FELAbration

I’ve never had my bottom grabbed like when I pushed my way towards the stage through a sea of Nigerian men.

I had come back to Lagos to wait out my final days in Nigeria. I craved the luxuries afforded by the US Embassy digs (hot water, shower heads, couches and cable TV) as well as the company of friends I knew I could trust. To my delight, my visit coincided with Felabration - a week of concerts in honor of the late Fela Kuti, father of Afrobeat, political activist and husband to 27 of his back-up singers. I quickly signed on for the outing to the final evening at Fela’s Shrine (a large music venue built by Fela adjoined to his house where he preformed regularly while he was alive.

The night had started calmly around 10pm. We got to the Shrine and collected all-access passes secured through my “media connections” (I was with the CNN, BBC, AP, etc. contingent). I invented some obscure Internet-based media outfit to represent. Scamming? Who cares, this is Nigeria! With this pass came free booze, free reign back stage and access to a balcony VIP area where all the Westerners were gathered. We climbed the stairs to the balcony and looked over the hundreds and then thousands of young Nigerian men who were gathering below in anticipation of the nights unnamed acts.

The structure was wooden with an A-frame roof made of aging, yet not meriting concern, wood. A few no-name mediocre hip-hop type entertainers tried to warm up the crowd. Big rumors preceded this event - Common, Eryka Baidu, Flea. No one held their breath, however. A few months prior J-Zee and Beyonce failed to materialize at a concert billed with them as the headliners. One great musician, however was guaranteed - Femi Kuti, son to the late Fela. The excitement was high, but the show slow to get going. The crowd suffered through bad DJs and dance squads until finally the “big hitters” came out and jammed until the early morning. Flea and Femi were the only names I recognized.

The media boys were a bit braver than I and ventured first down into the crowd to rock amongst “the people” rather than in the sheltered elite in the VIP area. I stayed behind with the other woman, Kati. We weren’t quite ready to give up the comfort of chairs, elbow room and a sightline to the stage.

After a while one song in the jam session blended into the next. No new (or big) names emerged. We searched back stage to no avail. It resembled the VIP area. Backstage with Fela would have been wild - sex, drugs & afrobeat. Backstage at Felabration was...well...there was an open bar. We sipped our drinks as the boys came by glowing from the energy of the crowd. “You really must go,” they said.

We finished our drink and walked to the edge of the crowd. It was a sea of black. People were packed shoulder to shoulder. One couldn’t sway alone or help being swayed along with those around. We parted our first path and started in. I almost tripped, but the tightly packed bodies kept me up. We met elbows and resistance at first. When people turned to see we were women and WHITE we were pulled to the front, 5 to 10 hands groping us at any given time. Instead of being boxed out like the boys had encountered and endured, we were shepherded through, everyone in front of us wanting “a piece” and taking a handful. Finally we made it to the front. I looked up. Femi was jamming on his saxophone, nearly sweating on my. I checked in with Kati. We had made it. The hands had calmed as we stayed still. Both of us had charted escape routes under the stage. We, however, focused on the music, trying our hardest to ignore men asking for our phone numbers, our hands in marriage and offering us water. We had regained our sightline to the stage.

To our right was a small square platform jutting off the center of the stage. It was populated by photographers and security. We hardly noticed until a series of taps made it our way. Everyone in the immediate area was directing us to the security guard. What could we have done wrong? Was he scared for our safety? Before we could figure out what he was trying to communicate, we were being pulled in that direction. Dozens of hands were pushing us (gently) and then grabbed our legs, lifting us straight on to the platform. I fumbled, trying to get control over my own limbs and grabbing the security guards arms as I was raised above the crowd. When I collected myself I looked up at the thousands of Nigerian eyes on me. No time to think...I smiled, we danced.

Luckily I had been practicing in the discos of Benin City where I was considered “a good dancer for an oyibo (foreigner). I was dizzied by the spotlights and the cheers. I listened and felt the music that was being made a few feet away. The energy was incredible. “This is what a rock star feels like,” I thought.

Race to a Standstill

There are many reasons one might encounter traffic jams in Nigeria. I’ve experienced the following on my limited travels through the country: flooding, armed robbers, check points, burning fuel tanker, bus crash. I became accustomed to these “hold ups,” but always assumed that there would be a catalyst to traffic. I was wrong.

