, and looking very intensely for your own historical and cultural roots. But when Fela met you he wasn’t someone who was that aware of his own Africanness. Fela told me it was you who “Africanized” him. How did you do that?
A: By me being so Black at that time. I was rebellious, then, willing to fight, willing to die. We had a saying: “By any means necessary.” I thought if we Blacks in America had to die for what we believed in, even if it meant your mother and father had to go, then let them go. That’s how rebellious I was, so much so that my parents couldn’t understand me. I just rebelled against them because I felt that everything they had taught me was wrong. Now I know they did their best because they didn’t know any better.
Q: After that did Fela move to your place?
A: No, I moved into his place and then he moved into mine.
Q: He told me you gave him a book to read: The Autobiography of Malcolm X. . . .
A: That’s right. I had just completed that book and I gave it to him to read. I also showed him pictures of me physically fighting the system.
Q: What did you say to Fela that made such an impact?
A: There were so many things I shared with Fela: novels, poetry, politics, history, music. Poems by Nikki Giovanni, The Last Poets (you know, “Niggers Are Afraid of Revolution”), Angela Davis, Martin Luther King, Stokeley Carmichael, Jesse Jackson, Nina Simone’s “Four Women”, Miles Davis. . . . It was something that happened over a period of time. It was constant talking every night, every day, over a period of six months. Politics. Love. Love and politics. Just the two of us. At that time I was so strong. I believed so strongly in the Black movement. . . . I told Fela about things that had happened to me, like my being jailed and why. I talked about my ancestral background. I was trying to let him know that we too are African. We might be a watered-down version but African all the same. We are trying to go back to the African way.
Q: How did he react when you were telling him this?
A: At the time, Fela was just listening. He just listened to me. He never said anything. I was telling him my side of the story ’cause I was convinced that he was already there. I assumed Fela was already there.
Q: So you didn’t know that Fela wasn’t there? That it was you who was “Africanizing” him? When did you find out?
A: I didn’t know at that time. I found out in 1976 when I returned to Africa to do the “Upside Down” album. I realized then that everything in 1970 was upside down. But on my first trip to Africa I went on with my rhetoric ’cause I was so into what I was talking about and so happy to be on the continent that I was like a sponge. I was just ready to absorb all of the Black I could get and bring it back to America to spread. And if you could have seen the Black I took back and how it manifested there in my friends. . . . There are American women you would swear are African because they are blacker than a lot of the African women, which is surprising. On my first trip to Africa I wasn’t critical of Nigeria or Ghana. I was open. I was only there to absorb and take the blackness that was there. There was so much culture, so much for me to see, it was like I was a blind woman. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. It was so much. So I couldn’t be bothered with where Fela was or with Fela’s trip. I was into Fela. I assumed that Fela was already there. Fela never said anything. He just went along with whatever I had to say. He would agree, so I couldn’t have known at the time that Fela wasn’t there.
Q: How was Fela when you first met him? Shy? Boisterous? …
A: Aggressive! He’s always been aggressive. And that’s what I liked about him. Immediately he started telling me what I was going to do. I never had a man just come up and say, “You’re going to do this.” Because he was so aggressive towards me, my reaction was: “Who is he? Let me check him out. Let me see what he’s saying.”
Q: What did he tell you to do?
A: Well, when we first met there was this strong, vivid eye contact. . . . You see, in ’69 I was dancing with this African dance troupe called “Swaba”. I was an American Black trying to do an African thing. A Guinean named Mamadou had founded this dance troupe. One of my friends, Juno, who played conga drums with the troupe, was the one who’d talked to me about Fela before and who took me to the Ambassador Hotel and introduced me to Fela. So when Fela came off the stage that night, Juno came and told me that Fela wanted to see me and I went to the bar where he was. I was immediately subdued by Fela. I felt that by Fela being an African from Africa, he would more or less laugh at me trying to do an African thing, as if I couldn’t do it good enough. But I didn’t know at that time that I was surprising Fela and teaching him at the same time.
Q: But what was it he told you to do?
A: Fela asked me my name and I told him. Then he asked me if I had a car and I said, “Yes”. He said, “Good.” He just said, “Good,” like that. Then, “You’re going with me.” It just blew my mind ’cause I’d never had anybody be so aggressive with me. I didn’t say, “NO.” You don’t say, “No,” if it’s something new, a new culture. You don’t turn away from it. If you want to learn about it, you walk into it. So I went into it with both feet and I got deep into it before I knew what was happening. So I fell in love with Fela. I fell in love with the man. I fell in love with the music. Then I fell in love with the band. I was already in love with the country.
Q: Fela told me that it was because of you that he played African music for the first time. And that the name of one of his compositions, “My Lady’s Frustration”, was for you.
