I’ve never met a Nigerian who doesn’t know who Fela was. I say ‘was’ cos Fela passed on several years ago, but his legacy still lives on–in the hearts and minds of his fans.
“Who is Fela?” you ask, your mind already going through the list of famous artists you’re familiar with.
Fela is a legend. An artist who’s famous for not just his music, but the meanings behind every word he sings. To understand Fela and what goes on in his mind, you gotta go right back–back to the deep-rooted culture of his people.
You give me that ‘what the heck are you talking about?’ look.
I ignore you and shake my head in pity. Unless you’ve lived in Nigeria and seen things for yourself, you’ll probably never get why Fela means so much to those who are lucky to have had the pleasure of his entertainment/teaching.
Abruptly you ask, “What makes Fela’s music so famous?” Your mind is already browsing through the ‘rock and roll’ legends you’ve been opportuned to know: The Beatles, Kiss, Steely Dan, James Gang, Jonas Brothers(?) Lol!!!
Well, I totally can’t capture the true essence of Fela Kuti and what his music means to Nigerians and many Africans at large. What I can do, is give his dedicated fans a chance to speak from their hearts and tell you exactly what it is they root about Fela’s songs.
So, all you Nigerians out there, if you’re a true fan of Fela Anikulapo Kuti, tell us why you love his music, tell us what his music means to you.
Imagine the music and the feverish dance-steps! Most of you Lagosians, Nigerians, and lovers of Afro beats know what I’m talking about. Whatever you’re doing, wherever you are –whether at home, out in the city, or even totally out in a foreign country– whenever you hear the beat, you just feel like getting straight down and doing a jig or two. Lol!!!
My favorite is the song my Uncle always starts off his parties with, a song that created so much buzz in 2001/2002, I’ve been told:
“Pade mi ni sale…!!!!!”
“Aaaaahhhhh Under!!!!!!”
Yeah, that’s right. You totally know who I’m talking about. You’re already standing in that legendary dancing pose, shoulders back, hips down, butt stuck-out, and backbone set to undulate. You wait for the next cue:
“Le le le le le le le– le le le le– le le le le le le…”
The metallic sound of trumpets, then:
“Arege ji ah! Arege ji ah ah….”
“Aaaahhhh, Under!”
Then follows the well-known lyrics accompanied by staccato crazy beats with the Yoruba talking drums.
“Isale ele ele, konko konko…”
“E gbe jo oooo!!!”
“Kon Below! Konko Below!! Kon Below!!! Konko Below!!!!”
“UNDER!!!!!”
I never really figured out if the catch word is “Under” or “Thunder”, or both. But the song is quite addictive, I must admit. Can’t be totally captured with just words. This here, friends, will require a depicting video.
Just so we’re clear, I’m talking of the one and only, Lagbaja, the masked King of the new millennium Afro beats. See link to a you-tube video of his hit song:
Very captivating, huh? I thought so too when I first heard it, even though I couldn’t understand a word, except “Below”. Lol!!!
To tell the truth, I’d still like to find out what the lyrics mean some time.
Anyways, Lagos parties are something every teenager needs to experience at least once in his/her lifetime.
“What about High-school parties?” You ask, not sure what on earth I’m totally driving at.
Teenage American parties, you mean? Oh puhleease, give me a total break! There just isn’t any comparison!!! Those stolen-beer and pizza-driven excuses for a good time totally fade right into the background beside a Lagos street party.
Yeah! That’s right! It’s not just the colorful attire of the party-goers, the wide-reaching head-ties of the women, the rich agabadas worn by the men, the flashy jewelries, great high-life music, or delicious foods and refreshments supplied as ‘item seven.’ Lol!!!
To be frank with you, in comparison to what I now know as an ‘Owambe party’, which is the most common native party in Lagos; prom parties just feel so drab and boring with the punch and pizza–nothing really much to it. Ugh!!!
One thing I noticed about Lagos parties though, you don’t really need an exotic venue to pull-off the perfect entertaining scene. Most people just use their compounds and the free spaces behind their homes. However, if you’re one of those who live in a flat (apartment) or totally don’t have a wide compound, don’t sweat it. Just use your street!!!!
“No way!!!” You eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “You mean as in streets where cars commute and everything?” you ask, looking quite incredulous. “Seriously?”
