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.
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