I met Abami Eda 16 years after his death...in a brothel

Being a 90’s baby, I never really got to understand Fela Kuti when he was alive. Fela died in 1997. I was born in 1991. As a 6-year old, I was solely concerned with the finer points of catching grasshoppers, still missing the fact that I had lost my access to breastmilk, and wondering why on earth female children loved to plait their hair with threads.

Fela died on August 2, 1997, and the world stood still, except me. While over a million people filed past the Abami Eda’s casket to pay their last respects to Africa’s music icon, I was hanging in my school’s playground and attacking my lunch box. Afrobeats and all of that great music that Fela made was too complex. For me, If it was not edible, had cartoons in it, or jumped around in the grass, I didn’t care.

As I grew up, through secondary school, first heartbreak, went through puppy love, lost my virginity and earned good grades, I didn’t think of Fela. Instead of Afrobeat, I discovered PlayStation, Mortal Kombat, and soccer. I didn’t care about him, and all his greatness. In many ways, Fela didn’t exist to me.

But Fela was waiting for me when I moved to Lagos. Thrown into the bustle of the streets and the hustle in every corner, I experienced a culture shock. Everything and everywhere was dipped into the Yoruba culture, and Fela, being an illustrious son of the land was celebrated and held in high esteem.

But it wasn’t until I was dragged to one of Fela’s old Houses which was converted over the years to a brothel named ‘Empire’ near Jibowu, did I have any sort of physical connection with him. This was 16 years after Fela breathed his last.

“Oga, this used to be Fela’s house. This was where the soldiers came to attack him and threw his mother down”. My guide was my willing cousin, who was determined to educate his Ajebutter brother.

There was some truth in that. Empire was popularized by the late Afrobeat legend, Fela Anikulapo-Kuti. In the 1970, Fela’s Club, Kalakuta Republic, existed there until it was razed by “Unknown soldiers”. True of false, people easily attribute the moral decadence of the youths of the area to the lingering influence of the singer who sang mostly protest songs.

“Okay”, I replied, while trying to keep a hold of my thoughts as scantily clad women beckoned to me with eyes.

“Fine boy come now. Ajebutter, you know say I go treat you well…”, a lady called out. Another came pulled my hand. I snatched it back hastily. I am a holy man, far removed from the temptation of the flesh. My mother raised me to not look at women. Especially the ones who looked at me with those eyes.

It was a Friday night, and there was a party going on. I walked into the floor and there I found Fela. The DJ on the night, a complex Yoruba-speaking man named DJ Cucumber was ‘on the wheels of steel’ and he kept rotating Fela’s songs all through my stay. Each new song came with a wave of ‘oohs and aahs’ as everyone danced the night away and sang through. The boys had passionate sweaty faces, and from their looks you could deduce that they were drawn from the lowest strata of the society.

These were the people Fela dedicated his music to and fought for their rights via music and activism. To date, they still rever him as a defender of the cause, and a true believer in equality of man.

This was where I met fela, this place of squalor and simple needs. I felt him as if he were alive, singing to us all, giving us hope, and guiding us to salvation.

One lady walked past me, her buttocks bouncy as she moved past me. A guy followed quickly, The girl screamed, “You no get money, yet na you sabi fuck pass’.

Everyone burst into various reactions of laughter, and surprise. This was all a part of the night, a regular occurrence. I stayed for an extra hour, downed two bottles of a popular beer, and made my way out. But that was not before two voluptuous ladies blocked my path, and asked the Golden question:

“Ajebo fine boy, you wan fu**?

“I just f*** finish. Maybe next time.”

That reply gave me passage, and I walked away as fast as I could. But not before shrugging the sin away and wearing my cloak of holiness.

“Blood of Jesus”.

This was my first contact with the great Abami Eda, in a place that was once his house, but had fallen into another business. There was poetry in the fact that women, weed and music still ruled the place.

Two years later, I and two colleagues drove past the area on a Sunday. Nothing had changed. There were still men hanging around shirtless, and women sitting outside looking longingly at us. And no. I was still a holy child, so I drove past, and never went back.

In death, Fela lives. Famous for his copious use of marijuana, his fascination with women and proclivity for appearing in briefs, Fela was, and is still, many things to many people: an icon, activist, a philanthropist and risqué reverend to whom music served as a tool of evangelism and a fount of inspiration. I had connected with him 16 years after his death, via marijuana, women, men in briefs and his music.