Fela

by Moore, Carlos

  “We paid for visas when we were coming into East Berlin. Now to cross to go back home again you’re asking us to pay for visas again.”

  “That’s the law,” they said.

  “Fair enough.”

  They stared at me.

  I said: “Let me tell you my story. I came through here. You saw me. I went for that your Festival there. I’m Fela. I’m a socialist in concept. I believe in your ideology here. And I like it. Hear my story-o. I see that you are socialists. When people are in difficulty you help. So, you see, I spent all my bread in West Berlin, with the capitalist people. So you have to help me to pay $55 each again for so many people. This here is small bread I have.”

  I showed them the bread. The officer scratched his head, went away. He came back.

  “You have to pay.”

  “You people are the same. You’re looking for money. Just money. Now I know you.”

  That’s how I know the communists, man. Me, I don’t need no more experience, man. That one was enough for me to see their real face.

  Today if I was talking again to those Ghanaian students, I would tell them about another experience I also had while coming back from East Berlin in ’78. This one was with the leader of the South West Africa People’s Organization (SWAPO), Sam Nujoma. We were all there at the East Berlin airport waiting to board the plane taking us home. This was just before we checked in. We started discussing with Nujoma and members of his entourage. One of my associates asked Sam Nujoma how long he envisaged the struggle would go on in Namibia. You know what he answered?

  “Certainly, the struggle for the liberation of Africa will continue for a long time to come. Our children will have to continue where we stop. But a lutta continua, a victoria e certa.”

  Minutes later, we all proceeded to board our plane and you know what happened? Well, Sam Nujoma and his group went towards the front of the plane, to the first-class passengers’ section! And us? All seventy of us went into economy class. . . . What do you think of that? I’ll tell you what I think. Sam Nujoma could have saved the extra money he was spending on first-class tickets to buy a gun for the freedom fighters who don’t have the opportunity to take a plane, let alone travel in first class. Their homes, their permanent homes are their trenches. It’s them, man, who are fighting for the total liberation of Africa.

  A lutta continua. . . . A lutta continua. . . . A lutta continua. . . . Those words kept turning over and over in my mind during the flight. At first I didn’t understand because it was Portuguese language. One of the boys finally translated it as “the struggle continues!” I said to myself: “How can a responsible leader ever want the struggle to continue?” Who can want a war to continue? War is massacring … and killing. How can anybody want that to go on indefinitely? Those were the things I kept turning round in my head on the flight back from Berlin to Nigeria. That’s when I said to myself: “No! It must not continue. The struggle must STOP!” Since then, that’s been my slogan.

  Back in Lagos. What do I see at the airport? Mr Sam Nujoma and his group, escorted by Nigerian officials, leaving in a long line of Mercedes-Benz. I asked myself: “And how about the poor, ragged, barefoot, hungry guerrilla who is fighting on the front, exposing his life every day to the deadly bullets of the enemy? Suppose he showed up right now at this airport and walked up to those same top officials who welcomed Nujoma? Would they receive him as they received Nujoma?” That day I understood the whole shit.* A lutta continua was the slogan of the … leaders. Those who will be eating the pie, not those who are getting killed to get the pie. I understood why it’s Generals – leaders – who write their memoirs. And not the poor motherfucker who gets killed in their name!

  Original album cover of V.I.P. – Vagabonds in Power

  Design: Fela

  Photo: Tunde Kuboye

  The leaders of the African freedom struggle will always want the struggle to continue. For them, it means travelling around on first-class tickets and being given VIP treatment wherever they go. So when people talk to me about South Africa, I say:

  “Our Heads of State, how do they dare talk about South Africa? South Africa? What? What about South Africa?”

