Fela Kuti: The Revolutionary Force Behind Afrobeat and Musical Resistance

dthholland
19 hours ago
9 min read

Man in blue suit exits a train; another with painted face holds a microphone. Vibrant "Fela" text overlays a collage of newspapers.

Few figures loom as defiantly or as colourfully in the history of music as Fela Anikulapo Kuti. His name evokes not just a sound, but a stance, unapologetically African, militantly political, and rhythmically hypnotic. Fela wasn’t interested in fame for fame’s sake. For him, music was a battleground, and every note, lyric, and beat was part of a broader campaign against oppression, colonial hangovers, and state corruption. At a time when silence was often rewarded and dissent punished, Fela turned up the volume.

Born Olufela Olusegun Oludotun Ransome-Kuti in 1938, in colonial Nigeria, his destiny seemed forged in defiance from the start. The child of two towering Nigerian intellectuals and activists, he was raised in an environment where resistance was not optional, it was expected. His eventual invention of Afrobeat would not merely signal a musical breakthrough, but represent a profound cultural realignment. Fela didn’t just create Afrobeat; he weaponised it, transforming his art into an unrelenting critique of military dictatorships, cultural imperialism, and economic exploitation. His music, explosive and complex, provided both a dance floor and a pulpit, inviting listeners to move their bodies while confronting hard truths. Afrobeat wasn’t entertainment—it was enlightenment with a bassline.

A Radical Beginning

Fela Kuti didn’t arrive at rebellion by accident, it was stitched into the very fabric of his upbringing. His mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, was a force of nature: Nigeria’s first female student at Abeokuta Grammar School, a pioneer of the women’s suffrage movement in colonial West Africa, and a staunch anti-imperialist who challenged both British colonial rule and Nigerian patriarchy in equal measure. She led protests, educated women on their rights, and once stormed a colonial administrator’s residence to demand justice. She wasn’t just an activist, she was THE activist.

Elderly woman in a graduation cap and gown, wearing glasses and earrings, stands solemnly outdoors. People in the background. Black and white. — Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti

His father, Israel Oludotun Ransome-Kuti, brought his own brand of militancy: an Anglican minister, but also an educational reformer who founded the Nigeria Union of Teachers. It was in this politically charged household, surrounded by books, debate, and community organising, that Fela learned to speak truth to power.

Man seated wearing a striped, patterned robe. He is smiling, with greenery in the background, creating a serene atmosphere.

In 1958, Fela was sent to London to study medicine, an expected path for a promising young man from a prominent Nigerian family. But he had other ideas. He enrolled at the Trinity College of Music, where he immersed himself in the sound of jazz greats like Miles Davis and Dizzy Gillespie, and explored the syncopated grooves of highlife, a Ghanaian-Nigerian genre that blended African rhythms with Western harmonies.

It was during these formative years that he formed Koola Lobitos, a band that served as the incubator for his later experiments. Their early sound, while relatively conventional, hinted at the fusionist ambition that would later define Afrobeat. With members like Wole Bucknor on piano and Bayo Martins on drums, the group was already stretching beyond traditional genre boundaries. But it would take one journey across the Atlantic to radicalise Fela’s message—and irrevocably alter the course of his music.

A smiling man in a suit and a woman with a head wrap stand together outside a building. Vintage photo with a sepia tone, text in the background. — Fela with his mother

A Sound Called Afrobeat

In 1969, Fela travelled to Los Angeles, ostensibly for a tour—but the trip would become a political awakening. There, he met Sandra Smith, also known as Sandra Izsadore, a Nigerian-American activist and vocal member of the Black Panther Party. Through her, Fela was introduced to the writings of Malcolm X, Stokely Carmichael, and Frantz Fanon. For a man already inclined toward resistance, it was as though he had found a language for his instincts.

When he returned to Nigeria, he was no longer just a bandleader—he was a revolutionary in waiting. Koola Lobitos transformed into Africa ’70, and their music took on a newly militant edge. Fela coined the term Afrobeat to describe the powerful, polyrhythmic blend of jazz, funk, highlife, Yoruba traditional music, and later, even psychedelic rock. But more than a sound, Afrobeat was a philosophy—a pan-African stance against neocolonialism and Western exploitation.

Central to this new sound was Tony Allen, his drummer and musical director, whose intricate polyrhythms gave Afrobeat its heartbeat. Allen wasn’t just a sideman—he was a co-architect. As Fela himself said, “Without Tony Allen, there would be no Afrobeat.” The two built a sound that was heavy, hypnotic, and, crucially, impossible to ignore.

