Is it the sax? Or the guttural voice holding down through the spine? Is it the heavily laden lyrics building up a tempo possessing every part of you? Is it the colourful artistry of stage? Or the choreography of back up tilting their steps in the most perfect ways to the sound of the piano?
When Fela holds you, he does not leave you at once. He wakes up the spirit in you; giving you every reason to be angry and nihilistic; presenting you the the most ridiculously scenario of Nigeria socio-political milieu; finding you a place inside his music as well. My first encounter with Fela was Zombie. I was wondering if this was a musical way a singer of a strong genre was going to theme robot for me until a friend told me: it is a satirical jab at the military. The second, a friend had told me a myth about his size of Indian Hemp as fat as my tiny arm. Anyway, a myth is just a myth. It is not necessarily true.
Fala’s music and artistic ingenuity beat time and space. Wherever it finds you, it owns you, possesses you and seamlessly walks down your soul. Celebrating the second decade of his death, the one who has death in his pocket still remains the fright of the establishment, his music almost turning into an anthem for any revolution. Yes, what is your own memory of Abami Eda?