Fela

by Moore, Carlos

A: As a small child, my parents used to talk about the spirits. They’d talk about how people would do evil deeds to another person. Then I would hear older people talking about it. So I was aware of it. In Africa, when this started happening to me, I said, “They are trying to work this on me.” And I called my mother in America and told her to do whatever she could. But I never told anyone in Africa the whole time I was there.

  Q: What did your mother do?

  A: I don’t know what she did. But I told my mother what was happening and she must have told my father. I think my mother and this Black woman from Louisiana were in connection. It’s known that in Louisiana they deal and delve in witchcraft; it’s called voodoo. . . . I never told anyone in Africa whether I believed in it or not. They never knew. I only confided in my own mother. I had something that was on my side, a belief that my own family had given me and that even to this day is strong. I believe in it and no one can do shit.

  Q: During your stay in Nigeria, Fela said they even had to hide you so the immigration authorities wouldn’t deport you.

  A: That’s right. They ran me all over Lagos. I’m telling you, I had so many obstacles against me, but I was still there regardless because it was meant for me to be there.

  Q: In which village did they hide you?

  A: In Fela’s mother’s village in Abeokuta. I call the compound where they lived a village because it was self-contained, like Fisk University. Everything they needed was there – chickens, goats, the school, the house. . . .

  Q: How long did you stay?

  A: Some days.

  Q: Did you like it?

  A: Yeah. While I was there, Fela’s mother turned me on to books. She turned me on to Chariots of the Gods. That’s another thing I got to tell Fela too, ’cause it was his mama who started me on this religious thing. That’s where that started. . . .

  Q: What other books did Fela’s mother give you to read?

  A: She gave me this communist book to read. I believe it was called Lenin. While I was there I just read different books and got different knowledge. Fela’s mother and I didn’t do much talking. She’d just give me different books to read. That’s all I did was sleep, eat and read.

  Q: You never talked?

  A: Nothing heavy and detailed. I talked to her about her going to China because that really fascinated me. She was the first Black woman to have gone there. I was fascinated with the fact that she had gone to a communist country because at that time Americans couldn’t travel there. . . . Everything she told me about communist China was good. She liked it. She liked what communism was doing; it was benefiting the people.

  Q: She met Mao Tse-tung?

  A: Yes. I don’t remember the year. But Fela’s mother went. She told me about different things, the struggles in Nigeria and how she came about to make change for women, how she overthrew the Alake. It was just women talking, the older one telling the younger one ’cause she was schooling me. I don’t know what made her start struggling. The only thing I can attribute it to is that she was aggressive, an aggressive fighter. When you would meet her or if you had known her, she seemed to be very mild-mannered. But she was very strong too when she had a point to get across. If I can put it in American slang, Fela’s mama didn’t take no shit!

  Q: What did she think about Fela? Did she talk to you about him?

  A: Well, you know, not really. At that time, Fela was more or less the underdog of the family. They couldn’t understand Fela. Then later his mother was right with him; it was like he was the favourite son. She never talked to me at that time to downgrade him. It was Fela who told me and I could tell by the way the family acted towards him that they weren’t too happy. Fela had disappointed them. He was the black sheep of the family.

  Q: Did you get that feeling from his mother at that time?

  A: Not in 1976. In 1970 I felt she was a little disappointed in Fela. They were all disappointed in Fela. They expected more. They had expected Fela to go to Europe and become a doctor like the rest of them. Then Fela goes and comes back a musician. And you know the African attitude about musicians.

  Q: So his mother also shared that point of view?

  A: She didn’t verbally say it, but you could see it in her reactions.

  Q: Why did she protect him?

  A: I don’t know. In any case, it was Fela’s mother who intervened and took me to the officials. Because his mother went with me, they gave me a visa for two weeks. Then I left to Ghana and then came back. After that everything was downhill as far as I was concerned. Anyway, as I said to myself, I had already been in Africa. I had talked my political rhetoric. I had gone back home. But emotionally I was distraught. I didn’t want to go back to America but I knew I had to go back because of the Nigerian government. They wouldn’t renew my visa. They didn’t want me there and I couldn’t understand why. I didn’t want to go back to America. I wanted to be an African woman. I wanted to live in Africa. But at the time, the Nigerian government was saying: “This is impossible, you American Negro woman!” They were calling me a “Negro”. I was hurt emotionally.

  Q: So you left Nigeria in 1971 after being there six months. Then you returned in 1976 to cut the album Upside Down. Who chose the title for that album?

  A: Fela. He wrote the lyrics and I sang. I stayed about two and a half months. I wanted to stay on but I had so many commitments then in the States.