A: Yeah. Because I was so frustrated. Just dealing with him. Plus, his band went through a lot of hardships in America. I, too, was so aggressive then. I was a fighter. Now I’m very passive. But, then, if you didn’t want to hear it my way, I was ready to fight. Physically. Whatever. By any means. And I used to physically attack Fela. I used to attack him all the time.
Q: And what would he do?
A: Not much of anything ’cause I always did it in the right places, where there were plenty of people around. I slapped him one time on stage in front of an audience. Let me tell you what happened. My father and I had come to the show late. It was a known fact that I was Fela’s lady. And because I was Fela’s lady, it was like, “Everybody get back.” That’s just the way American women are – the possessive, domineering type. So we were at the club and all the girlfriends, wives, whatever, of the guys in the band were sitting at this one table, along with my father and two other ladies I
didn’t know but to whom I was very cordial. Also at the table was the girlfriend of Felix, the bass player. Fela’s band was then called Nigeria 70. When they first came the name was Koola Lobitos, but this Jewish promoter got hooked up in it and the name was changed. Fela doesn’t know, but I still got some old contracts of copyrights and tunes he did in America as a joke and which he signed. I still have them. My mother kept them. . . . Well, we were at the table and my father was there. I was so proud in front of those ladies. I had taken out a photo of Fela and me together to show everyone. Then Fela came and said that I should go home and that he would be home later. So I said, “Fine.” I’m so happy ’cause I know Fela’s coming as soon as the gig is over, so I leave. We get in the car. My father’s driving. There’s about three or four of us women and my father’s taking us home. We get halfway down the freeway, almost to the house, when I remember I left my picture in the nightclub. Then one of the women in the car says it’s not worth going back to get since the other woman probably tore it up. Turning to her, I asked, “What you mean, tore it up?” “Didn’t you know,” she said, “that that woman is there waiting for Fela?” I said, “Whaaaat? You mean the one I was being so nice to?” I told my father, “Stop the car! Turn it around!” Just like that, my Daddy turns the car around, right in the middle of the Hollywood Freeway, and we go back to the club. You see, my father likes trouble. He enjoys seeing two women fight. When we got there, it’s intermission. I go storming into the nightclub and walk right up to the stage. Fela was just getting ready to come on to play the second set. “Fela,” I said, “I want to talk to you!” Irritated, he answered, “Not now! Don’t you see I’m busy? Go sit down!” “Fela,” I insisted, “I want to talk to you.” Again he answered, “I said not now!” “Fela, I want to talk to you. N-O-W!!!!” “NOT NOW!” he said. And I just went whaaaaaaam … in front of the whole audience.
Q: How did Fela react?
A: The members of the band had grabbed him. They all grabbed him. Isaac, his saxophone player, said: “Good! It serves you right.”
Q: Was that the only time you’d hit him?
A: No. We had fought before. He’s the one who stopped me from having them temper tantrums.
Q: How many times did he slap or hit you?
A: Never.
Q: You mean every time you’d slap him he would never retaliate?
A: No. He might grab me or maybe hit me on my ass. Then by the time I realized what I’d done, I’d be scared.
Q: Who were some of the people Fela met then?
A: There was Stu Gilliam, a very big comedian in America today, and his wife who had an African name, Akeeda, a very fine woman. Then, Esther Phillips, the singer. . . .
Q: Fela knew Esther Phillips?
A: Oh, yeah! All the Black people that Fela knew in America then, they’re big, big people today. Like, Bernie Hamilton, Chico Hamilton’s brother; he’s the star of the weekly TV series, “Starsky and Hutch”, and one of the few actors who works on a regular basis. He was the owner of the “Citadel de Haiti” club where Fela was playing, but it’s been torn down since. These are big-time people. John Brown used to come to the club to hear Fela; he, too, is a big star now on the TV programme “Good Times”. Fela knew all those people. Jim Brown, Melvin van Peebles, you name it, he knows them all. They were all on the set at that time in ’69. Like Fela has told me since, ’69 was a turning year. Everyone who made the hook-up formed a nucleus back then and Fela was in America at that time.
Q: Was Fela depressed at that time?
A: Yeah. It was very hard for him. The way his band was living, the trips they had to go through. It was depressing. I think that’s probably why I loved Fela even more because I knew how hard it was and I wanted so much to give to them because they were African and I didn’t want them to see a bad time in America.
Q: What was making things so hard for them?
A: They were foreigners, number one. You know, America has a way of putting obstacles in your way: no visas, no union. You see, you have to be a member of the union to get a gig, but before you can be a member of a union you got to get a gig. But you can’t get a gig unless you’re a member of the union. So it’s a closed shop.
Q: Did you ever see Fela break down at that time?
A: No. I knew he was depressed. He’d be sort of quiet, staying in bed. . . .