Yep!!! Totally!!! Just wait till it’s about 6pm, then measure-out about a two-hundred feet of the street in front of your home– spanning to the left and right– and clamp-down some road-block signs at each end. Then scatter around several plastic chairs and tables and position a few bouncers at strategic points to warn and redirect traffic. Mount an intimidating sound system with heavy-duty speakers wired from the inside of your building with plenty of extensions.
Voila!!!
You totally got yourself a party venue. Lol!!!
“You must be kidding me?” You remark, totally blown outta your mind. “A street party, how cool is that?” You think for a coupla minutes, then ask, “What about the cops? Howddya deal with ‘em, huh?”
Cops? What cops? The same guys the party host already ‘sorted’ with a coupla thousand bucks (Naira)?
Naahhh, street parties don’t get bothered by no cops, irritated neighbors, or grandparents. The general rule of thumbs for such gatherings is very simple:
If you can’t beat ‘em; join ‘em!!!
Lol!!!
“Wow,” you say, totally blown away. “I so wanna spend my summer hols in Lagos.
Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Remember, the above also goes for coming-of-age parties, birthdays, school proms, naming ceremonies, bachelor parties, burial wake-keeping, golden-jubilees, after wedding parties, church functions, sports victory, etc, etc. You can basically celebrate anything in Lagos, even your first job, your first car, college graduations or your house opening. These parties bring the body and soul of the city together in perfect harmony. And you wanna know something cool?
Everyone is totally invited. In effect, a second home for street parties are:
M’ogbo, mo branch!
Indirect translation: I heard the music, I totally invited myself. And all my hommies.
“Yeah right!!!” You roll your eyes. “The more the merrier, huh?”
Yep!!! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! All ya party rats outta ‘ere, please join me:
E gbe jo o!!!
Lotta Luv,
Carlotta
**Stick around, definitely more to come. To reserve read excerpts and reserve copies of the actual FEDDIE GIRL novel by Nona David, visit Bernard Books Publishing
So I beat-up on two kids half my age and landed them in the emergency room with cracked ribs.
“What’s the big deal?” You ask from the side or your mouth, not letting go of the Nintendo cruiser you clutch in your hands.
Well, the big deal is that my parents panicked and catapulted us from the our lovely home in San Francisco to the middle of nowhere in Owasso, Oklahoma. Major downer!
You sip from your soda can. “I still don’t get it,” you mutter, slurping the drink around in your mouth, “so you relocated to the mid-lands, who gives a shit?”
I have just one question. You ever been to Owasso, Oklahoma?
No?
Then shut the hell up and take my word for it. After living most of my life in ‘Frisco, Owasso felt like cowboy land to me. Shoot! They even have cowboys and totally have like, native Indian names for their towns. Osawatomie, Oolagah, Owasso, Okmulgee…
Like, who the hell named these towns? The guys from ‘Dukes of Hazard?’ Crazy!!!
Anyways, we moved to Owasso (pronounced ‘Owass-ah’ by many natives), and I hated my parents for it. They put me in some middle school filled with a bunch of stupid kids that know nothing about being cool. Many of them wouldn’t even know what a cigarette looked like if it came poking them in the eye.
Bummer!!!
I had no friends. My best friend Sasha was back in ‘Frisco dating cute guys and lounging in pools and beaches, sipping slushies and eating ice-cream. Me? I was caged in Owasso, wearing drab clothes to school and eating cafeteria-cooked-crap for lunch. Yuck!!!
Even the extracurricular activities in the school was like, totally booorrriiing! There was no group for aspiring actresses like me. No serious music group with incredible talent like mine. And definitely no musicals or talent shows whatsoever. Instead, they had baseball. Who the heck wants to play baseball?
You give me a reproachful stare. “Baseball is an American fave,” you say.
Yeah, yeah, Baseball and the Angels and the Braves and yatty-yatty-yada!!! Give me a break!
So, like, the only kid I identified with at that middle school in Owasso was this guy named Samuel Machiovich. Cool kids in the school nick-named him ‘Slinky Sam.’
I was cool, so I called him Slinky Sam too. He was the major and the most widely connected supplier of cigarettes and drugs in the school. I was one of his frequent customers…Lol!!!
“What!!!!” you scream. “Cigarettes? Whatcha go picking up that disgusting habit for?”
