Fela’s Africa Shrine was based at Surulere Night Club a ten minute saunter from the once grand National Stadium, long since abandoned to weeds and vermin. Blasted from shoulder high loudspeakers, a scratchy ‘Who’s Making Love’ 45 by Johnnie Taylor greeted us as we reached the doors of the club. Entry cost two naira. Darassin the bouncer, a semiretired boxer named after a Bollywood character, stamped our palms before we entered. A few of Fela’s roadies recognised me from my days with Beko and cheered, ‘Docky, dey kampe oh.’ I grinned and gave Remi another squeeze as I raised a clenched fist salute in return.
It was a holiday weekend and The Shrine was packed. Some revellers from abroad came straight from the airport lugging cases and in some instances, huge cameras. The dance floor called to mind a merry go round. It was open to the sky except for a central section covered by a circular roof supported by a massive round pillar. The main stage stood to the left as you entered. A pocket door behind it led to “backyard” a large open space where you could smoke cannabis, buy drugs, cheap jeans, stuff. I wouldn’t be going there that night.
I bought Remi a bottle of tonic water. My bottle of Star Lager cost sixty kobo. We sat close to the altar or shrine where Fela poured embrocations to gods and ancestors. I pointed out the band members as they trickled in. They were wearing the maroon uniform with a black patch in the shape of the continent and the number 70 sewn on to the shirt pocket. At about 11pm they warmed up with instrumental versions of Fela’s back catalogue or Tony Allen’s compositions.
An hour later, the man himself marched in dressed in a skin tight shirt and trousers of the same multicoloured cloth and shiny moccasins. With him trotted a passel of scantily dressed girls and young women, his dancers and singers. Cigarette burning in one hand, he called the band members up one at a time to tune up against notes he played on his electric piano, disappeared backstage for a few minutes, hopped back onstage, acknowledged us with a raised fist salute and on the count of four, the brass, led by Baba Ani (Lekan Animashaun) on baritone saxophone, grunted the five note repeated intro to “Shakara.” And off we went. For four hours the earth, the senses thrummed to hypnotic weaving of syncopating guitar rhythms with Henry Koffi’s wry lyricism on triple congas, driven, underpinned and conducted by the undemonstrative master drummer, Tony Allen. The “heaviest” sound on the planet in my ears the heaviest girl in the world by my side and the exam in my pocket. Heaven would have to go some to better this.
We sang along and danced to allegorical songs such as ‘“trouser and pants” warning against abuse of power. We heard excoriating songs about arrogance, corruption, betrayal, about gender and sex. I did a little jig and sang along to ‘Confusion,’ “For me for me for me, me I like am like that- yeah.” Remi fell about laughing. ‘E no Possible’s’ intro guitar riff, inspired by the sounds of Igbo land was a favourite of mine. Between tunes, to roars of laughter from the floor Fela’s offered up ‘yabis,’ sarcastic take downs of panjandrums, jumped up grifters, sycophants. His harsh criticism of muddled thinking behind Festac didn’t go down well with the government.
At about four o’clock, after ‘Noise for Vendor Mouth,’ with Ginger Baker guesting on drums, Fela grunted, ‘Short break,’ which meant the end of show. Remi and I joined the punters spilling out into the courtyard our ears ringing, reeking of nicotine, ganja and sticky with sweat. I told Remi I loved her. She purred and for several intoxicating moments we stuck together like stamp and envelope, lips sliding lubricating electrically recalibrating. Did I not know that she loved me too? No, I said, they beat my my diagnostic skills out of me in prison. Could she please teach me how to elicit the physical signs? Her smile was loaded with amatory promise. This was the night she was going to make me a new man.
Back on the campus we tumbled out of the taxi humming Fela songs, my head spinning with sexual anticipation. But who should I find sitting outside my room but Magidun the former farmer, single parent of four. His burning mosquito coil had only a centimetre left, the tendrils of grey smoke writhing from it looked as spent as Magidun himself. ‘Presido, Yaro, welcome…I’ve been waiting,’ he said, frantically trying to sweep the powdery ash from the mosquito coil off the floor.
I glanced at Remi’s watch. ‘Do we have an appointment?’ I said, in a voice croaky from singing and shouting all night. Remi gave my hand a reproachful squeeze.
‘Sorry Yaro,’ said Magidun, putting his clenched fists together. He knew it was late but he’d failed again and would have to leave. ‘Presido, any help you can render for me?’ He sent Remi an imploring look. I resisted the urge to jab my key into the lock, turned it carefully and let him in. Magidun shuffled in to sit on my bed, wringing his hands. I tapped him on the shoulder and reassured him that I would not be long.
I walked Remi back to her hostel in almost complete silence except to reply to her comment about the crescentic shape of the moon by saying that it was dim of it to come out looking like that. Which was not a bad joke considering my consuming disappointment. In shadows outside her hall she planted a long goodnight kiss on my lips. Magidun trusted me. I should consider that a compliment. ‘Surulere,’ she added. Surulere means patience in Yoruba. I assumed that she was referring to us because she was going home for the long weekend.
‘Surulere was not on my agenda tonight,’ I said, to the resumption of eager throbbing in my nether regions.
‘Surulere will be behind us soon,’ she whispered in my ear. With a peck on my cheek and a coquettish wink she skipped up the steps and I trundled back to my room to see what I could do for poor Magidun. Be patient with him Yaro.