Q: That’s not being depressed if he stays in bed with you.
A: If I’m there, yeah, so I didn’t mind him being depressed. [Laughter.]
Q: When you first went to Nigeria in 1970, you had problems in getting a visa. Do you remember who you were dealing with in immigration?
A: Yalla. I could never forget his name. He’s a bastard. He was the Nigerian ambassador in Washington D.C. I went to that asshole puppet to get my visa and I thought by me being Black and because I wanted to know about Africa, wanted to go, that they would open their arms to receive me. But he was one of them pseudo-Blacks that was there. . . .
Q: What happened?
A: You see, I had mailed my passport to Washington and it was taking so long and I was wondering why they hadn’t mailed it back, why I hadn’t received the visa. Finally, I got on a plane and went to Washington in person to collect my passport and have them give me a visa. Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to know the truth about Africa. So I go to this Yalla, thinking I’ll get the visa. And he tells me I can’t go. He wouldn’t give me a visa. I told him: “Well, hey, I’m gonna go anyway. I’ve come this far and I’m not turning around!”
Q: But Fela was waiting for you. He knew you were coming. . . .
A: That’s right. Fela sent me this telegram. Fortunately thanks to that telegram, that’s what got me through.
Q: What did it say?
A: It just said: “Come. Your visa is waiting for you at the airport.” So I went to Spain in transit and while there I met Art Allade, who hosts a TV programme in Nigeria. I told him my situation and he told me not to worry. So when they questioned me in Spain about my visa, I told them that it was waiting for me at Lagos airport and showed them the telegram. That’s how they let me board the plane in Spain to go to Lagos.
Q: What happened at Ikeja airport in Lagos?
A: They took my passport, but Fela’s people came and took me on through.
Q: Who took your passport, the immigration?
A: It was the army then. They kept my passport. But my attitude then was: “Hey, you can have the passport ’cause I don’t want to come back.” At that time I didn’t care. Anything they wanted from me, with the exception of my life, they could have gotten because I wasn’t interested in any of those things. I didn’t want to come back to America.
Q: How long did you stay in Nigeria that first time?
A: I spent six months in Nigeria. I came in 1970 and left in ’71. When I came to Africa in 1970 I came with the idea of not going back to America. I had escaped Babylon and I was now at home in the Motherland.
Q: When you came to Nigeria, did you expect to be Fela’s wife?
A: I don’t know if you could say “expected to be Fela’s wife”. I loved Fela. I still have a great love for Fela. Although the love I have for Fela today is platonic. It has grown beyond. So the love I have for him, nobody can ever take it away. Because we went through a growing period. He showed me something and, I guess, in turn I showed him something. So that bond is there and it can’t be broken.
Q: In Africa, you found yourself having to deal for the first time with a polygamous situation. How did you feel about that?
A: I dealt with it when I dealt with Fela in America. It was, like, Fela had a lot of girlfriends but still he was basically mine. That’s the way women have this thing: He’s mine. That possessive thing. I’ve grown beyond that now. The African women have taught me how to grow. I’m not trying to pat myself on the back, but I was already walking on high ground when I met Fela. And every encounter I’ve had has taken me ten steps ahead of the average woman. So even now, very few women can come
from where I’m coming from. The American women I associate with now, they accept polygamy.
Q: So you came with the expectation of being his woman. How did you find Fela when you came to Nigeria?
A: The same. He treated me well. Although like any other woman, not understanding African women, not understanding African culture, I had my jealousies. They were jealous of me and I was jealous of them, so we were jealous of each other. It was just natural. Everybody was jealous. But since everybody felt it was because of me, I caught more hell than anybody.
Q: What did Fela do?
A: What could he do? In the situation I gave Fela hell. My thing was, like, if I can’t have my way, then I will find another way to deal with you. So I had my little temper tantrums and I’d have my own way of dealing with Fela. You see, there was a lot of hatred too among the women living at Fela’s because they didn’t want me there. Call it obeah, juju, or voodoo. They were using everything on me. Everything! The forces were against me. You see, even before I left America I used to have nightmares. Each time I would see myself in Africa, always running. It’s like déjà vu. My dreams were black. I was always in dark places. I was always in fear in my dreams before going to Lagos. And what my dreams were trying to tell me is what I encountered. For me in Africa, it was a period of total unrest. Even to the point that I believed someone was definitely working obeah on me. I assumed who it was but I won’t mention any names. I knew who it was at that time and she was definitely sending her evil force.
Q: You never told Fela about it?
A: I didn’t tell Fela anything about it. At that time, Fela didn’t believe in none of that. Fela didn’t believe in spirits. But you see, my parents had taught me about it in America.
Q: When did Fela start believing in it?
A: When I came back in ’76 I found Fela a believer then, which surprised me.
Q: But you already believed in 1970?
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