What it was like to tour with Fela Kuti

In April 1986 Fela Anikulapo Kuti was released from prison by the military government of Ibrahim Babaginda, 18 months into a widely discredited five-year sentence. Soon after, he went on a world tour with his entourage of more than 50 people. In this excerpt from the autobiography of Rikki Stein, Fela’s last manager, Stein picks up the tale in Seattle, after they were kicked off a flight because someone had been smoking in the plane’s bathroom.

However, as Fela often said, “Even bad can be good.” The story of our being removed from the American Airways flight appeared the next morning in The New York Times and then spread to newspapers and radio shows across the US, leading to a rush for tickets. The rest of the American tour was completely sold out, save for Austin, Texas, where it snowed heavily for the first time in memory.

The gentlemanly promoter, Louis Jay Meyers, despite the poor turnout, paid in full. The next year, Louis went on to become the founder of the gigantic South By Southwest annual destination for creatives across the globe. We moved on from Seattle to Los Angeles. That was where I had my introduction to goro. This was a concoction that Fela had invented. Contrary to legend, claiming marijuana seeds caused all kinds of malaise, from sterility to erectile dysfunction, Fela’s goro paste was made by slow-cooking the seeds for days on end, adding molasses and heaven knows what else to produce a thick black paste (which on close examination turned out to be dark, dark green.) It was consumed by either eating a teaspoonful or smearing it on the outside of cigarettes.

Just before going on stage that day, Fela asked if I’d like some. I nodded my assent. He gave me a tablespoonful. It tasted awful. After delivering Fela to the stage, I went to take up my usual position at the sound desk which, in this vast cavern of a venue, was at least 250 feet from the stage. I was immersed in the sound until, looking up, I saw Fela flying towards me, stopping no more than two feet away and then, whoosh, dramatically disappearing into the distance. I was transfixed, gobsmacked, hearing the music with a never-before experienced clarity.

Thereafter, whenever I left Lagos bound for London I always carried a pot or two of Fela’s goro. Sadly, the recipe died with him.

An excerpt from Moving Music: The Memoirs of Rikki Stein (Wordville)