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.