Fela’s songs were long, often stretching past 30 minutes. Each track was a journey: starting with a simmering instrumental introduction—layer upon layer of horns, keys, and percussion—before giving way to Fela’s vocals, usually delivered in Nigerian Pidgin English to ensure maximum reach across the continent. His lyrics were not veiled in metaphor; they were blunt, satirical, and often scathing, naming names and indicting institutions.

Man holding drumsticks, wearing a floral shirt and gray turtleneck. Neutral expression, gray background. Text on drumsticks. — Tony Allen

Kalakuta Republic and the Fight Against Power

As Fela’s music grew more incendiary, so did his life. In 1970, he founded the Kalakuta Republic, a compound in Lagos that was part commune, part recording studio, part utopian experiment. It was a deliberate provocation to the Nigerian military regime, and Fela went so far as to declare it independent from the Nigerian state. Inside, he built a community of musicians, dancers, thinkers, and radicals. It was also where he held court as a spiritual leader, anchoring the commune in Yoruba tradition and mysticism.

Kalakuta was an experiment in self-governance, cultural autonomy, and radical defiance. But it was also a target.

Fela also renamed himself Anikulapo, meaning “he who carries death in his pouch”. By shedding his colonial surname, Ransome, he symbolically broke with the legacy of British imperialism. “I do not bear the name of a slave,” he declared. He wasn’t just performing Afrobeat; he was becoming it, body, spirit, and ideology.

The Paul McCartney Incident

Fela’s musical reputation spread beyond Africa, catching the attention of international icons. In 1973, Paul McCartney visited Lagos to record his Band on the Run album and expressed interest in collaborating with Fela’s musicians. But Fela was suspicious. He accused McCartney of attempting to “steal African music”, a sentiment rooted not in paranoia, but in years of Western cultural appropriation.

Three men sit indoors, engaged in a conversation. One wears a blue shirt, the others in pink. Walls have various posters. Calm mood.

Though McCartney reportedly left Nigeria disheartened by the confrontation, the incident reflects Fela’s protective instinct over African creativity, particularly in a global context that routinely mined African culture for Western gain. For Fela, collaboration could only happen on his terms—African music belonged to Africa first.

Roll forward to 2021 however, and Hulu released a six-episode documentary miniseries, McCartney 3,2,1, in which McCartney is quoted as saying of his visit to see Fela Kuti at the African Shrine, Kuti's club outside of Lagos, in the early 1970s: "The music was so incredible that I wept. Hearing that was one of the greatest music moments of my life."

He did get mugged at knifepoint though.

Zombie, Repression, and Tragedy

By 1977, Fela’s music was no longer just popular—it was dangerous. That year, he released Zombie, an album that likened Nigerian soldiers to mindless automatons following orders without thought. The song was a blistering piece of political satire, and it struck a nerve.

The regime’s retaliation was swift and devastating. In February 1977, over 1,000 soldiers stormed the Kalakuta Republic. They beat Fela nearly to death, destroyed his studio, and set the compound ablaze. Worst of all, they threw his mother, the legendary Funmilayo, from a second-floor window. She later died from her injuries.

Newspaper headline: "Fela's House Burnt." Image of a building engulfed in dark smoke. Text describes pandemonium and soldiers' visit.

Fela’s response was characteristically theatrical and unflinching. He carried his mother’s coffin to the Dodan Barracks, the military’s administrative headquarters, and left it at the doorstep. He then wrote “Coffin for Head of State” and “Unknown Soldier,” songs that captured both his grief and his rage. These weren’t just protest songs—they were sonic memorials.

Egypt 80 and Political Aspirations

The attack on Kalakuta might have broken another man. But Fela was not built for silence. He responded not only with music but with a reshaping of his entire platform. After the devastating raid and the departure of many members of Africa ’70, including his trusted drummer Tony Allen, Fela formed a new ensemble—Egypt 80. The name was significant. It reflected his belief that African civilisation had been hijacked by Eurocentric narratives. In his eyes, ancient Egypt was not separate from Africa, it was Africa. “I want to make Africans aware that Egyptian civilisation belongs to them,” he said in an interview. “That’s why I renamed my band Egypt 80.”

