Every journalist wanted to meet Fela. It was like a journalistic requirement. A ritualistic rite of passage to announce your arrival. Or solidify it. You make up that excuse to seek for that interview. Of course, Fela had his own team, that he liked. Trusted ones that he called by first names. They also were VIP guests at the Shrine. I was none of the above. Not even close. What I had cultivated at that time, was a friendship with Femi Kuti. We had met at the Kirikiri prison, where Fela was incarcerated the ten thousand of times. I was there, when he tugged igbo into Fela’s shirt, on the pretense of giving his father a hug. Femi knew then that I could be trusted. Our friendship started that instant.
I told him of my desire to interview the Abami Eda. He promised to make it happened. Put in some words for me. Set up the date. On the appointed date, I was punctual. Got there two hours before the 8pm time. The Kalakuta Republic was not for the faint of hearts. It was very different. An organized chaos with cantankerous amiable individuals. If they were not selling marijuana. They were smoking it. You had to speak on top of your voice to be heard or listened to. A guy I sat next to, trying to waste sometime, said to be: ” oga pray for me ooo”. When I asked why? His reply still cracks me up to this day: ” Pray for me to sell this igbo. The one wey, I bring yesterday. Na me smoke am finish”.
Soon, it was 800pm. I made my was upstairs, expecting to see the Abami Eda for the mother of all interviews. Getting there I was met by a teenager. “Are you the journalist,” he inquired? I nodded. Bemused by the scene in the living room. The television they were watching, was showing upside down. An American daytime Soap Opera was on. General Hospital, if my memory serves me right. The lots of ladies were into the story. Glued to the television set…… That was showing upside down!
“Fela say make I take care of you,” the teenager told me. He asked what I wanted. “You want igbo or beer,” he pressed me further. Guiding me to a seat in an isolated corner. I told him I was good. Just wanted to get the interview that will take my journalism career to another level. Make me the next Dele Giwa. Soon 8pm turned to 9pm. Then with the igbo sipping into my lungs, 9pm turned into 10pm. I knew I saw 1130 pm, before like Alice I fell into wonderland. Slept off like a baby.
Then the gentle tap on my lap to wake me up. It was the teenage boy. I opened my eyes to see sitting in front of me, FELA KUTI! In his glory with boxers clinging to his waist. Still, he was like a King on the throne, surrounded by his gloating queens and ardent worshippers. All eyes were on me, the sleeping journalist that came for the interview. And fell asleep. Embarrassment was a kind word.
Then somehow the din and chaos had melted into an unexplained calmness. Fela was holding court. “You be Femi friend,” he asked me. I nodded. “You be journalist,” he asked again. Again, I nodded. Then the look on his face changed to anger. ” You don dey here for hours now. You don sleep. Did you see any rat or cockroach in Fela’s house? You journalist go around writing rubbish. Fela’s house is full of rats and cockroaches. You see any?”
With that he got up. Went back into his room. The end of my interview with Fela Kuti.
END
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