  We all agree that South Africa is a fascist, anti-Black, white supremacist régime. We all know that. But analyse the question well. Ask youself this: are the so-called independent states of Africa any better than the apartheid régime in South Africa? What do you think? Good. I’ll tell you what I think. Me, I think that our Heads of State are in fact worse than those of South Africa! At least, the South African leaders are direct. The whites hate the Blacks and want to exterminate them. Finish. But our Heads of State, who are Black, tell us they want to protect us. It’s these neo-colonial and reactionary African states that carry out genocide against their own Black people indiscriminately. Emperor Bokassa, isn’t he Black? General Olusegun Obasanjo, isn’t he Black? And all the reactionary African puppets, aren’t they Blacks? So how can they go around condemning apartheid South Africa when they’re doing exactly the same thing against their own innocent citizens in the countries where they hold power? Oh, man, Africa is not together at all! Africa na wa-o!

  18

  My Second Marriage

  Before this Ghana thing happened, you know, I’d made a short trip back to Nigeria to commemorate the first anniversary of the sacking of Kalakuta Republic. It was while we were there in Nigeria that I married the twenty-seven girls of my group Africa 70. After that, of course, I returned to Ghana. You know the rest. That Acheampong motherfucker, who’s dead now, got his ass kicked good by Jerry Rawlings! But before that happened while I’d been in Nigeria, Acheampong had gotten in touch with the Nigerian government. So when I came back to Ghana I was deported shortly after.

  Anyway, end January, I was with my group travelling by road back to Nigeria. I’d be looking at the fucking beautiful country and thinking how beautiful Africa is, man. My girls were tired. Most of them slept through that trip. Now and then I’d look at them sleeping. And I’d think: “These girls have suffered plenty-plenty for me-o! For years. Some for eight years! Fearless women, these my girls. Good women, man!” And I said to myself: “Fela, these na good women-o! Shiiiiit!”

  On 20 February ’78 I married all twenty-seven in a traditional ceremony. The marriage had been originally planned for the 18th of February, the anniversary of the sacking of Kalakuta. But my lawyer messed that up. You know what happened? He must have planned it with Steve. When I think about it, the two of them were working on it together. Steve Udah. You don’t know him, man? A Black guy with plenty hair, a Bendel man, who used to be with me. Anyway, it was this Steve who came up to me and suggested: “Fela, why don’t you marry all your women?” He suggested it, or at least that’s what he thought then. Actually, I’d been thinking of it all along myself. All this time, man, I’d been fucking these girls. When I was in Ghana I’d reached a point where I was just fucking them. Nobody else from the outside any more. Just them! So I married them. I wanted to.

  Now, coming back to that night when this Steve guy came to my house and said:

  “Fela, why don’t you marry these your girls?”

  “Steve, I’ve been thinking about it, man.”

  That’s how he got the idea that he’s put it in my head. But, you see, he had a small mind. I had a big mind. I wanted to do it ’cause I wanted to do the right thing. He thought I wanted to do it for publicity. So the night before I was going to marry, Steve must have gone to the lawyer’s to plan some dubious shit among themselves, man. But I don’t know this at the time. You understand?

  Tunji Braithwaite was still my lawyer then. Kanmi Oshobu? He’d already gone, man. He split when they burnt my house. So when I was in detention, my brother Koye had got Braithwaite for me. Kanmi had just disappeared! We couldn’t find him, even to come and take up my case. He was too scared. So we had to find an alternative. That’s how Braithwaite got involved, you know. Tunji Braithwaite! The day before the marriage, at 5 o’clock, we we
nt to his office. We were to come next morning, 18 February at 10 o’clock. He said he had an apartment office upstairs which he would clean up for us and that the ceremony would take place there. It was planned. Everybody agreed.

  The next morning we arrive. What do I see? Press, man. Nothing but press! I’ve never seen so much press people like that in my life! Now, I’ve been playing everywhere in the world but till today I’ve never seen so many press people! Understand? Place was full of cameras, reporters. There was no room to move. Then Tunji Braithwaite suddenly stands up in front of all those people.

  “This marriage cannot take place. It is against public morals. And me, as Fela’s lawyer, I am going to advise him that it’s against the law of this country and that he may be prosecuted for bigamy.”