First off, smoking is not a disgusting habit, at least, not when you stick to the occasional cigarette. It’s when you become addicted and or graduate to reefers that it becomes disgusting–and at whatever age you start doing it.
In my case, I started smoking cigs when I was like, eight? Nine? I forget. But, while in ‘Frisco, I only smoked like one or two sticks in three months.
Then we moved to Owasso and I met Slinky Sam and the likes of him. Things quickly took a turn for the worse. I started smoking more frequently, you know, just for relaxation and to let-off steam. I was netting in at about two sticks in three days. Then the urge to smoke became more insistent. Before I knew it, I was smoking a whooping pack of cigs in two weeks! Gawd!!!
Then guess what?
“What?” you ask, all eyes and ears now. (Finally, I’ve been able to gain your full attention. Lol!)
Okay, so, Slinky Sam totally introduced me to something stronger than just tobacco.
“I knew it!” you yell. “The Slimy bastard!”
Well, it’s not totally his fault. I could have said no if I wanted to. Problem was–I seriously needed something to get my mind off my parents selfish decisions and judgment. Jeez! What do they know about my life?
So, at first, I tried a few kinds of weed, nothing too serious, just harmless grass and stuff. Then one day, Slinky got me the real deal. Marijuana!!!
“Marijuana??!!!” You yell…
Yup, it cost me ten bucks a roll too. Slinky said it was the best weed in town.
“Whatcha do? You smoke it?” You are now at the edge of your seat, perched and staring at me in awe and unbelief.
To be fair to you, the answer is yes! I did smoke the reefer… We cut classes and went behind the school dumpster during school hours. I took one puff and closed my eyes, hoping to savor the promised freedom the warm smoke would bring.
The next thing I knew, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.
I was busted!!!
By the time I snapped my eyes open, Slinky Sam was nowhere to be found.
You laugh so hard you fall to the floor and roll around. “I told you so!”
Yeah, and honestly, I don’t blame ya! That weed-smoking escapade was the last straw for my parents. I got expelled from middle school and three weeks later, I found myself on a plane nosing its way to Nigeria, West-AFRICA!!!
You betcha! I’ll be back with more, so hang around!
You’ve been waiting to hear what I did to merit a punishment as extreme as boarding school in AFRICA of all places. Okay, I’m totally gonna tell you. But bear in mind that this happened a long time ago, like when I was twelve.
At that time, I guess I must have been a really frustrated kid, full of angst and bitterness at the failing relationship between my parents.
How was I to know, at that time, that trying to be a punk was not the best of solutions to an impending family divorce?
I was only twelve–duh!!
How was I to know that by letting my rage overtake me, I was gonna hurt other people and myself?
Really, how was I to know???
Guess I learned the hard way.
Okay so you still wanna know what I did?
“Spill the beans, Carlotta,” you reply, ready for gossip.
Okey-dokie. But remember, you asked for it!!! Lol!!!
*******
I hated the two kids. They were about half my age, skinny, and obnoxious as hell. They had tiny little noses that seemed turned-up at the end, almost snobbish.
They never shut up, especially the female. She had this annoying way of chanting in a high-pitched voice each time she crossed my path:
“Car-lot-ta! Car-lot-ta!! Carrr-llooot-ttaaaa!!!”
“Enough, already!” I snapped at her one morning. I was in a particularly sore mood and didn’t care much for being pestered.
The li’l kid, wouldn’t listen, she kept chanting.
“I said, stop it!” I yelled at her, “or I’m gonna bust your butt!”
The girl shut up at once. There was a moment of glorious quietness, before her male counterpart blurted:
“Watcha gonna do? Car-lot-ta, watcha gonna do?”
I’m gonna totally bust you up, that’s what. “Stop it this minute,” I ordered.
The boy ignored me. I hate being ignored.
His female partner-in-crime joined in again, and this time, she made the mistake of poking me in the chest while she chanted with renewed vigor.
That did it! I lost my temper!
First, I caught hold of one and landed her a resounding blow straight across the cheek. Smack!
Dazed, she fell back and let up. The male wasn’t as easy to deal with. Scrawny legs kicking, little arms flailing, sharp voice wailing; he grabbed my arm and began to pummel with his free hand.
With him I took my time. One accurately measured blow to the side of his chest leveled him.
