Nigeria Content Online

Western thinkers
often treat African issues with condescension and a patronising
attitude. I am exhilarated to report that I just watched a rare
exception in Fela! On Broadway. Dear reader, run, don’t walk, to go see
Fela! On Broadway. It would be a great tragedy to die without watching
that show. Okay, I am being melodramatic, but you get my point.

I attended the
play prepared to be miserable. I just knew there were many things that
would go wrong. As I went up to New York by train, I kept whining to
myself: “Why, O, why are foreigners doing a musical on Fela? This is
not going to work.” I stepped into the Eugene O’Neill Theatre,
optimistic that I would have to down several drinks just to make it to
curtain call. Wrong.

This was one fine
production, assembled with care, respect, and compassion. Fela would
have been proud of this show. I regret that once again, foreigners have
spent the time and resources to do what we ought to be doing for
ourselves.

This is a
must-see tour de force, thanks to the brains behind the show – Bill T.
Jones, Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter, Will Smith, and Jada Pinkett Smith.

When you step
into the theatre, the first thing that strikes you is the amount of
research and attention to detail that went into this production. The
set itself is tastefully done, and worth the price of admission. It
feels evocatively like a modern museum that tugs at one’s library of
memories. Characters in Nigeria’s checkered history appear and you
smile. This is a musical play deploying the historical accuracy of
heavy-duty research to create joyous faction.

There is a full
convergence of great artistic talent painstakingly assembled to
showcase the universality of music. It was my eternal luck that Patti
LaBelle performed that night as Fela’s mother. She was sheer poetry.
And Kevin Mambo as Fela was inspired. When he grabs the saxophone to
paw the air, a force grabs you to dance with reckless abandon.

Defiant to the
end, these children of the privileged gallantly mimic the song and
dance of the truly dispossessed. Just like Fela did. This is a brainy,
brawny, sizzling show, a great script creatively improvised. Everything
is here: Farce. Courage. Laughter. Sadness. Tragedy. Joy. Brutality.
The audience loved it when Fela showed up in a general’s uniform
strutting and preening through ‘Zombie’. This was creative
improvisation at its best. I must say that Fela’s attitude was
exquisitely captured that night.

It is true that
the real Kalakuta Republic shrine was grittier and more riotous, with
Fela’s girls in makeshift sets dancing the night away and all sorts of
mischief taking place in the shadows. Only the laws of the City of New
York prevented the highly creative producers and directors from totally
recreating the shrine. I saw enough to stir my all senses.

And Fela’s girls:
You should see their ‘gele’- head gears- lord have mercy. The girls
pounced on stage like hungry lionesses, fitted in skimpy outfits and
almost convinced me they had no bones in their lithe bodies, what with
the awesome dances they put on display. This was the best of Fela’s
shrine on display: waists swiveling 360 degrees, touts and thugs trash
talking, showing off moves, muscles, virility, and attitude. In dark
corners, Fela’s wives writhed in the shadows, shining a light into the
darkness with glorious waist power.

Back home in the
antiseptic clinic that houses my life in America’s suburbia, Fela won’t
let me go. As I wander the arid fields, Abami Eda, offspring of Esu,
follows me, arranging horns sobbing in formation, lining up the
oracle’s cowries. Now listen! I dey sing! I dey dance! I dey paint!
Without me you nor go happy at all! Uniform na cloth, na tailor dey sew
am! Word! Tell them, Abami Eda!

His lunacy is
carefully scripted mayhem. His is the voice of the privileged
conducting the people’s orchestra. Hear the call of the master and
listen for the response of the dispossessed in the horns arranging
orgasmic rumbles North on Georgia Avenue, as I drive behind this bus
emitting mystic smells of Lagos. Ah, I miss Lagos. And Fela lives: “Now
listen! I dey sing! I dey dance! I dey paint! Without me you nor go
happy at all! Uniform na cloth, na tailor dey sew am!” Word. Tell them,
Abami Eda!

Fela! On Broadway
reminded me of the awesome power of Fela’s words; there is power
everywhere, even in the desolation wrought by thugs in uniform. Out of
the ruins of Kalakuta Republic, there is Fela rising in song, horns
braying, billowing loud marijuana smoke and attitude.

Silently, like
lionesses, his girls creep into you. Fela enters, monarch of the
dispossessed. Poetry. A triumphant song onto the lords of justice!
Anarchy barely controlled. Horns! The audience squeals with delight!
Fela orders his subjects: “Everybody, say, Yeah! Yeah!” And the
audience roars: “Yeah! Yeah!”

I am going back to New York to dance with Fela again. And Patti Labelle!