  Q: What were you doing in the States then?

  A: I still had family there. My mother was there and. . . . You see, when I came back to the States in ’71 I went through a hell of an adjustment. It was difficult for me. I found it very difficult to readjust in America. People couldn’t relate to me because not that many Blacks had travelled outside and they were still brainwashed. My return to America hurt me so bad. I had gotten so heavy into the African culture that I was African. So on returning, I went through a heavy mental trip, very close to a breakdown. It was like a cultural shock. Nobody knows the trip that Sandra went through, the adjustment. My mother, my father had a chance to see ’cause I lived with them. Me being their child, they lived with me and helped me through that period of readjustment of coming back to America. I hated America. I did not want to be there.

  Q: To that extent?

  A: There was nothing there for me. I could not relate. Plus I had such a strong love for Fela. It was like a love that could not be fulfilled because he was over there and I was over here. The only thing that would really make me feel good was music. I loved music. Anything that was African, that I could relate to I clinched to. I was supposed to record with the group Osibisa, so I went to England and made some hookups there. It was like I had no direction, no one to lead me or gear me in any way. I tried writing some songs. I don’t know what happened to those songs. There just wasn’t the energy I needed. The energy wasn’t there. All those years I had been away from Fela I still loved him. Then it was a physical, emotional love. . . .

  Q: Describe your love for Fela today

  A: I consider there are two main men in my life: my parental father and Fela. I’ve been spiritually informed that Fela is my brother. I don’t think there’s anything Fela could ask me to do that I would refuse him. It’s that kind of love.

  The new Fela

  Photo: Chico

  11

  The Birth of Kalakuta Republic

  Imagine me, Fela, in America! That’s one motherfucking country! I no dey tok fo’ dat one yet-o. Cos na one big fuckin’ story wey de full one book-o!* Fuckin’ racist! … Hatred! … Violent! … A bitch! Ohhhhhh, man, you ain’t seen shit till you hit America. I thought motherfuckin’ England was bad! America na worse than bad-o! Americana-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 living 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 Britishman. 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.

  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!

  Fela and J.K.: The inseparables

  12

  J.K. Braimah

  The Reunion

  Q: So you and Fela finally hooked up again. How was Fela then?

  A: He had changed completely, man. By the time he came back from America he smoked, he drank, he fucked. He was more lively. He was a new man. A completely different man! Yeh, he even tried conning me. I’d say, “Look at him. He wants to con me!” [Laughter.] I asked myself, “But how did Fela get to be like this?” I was wondering what had happened. It was the American thing, you know. He saw the light over there and everything came out in him. Fantastically good things came out.

  Q: But give me the whole story!

  A: Well, as I told you be
fore, I was doing fine-fine in England. I was into a lot of bread, man. I was making plenty-plenty by ’70. I was comfortable. I bought big car. I was drinking a lot. ’70, ’71, ’72 were all right, man. Actually, this was how I left. Fela came to London with his group in June ’71 on a recording tour. So when he came, he said: “Why don’t you come home and we join together? We’ll team up together. I have Africa 70. We could do something together.” He said I could be his PR man. I said, “OK, I’ll think about it.” You know, I would have liked to come home. So I came home in ’71 just on holidays. I saw the band, what was happening. It was all right, promising. So I went back to London, sold my house, and then. . . . Shit! There was this trouble, a whole mess that led to court. Ginger Baker was one of those involved. Anyway, they freezed my money. They freezed about £60,000 of my money in England. Up until today I haven’t got it back, man. Up till today! They even charged me. They wanted to charge me with some other guys for conspiracy.

  Original album cover of Shakara

  Design: Africa 70 Organization

  Photo: Africa 70 Agency

  Q: Conspiracy with Indian hemp?

  A: Yes. Fela had sent this American guy with the drum. This was a long time ago. Fela was not the one who did it, you know. Anyway, the drum was full of shit. When they caught the guy – who I won’t name – at the airport, he just started talking. He said Fela gave it to him and all that bullshit. You see, Fela was supposed to play with Ginger Baker and Ginger Baker was supposed to come and live in my house, you know. And things like that. So the police came over to my place and raided me. They didn’t find a thing. But I’m so clever to the extent that the police can’t see anything. Yet they still said they would charge me with conspiring. ’Cause they said I was supposedly the one giving them the stuff. . . . They started with their inquiries and everything. They charged me to the Old Bailey, one of their biggest courts. Afterwards, I thought, “Why did they charge me to the Old Bailey?” That was in ’72. I said to myself, “Well, we’ll see!” Then I came to France. I sold my car there and moved on to Italy. From Italy I went to Accra (Ghana). Africa, at last!