On the road from Ibadan to Lagos cars and trucks came to a complete stop. I looked ahead to try to see what had happened ahead. Impatient motorists crossed to the other side and drove towards the jam’s epicenter where oncoming traffic normally would be. Two lanes became four (this is a normal response to traffic in Nigeria).

Young men were around directing traffic and helping cars, vans, buses and trucks, trying to improve the hold up. The jam was bad. What could it be? We inched forward. Others tried to squeeze forward. Four lanes became eight.

In the race to get ahead, buses got suck in muddy potholes. Vehicles continued to crisscross over the median. I wondered what they were doing once they reached the issue ahead.

I started to see things moving ahead. But there was no accident, no robbers, no fire - just the proverbial smoke. What had happened?

The Answer: Impatience. Traffic had slowed as it had neared the city. Trying to get ahead, drivers had reacted. Two lanes had turned to 4, turned to 6, turned to 8 until northbound faced vehicles faced southbound traffic and no one could move. It took over 45 minutes to untangle the mess while approaching vehicles complicated matters. I shrugged my shoulders and laughed - T.I.A. (This is Africa).

Powered by JESUS!

The minibus had broken down 2 times already (20 minutes apart). We had 2 hours left in our journey to Ibadan. There seemed to be a leak in the water. The van kept overheating. The first time the passengers had pooled our water to get us going. The second time the driver had disappeared into the brush in search of a bore hole, emerging 10 minutes later with a canister of water. We couldn’t sustain this. We’d never make it.

We continued slowly. Small motorbikes (okadas) were passing us at about 25 miles per hour. We stopped for a third time - no water around. The van cooled as passengers chose either to get out (and bake in the sun) or stay in (and bake in the van). After a while we re-boarded.

The woman next to me closed her eyes and started rocking back and forth muttering prayers and praising Jesus. The entire bus joined in as the driver turned the key. The engine purred and we moved slowly down the highway. “Praise Jesus!” “Oh Jesus, help us, see us through!” “Jesus, give us the power!”

One by one the passengers stopped vocalizing their prayers, but the woman next to me continued for 45 minutes. So did the bus. We made the 4 1/2 hour trip in just under 8 hours. Thank, God!

"Big Men"

I walked into the party with my friend, 10-10. Young men and women were waiting around just inside the the large compound gate. We continued through the front door. The room was lined with white leather couches, glass coffee tables, empty bottles of Hennessy and BIG men (well-fed and important).

We walked directly to a man in a white button-down shirt. I was introduced to him as “the Chairman,” with no explanation. I was then seated next to another man who had lived in New York for 25 years while 10-10 made the rounds.

Where was I? Who are these people? I was the only woman inside. I was the only non-Nigerian (probably for miles). I made small talk...

So, what do you do in Benin City now that you are back from NY? He was a contractor and “dabbled” in politics. In Nigeria this told me one thing. Leave that line of conversation. Getting into a discussion about corruption in this country would not be a good idea. I followed his lead and we discussed the upcoming American election - a much safer option (socially and perhaps even physically).

I looked around my surroundings. The plot of land was small and the architecture felt cramped. The living room was taller than it was wide and had an overly steep staircase leading up to a sliver of a balcony which ran around the perimeter of the wall half-way up. The curtains were ample as was the decorative metallic hardware. The floors were polished marble. Each architectural and decorative element seemed to display wealth rather than service any function. Then I noticed the door.

The door was metal and 9-inches to one foot thick. “That is quite a door,” I commented to the nice man from New York. He informed me that it was bullet proof. “Why does our host need a bullet proof door?” It slipped. “For security,” was the answer I got, but not really the answer to my intended meaning. I decided, however, to save my hardline questioning for 10-10.

All of a sudden “the Chairman” stood up and the entire room followed suit. He walked out the bullet proof door and the rest followed out in a seemingly intentional pecking order. I sat alone, wondering what had happened. Again, where was I?

I found 10-10 and we said our goodbyes (to those who were left...mostly young men paying their dues by cleaning up after the party). As I settled into the car I asked about our host, my new friend and “the Chairman.”

My friend: a contractor for the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC), the government agency responsible for distributing oil revenues through public works projects in the Delta. *Note: This does not necessarily mean that the money ever makes it to public works.

Our host: contractor for the NDDC and cousin to the Chairman of the NDDC.

The Chairman: the Chairman of the NDDC.

...BIG men!