Fela didn’t just want to change music—he wanted to change Nigeria. In 1979, he created a political party called Movement of the People (MOP). His mission was simple, if wildly ambitious: to clean up Nigerian society “like a mop,” exposing corruption, oppression, and the enduring grip of colonial mentality. He declared his intent to run for president in the 1983 elections, but unsurprisingly, the political establishment blocked his candidacy.

Unfazed, he turned once more to music. And this time, he named names. The searing track “I.T.T. (International Thief Thief)” took direct aim at Moshood Abiola, then-vice chairman of ITT (International Telephone & Telegraph), and General Olusegun Obasanjo, accusing them both of economic sabotage. In “Beasts of No Nation,” he lampooned Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, and P.W. Botha, depicting them as animal caricatures on the album cover. This was protest music at its most fearless—bold, visual, and completely unfiltered.

Colorful collage featuring a man’s portrait with protest scenes, text "This uprising will bring out the beast in us!" Vibrant, intense mood.

At a time when many Nigerian artists were seeking airplay and approval, Fela was willing to risk everything—his safety, his livelihood, even his freedom—for the chance to speak truth to power.

Prison, Exile, and Legacy

The Nigerian government eventually decided they’d had enough. In 1984, under the military dictatorship of General Muhammadu Buhari, Fela was arrested at Lagos Airport on dubious charges of currency smuggling. It was an attempt to silence a man who refused to be silenced. Amnesty International quickly recognised him as a prisoner of conscience, and pressure mounted for his release.

After 20 months behind bars, Fela was freed by Buhari’s successor, General Ibrahim Babangida, in what many saw as a tacit admission that the charges had been politically motivated. During his imprisonment, Fela reflected deeply on his personal life. Upon release, he divorced his 12 remaining wives, citing jealousy, rivalry, and the institutional problems of marriage itself. “Marriage brings jealousy and selfishness,” he once said. “A man goes for many women in the first place. He should bring the women into the house, man, to live with him, and stop running around the streets.”

Group of joyful men, one lifted up, celebrate with raised fists in an outdoor urban setting. Smiles and energetic mood prevail. Black and white photo.

Fela returned to the stage, but the years had taken their toll. His music became even more pointed. He continued to tour internationally, performing to enthusiastic crowds in Europe and the United States. In 1986, he shared the bill at the Amnesty International “Conspiracy of Hope” concert with Bono, Carlos Santana, and the Neville Brothers, showing that, despite the hardship, his global relevance had only grown.

Yet by the early 1990s, his health began to visibly decline. Rumours swirled, but Fela never confirmed anything. When he died on 2 August 1997, his brother, Dr Olikoye Ransome-Kuti, a former Minister of Health, announced that AIDS-related complications had been the cause of death. Fela however, had been an AIDS denialist, and his family continued to dispute the official cause.

His funeral procession was unprecedented in Nigeria, a million people flooded the streets of Lagos, mourning a man who had stood for the voiceless, the oppressed, the ordinary.

Fela’s Music Lives On

Death did not dull Fela’s voice. If anything, it amplified it. In the years since his passing, his music has taken on new life through reissues, stage productions, films, documentaries, and festivals. Annual Felabrations, held every October in Lagos, celebrate his legacy with concerts, debates, dance, and ritual, keeping alive the communal, spiritual energy of the original Afrika Shrine.

His sons, Femi Kuti and Seun Kuti, continue the mission. Femi, the eldest, formed The Positive Force, blending Afrobeat with jazz and global influences, and has been nominated for several Grammy Awards. Seun took a more direct approach—he took over his father’s band, Egypt 80, preserving the raw, unfiltered Afrobeat sound, and often reinterpreting his father’s lyrics to comment on modern-day Nigerian politics.

But Fela’s influence reaches even further. His rhythms and message echo in the work of Erykah Badu, Questlove, Beyoncé, Burna Boy, and even DJs spinning Afrobeat-inspired sets in Berlin, Brooklyn, and Tokyo. In 2021, he was shortlisted for induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a recognition that may have come late, but not too late.

Afrobeat, once considered too complex, too long, too political for international radio, is now a global language. It has become a vessel not just for dance, but for dissent, identity, and pride.

Fela Kuti didn’t seek safety. He sought truth, even when it burned, even when it bruised. He believed music should move the body and awaken the mind. He stood against bullets with saxophones, against silence with amplifiers. He built a nation—Kalakuta Republic—not with bricks and mortar, but with rhythms and resistance.

In a world increasingly shaped by spectacle, Fela reminds us that art still matters—when it says something, when it costs something, when it dares to speak not just to the people, but for them.