  Man, did you hear that? Can you imagine? Ohhhhhh!!! I don’t know how I kept my body steady, man! I don’t know how I kept my demeanour up! It was like I’d been hit by lightning! I don’t know how I just stood cool. I was paralysed. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. The place was in total confusion. All my women were there, standing behind me, dressed and made up, ready. They didn’t know what to think either. Flashbulbs were going off. Then the press asked:

  “Fela, what are you going to do now?”

  The press had asked the exact question I couldn’t answer!

  Ajanaku, the Ifà* priest who was supposed to do the ceremony, was a fucking stupid man. He was supposed to be the leader of Ifà priests in Lagos. He was always following government people about. I thought he was respectable. But money has spoiled his mind. He doesn’t know shit, man. He’s just a fake. What does he know about Ifà? Nothing, man. Don’t worry, man, one of these days I’m gonna deal with him! Idiot! When Braithwaite told him, “If you do this marriage, police will arrest you,” he ran away.

  I looked at the press people and said:

  “You press, let me tell you something. I don’t care what this man says. As far as I am concerned, today I consider myself married with my women. You understand that?”

  Then I got up and went home. Oh, wooooooow! My head was turning around. I was thinking about everything that had just happened. I was broken, man. Yeah, broken! Then here comes this Steve again. He saw that I was completely broken, you know, unable to think. He also saw that if he didn’t find a new suggestion, man, the whole group might collapse. How could Braithwaite have done this to me? That date was so important to me, man. To all of the girls. To all of my people, man. Shit! So I was sitting in my house, really down, man. And Steve says:

  “Look, Fela, the best thing to do is to set another date for the marriage. We won’t do it in his office. We’ll do it somewhere else.”

  “Yeah…,” was all I could say.

  He continued: “Let’s do it in the hotel and call the press again.”

  “Good idea.”

  So we again announced that I’m gonna marry. This time on Monday, 20 February. The press announced it, and on Monday morning, Punch headlined: “FELA TO MARRY TODAY, LAW OR NO LAW”. Press came again, man. Police or no police, I married. Braithwaite was disgraced, man. It made him look ridiculous. This time I’d gotten another Ifà priest. We have plenty in Nigeria. Thousands, man.

  At that time, I was full into my case against the government. And since Braithwaite was handling it, we were still in liaison with him. After the problems he raised over the Decca affair and now what had just happened, I didn’t think I would ever go into his office again, or see him again. Because what he’d done made no sense, man. But on the morning I was married, my brother Beko was in Braithwaite’s house. Now I’ve already told Beko I was marrying on Monday, understand? But Braithwaite didn’t know anything. So while Beko was in the sitting-room talking with Braithwaite, the television people came to interview him about his cancellation of the marriage two days before.

  “Mr Braithwaite, why did you cancel the marriage?” The television people wanted to make the cancellation into a big thing now. Not the marriage itself.

  “How do think Fela will feel?”

  Braithwaite was getting ready to make a small speech:

  “Well, as you know, Fela is my friend, but. . . .”

  Beko cut him off.

  “Hey, you press and television people, lawyer, stop all this what you’re doing! Fela is marrying right now!!!”

  But Braithwaite had already talked. . . . So TV people just quickly took their cameras.

  “Where? Where?”

  “At Parisona Hotel, Ikorodu Road.”

  They left in a hurry.

  We had finished the marriage when they got there. We were all having drinks. I saw one press man who wanted to ask me a question.

  “Fela? …”

  “We’re married, man. We’re all happy and everything.” They took many photos of the marriage.

  That night, we’re watching news on the TV, network news, man. And who do we see? Braithwaite. They’d just put it on him! “Fela’s lawyer is a liar.” The news started like this:

  – TV announcer: “Today we were at the house of Fela’s lawyer, Mr Braithwaite. He made the following statement.”

  – Mr Braithwaite (who appears on the screen): “Unfortunately, Fela cannot marry since it is an illegal act against public order. It’s unfortunate because, as you know, Fela is my friend, but. . . .”