The female jumped to her feet and charged like a suicidal bull, blindly throwing herself into my stomach. I peeled her off me and smacked her across the face. Again!
She wouldn’t be dislodged that easily.
So I leveled her like I did her mate, landing one extra blow to make sure she stayed down. I considered leaving them there, prone as dead logs, but thought better of it. A ring of excited onlookers had formed around us.
“Here is to the silly taunts on the bus every morning,” I spat. With each word, I kicked-out at the two helpless beings, drawing an extended cry of agony from them.
Finally, I stopped kicking and stood there, heaving with fury, staring down at the two six-year olds I almost reduced to pulps of flesh.
I turned to leave. A path cleared within the ring of other students staring back at me in horror.
One boy hooted and several others joined in. Soon they were booing and chanting and running to go find a teacher. Any teacher. And the school nurse.
The injured six-year-olds lay there on the ground, groaning and crying.
“Did I feel sorry for them?” you ask, shocked beyond belief.
Well, to tell you the truth, I felt kinda satisfied. The two punks had it coming. They certainly did.
So, I am the only child in my family–can’t say whether this is good or bad, but that’s just the way it is.
My dad’s name is Richard, and like I said before, he is a physician. He’s really tall (like, above six feet), dark and handsome. When people meet him these days, they keep saying he looks like Barack Obama!!! Lol!!! I guess they’re kinda right, after all, my dad, like our dear Mr. President, is a half-breed too. His dad (my grandfather) is from somewhere in Anambra State, Nigeria (I think it’s Neewi, Newwi, or somethin’ like that. Can’t remember the spelling!! Lol!!). My dad’s mom is from Gainesville, Georgia. Great match for the two of them, I must say, even though I never met them!!! How often do you get to have a Nigerian for a granddad and a totally white mom for a grandma? Totally cool, right?
My mom is an English Professor (Ph.D.) and her parents are both from Georgia. Now, them, I got to meet, but can’t remember. I was like two or three when they both passed on. What a bummer!!! My mom is quite tall for a woman and very prim and proper. Her name is Shelley, but she should have been called Margaret or somethin’ like that, cos she always gets on my case. Arrggh!!!
Okay, for the gist you’ve all been waiting for…
Sometimes, I wonder how or why my parents stuck together with each other for so long. Maybe it’s because of me…but I still wonder.
You see, my mom is a recovering alcoholic. Yeah, that means no booze in the house. Did you just say, “Hey, that sucks??!!” Well can’t blame ya! That’s the way things are at home. No booze, no beer, no nothin’ (Another reason I can’t host parties at home. Lol!!!). So, she had managed to stay clean for a long time never saw her take a drink until I was like, twelve? Thirteen? Oh yes! That would be a few months before my thirteenth birthday.
She tries to hide it, most of the time, but sometimes I can smell the alcohol on her breath. Mostly, my dad would pretend like he doesn’t notice, until she starts slurring her words or hurling stuff across the room (it’s sooo annoying when she does that. No, scary is more like it!!). This doesn’t happen often, though, only when she’s like anxious or totally bummed out about my dad’s promiscuity.
Hah! “Promiscuity?” you scream. Well, that’s what I said, isn’t it?
My dad just diggs young ladies with pretty faces. It’s not like it’s a secret or any thing, he just has this cool way of studying sashaying blondes/brunnettes from under his lashes when he thinks my mom is not looking. But he’s only fooling himself cos I think my mom knows what he’s up to most of the time. She just keeps a stiff face and totally ignores him. Or pretend not to notice.
Gee!! Aren’t they like, good for each other? Yep!! Totally!! A married couple that live together and have totally disgusting vices — one is an alcoholic while the other is a philanderer (right word? Just thought I’d put my mom’s constant hype about learning new words to good use.) But you totally get the idea, right?
Well, don’t get me wrong. My parents may be bummers sometimes, but I totally love ‘em!!! At least, I do right now. Lol!!!
So now you’ve met Dr and Dr Ikedi, my next story will be about why they decided it was worth it to ship their only daughter off to an all-girls boarding school in Africa!!!
I’ve never met a Nigerian who doesn’t know who Fela was. I say ‘was’ cos Fela passed on several years ago, but his legacy still lives on–in the hearts and minds of his fans.
So, I am the only child in my family–can’t say whether this is good or bad, but that’s just the way it is.
