Why Black Man Dey Suffer is a relatively early chapter in the Fela discography, originally recorded in 1971. Put to tape with early band Afrika 70 and drummer/Afro-beat enthusiast Ginger Baker.
Africans' historical and contemporary oppression and suffering is a common theme in Fela's music. In this track Kuti advises Africans to unite.
To grow up with the music of Fela Anikulapo Kuti is to have one’s childhood measured not in standard time, but in thirty-minute grooves. In the house of my youth, Fela’s music was as omnipresent as the air we breathed. It was the background texture to Saturday morning chores, the chaotic energy of family gatherings, and the low hum of car rides through bustling streets. Long before I understood the weight of his lyrics or the terrifying bravery of his activism, Fela’s Afrobeat was the sonic architecture of my early world. As the years have passed, those childhood frequencies have done more than linger; they have settled permanently into the music repertoire of my mind, serving as a baseline for how I interpret rhythm, politics, and the world itself.
In childhood, music is felt before it is analysed. My earliest memories of Fela’s work are defined by the sheer visceral power of his arrangements. Songs like "Water No Get Enemy" and "Expensive Shit" did not just play; they took over the room. To a young child, the long, winding instrumental introductions—pioneered alongside his legendary drummer Tony Allen—felt like suspenseful stories unfolding in real time. Waiting with bated breath through ten or fifteen minutes of interlocking jazz horns, hypnotic basslines, and scratching guitars, knowing that eventually, Fela’s commanding voice would cut through the groove. His use of Pidgin English felt familiar yet larger than life, a street-level poetry that turned complex political realities into unforgettable, chantable choruses.
As I grew older, the soundtrack of my childhood underwent a profound transformation. The songs I once danced to mindlessly began to reveal their teeth. I realised that the music echoing through our home was not just entertainment; it was a historical encyclopaedia of resistance. Tracks like "Zombie," with its biting critique of blind military obedience, and "Beasts of No Nation" became lessons in courage. I knew of the heavy price Fela paid for his outspokenness—stories of the raids on his Kalakuta Republic commune were on the news; his numerous imprisonments, and the tragic loss of his mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti. The joy of the music became permanently intertwined with a burgeoning socio-political consciousness. Fela taught me, without ever giving a formal lecture, that art is a weapon for liberation and that compromise in the face of injustice is a conceptual failure.
Today, though my physical surroundings have changed and decades have passed, Fela's catalogue remains the permanent rhythm section of my internal world. Whenever I encounter chaos, the driving brass section of "Confusion" or "Overtake Don Overtake Overtake" echoes in my thoughts, offering a strange kind of clarity. When I observe societal apathy or political theatre, lyrics written in the 1970s and 1980s flash through my mind with prophetic urgency. The music has given me an internalised standard for artistic integrity; it has made me impatient with art that refuses to say anything meaningful.
Ultimately, Fela Kuti’s music did not just accompany my youth—it shaped my intellectual and emotional anatomy. It taught my ears to hunt for the complex polyrhythms beneath simple surfaces and taught my heart to revere fearless authenticity. The soundtrack of my childhood has become the philosophy of my adulthood, an eternal loop playing in the back of my mind, reminding me exactly who I am and where the rhythm comes from.
With this soulful melody from his 'Teacher Don't Teach Me Nonsense' album Fela denounces how Nigeria remains stuck in the same troubled state while poverty and government corruption continue. After years of fierce political activism, arrests, and beatings by military regimes, the song explains his choice to step back and simply watch the absurdity of the system. Instead of crying or fighting an unresponsive system, he concludes that he must "look and laugh" at the tragicomic state of society. The track famously ends with Fela and his band laughing out loud together.
I have posted only the opening of the song. The full song in Parts 1 & 2 can be found here
This hit song by Fela Kuti from 1976.
Yellow Fever, the term is used as a satirical metaphor to criticise the popular and harmful practice of skin bleaching among African women. Fela framed the artificial lightening of dark skin using chemical creams as a form of sickness. He compared it to a fever, singing that while an "original" fever (like jaundice fever or malaria fever) is a natural illness that the body can fight off, skin bleaching is a self-inflicted, artificial disease.
Beyond physical health risks, Fela used the term to attack a post-colonial inferiority complex. He viewed the obsession with lighter, "Caucasoid" skin tones as a sign of mental colonisation and a rejection of natural African identity.
The phrase "Yellow Fever" was originally a local nickname given to traffic wardens in Nigeria because of the bright yellow shirts they wore. Fela borrowed the term and redirected it at people who bleached their skin.
In truth, yellow fever, is, in fact, a serious viral disease spread by the bites of infected mosquitoes in tropical and subtropical regions of Africa and South America.
"Just Like That" is a 1986 Afrobeat song by Fela Kuti and his band, Egypt 80. Often described as a "shock and awe" track, it serves as a scathing commentary on the chaotic state of Nigeria and Africa during that era.
Key Themes and Context:
Political Disillusionment: The song reflects on Nigeria’s failed transition to democracy in 1979. Fela uses the lyrics to highlight the absurdity of war, corruption, and election rigging that left citizens "shocked and dumbfounded".
Spiritual Influence: The track was recorded during a period when Fela was heavily influenced by Professor Hindu, a controversial spiritual adviser. This influence reportedly led Fela to reject a major record deal with Motown Records.
It was originally released as part of the album Teacher Don't Teach Me Nonsense in 1986.
As a student at the university many decades ago, Fela's club, The Shrine, at Ikeja, Lagos, was a favourite haunt for me and several others like myself. I visited the Shrine many times. Once, standing close to the front of the crowd at the Shrine I was wearing a t-shirt with PUBLIC ENEMY boldly emblazoned on the front, when from the stage Fela himself picked me out from the crowd and made some sharp remark about my t-shirt, while pointing at me, causing the crowd to cheer. I was awestruck, lost in the moment and don't even remember exactly what he said, but this was the only personal interaction I ever had with him, and I cherish that moment eternally.
"Upside Down and Zombie, both released in 1976, were made at the midpoint of an extraordinary three-year purple period during which Fela recorded 24 albums of new material. Upside Down was written by Fela to portray a worldly travelled African who searches the dictionary and finds the definition of "upside down" - a perfect description of the African situation. Upside Down is unusual in that it includes a second lead vocalist, Fela’s American friend Sandra Izsadore. Izsadore was a Black rights activist and introduced him to the writings of revolutionary thinkers such as Malcolm X, Angela Davis, Rap Brown, Stokely Carmichael, Huey Newton and more, who inspired Fela’s philosophy of Blackism." World of Echo
Second video: Upside Down - Funmilayo Afrobeat Orquestra, Seun Kuti, Egypt 80 (Live Session)
Technical Sheet:
.jpg)
"What gives Sebastian Bach and Mozart a place apart is that these two great expressive composers never sacrificed form to expression. As high as their expression may soar, their musical form remains supreme and all-sufficient".