  – TV announcer: “But as Mr Braithwaite was saying this, Fela was calmly marrying his twenty-seven women. . . .”

  (Scenes of the marriage festivities flash on the screen.)

  That disgraced Braithwaite, man! He was trying to use me for politics, man, and he ended up being disgraced. Tunji Braithwaite! Let me tell you who that man is. After the burning of my house, he was the one handling the case. I was suing for twenty-five million naira, man! The government wanted to settle. They went to see him in his house. But he didn’t tell me that they wanted to settle. No. Just the opposite, man. He told me he wanted to go to court. So the case went to court. All of that was only to make his name popular, man. Nobody knew Braithwaite in Lagos before. Nobody heard his name anywhere. But when he started my case, he was on the front page, big: “Braithwaite in court with Fela.” You want me to show you the press coverage of my case, man? If you stack the papers in a pile, they’d be so fucking high. I swear! They were carrying news on me for a year and a half, every day. So Braithwaite too was in the news. That’s how everybody came to know him. See?

  Braithwaite wanted people to think I was a hooligan, that I was just doing the marriage for publicity. As if I was any musician going round the street, looking for prestige, man. That’s why he did that shit, man. After that I’d said, “I am not gonna see this man again. Let me show him a big mind.” But then I thought it over, and said to myself, “Why not?” So one day me and my wives went to visit him at his home.

  “FELA! How are you?”

  “Fine, man. Cool.”

  Then he started saying he felt sorry about what had happened and stupid things like that. So we left, man. Later on I went back again to his place, but to discuss politics now. Throughout the case we had never discussed politics. It was time we did.

  “Now, politics. You know I’m running for the presidency.”

  “Fela, look, let’s work together in this thing ’cause I want to be president too.”

  So we discussed and decided to work together. I was ready to let him run for presidency in my place. Really, I don’t want to be president, you know. Once the ideas I am fighting for are there, I don’t need to be president. Right? Then, on another day, I went to see him to discuss the situation of poor people and what should be done. I gave him my ideas, not just on bettering the lot of people but changing it. But before I tell you what he said, let me ask you this. Have you ever seen his house in Ikoyi, man? It’s a big, mighty house! Exactly like a ship, you know. He’s very proud. He calls it a mansion.

  “Fela, how do you like my mansion?”

  His next statement was this exactly:

  “You think I’m going to
allow my children to go to school at Mushin* with those Mushin boys? … So you want Mushin people to take over my house here?”

  I looked him in the eyes.

  “So, what do you want? … No use me arguing with you over this one.”

  When I went back outside, I started to think about it. I said to myself: “OK, I know this one now!”

  Coming back to my wives. OK. What attracted me to each of them? Sex! I thought they were sexy and fuckable. That’s what attracts me to a woman first. Some came to my house on their own. Others, I had come. Why? ’Cause I wanted to fuck them. That was all. I wanted a house where I could be fucking and I had it. It grew into something else after though. Something special. But it started just with sex. The desire to fuck. Man, the one most important thing in the human being is that life-giving and pleasurable sensation: sexual orgasm. And that’s what’s being condemned the most. Yeah. Somebody was asking me, trying to put down my ideas, if I thought sex was politics.

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “Sex is life.”

  That’s what I believe. Me, I fuck as often and as long as I can-o! Now, it’s not even a matter of choice. When I married twenty-seven women I knew what I was doing-o!

  Did I sleep with all of them on the night of the marriage? No. Man, I said I married twenty-seven, not seven! I only slept with one. The one next in turn. I followed my normal procedure. You see, before I married them I’d told them:

  “Look, when I marry you, I’m gonna do the same thing I was doing before with you. It’s gonna be the same house, the same thing, but just that we’re married.”

  Do I find living with them difficult? Naaaaah. I love it. It’s not difficult at all. It’s difficult if you don’t think of them or deal with them as women. Now, if you put them in the same frame as men, then it would be difficult. But I don’t do that, man.