Growing up in Nigeria, I remember how parents deemed the Afrika Shrine off-limits. Shrouded in mystery, with rumors of being a hedonistic drug haven during the eighties, there was an air of mystique that hung around a 20 mile radius of the club.
It wasn’t until years later, when I watched a shirtless Femi Kuti drenched in sweat manically playing a saxophone with the legendary beaded Kuti dancers gyrating at a dizzying pace, that I began to get a sense of what his father, Fela, must have been like during his heyday.
Uncanny physical resemblance aside, Femi seemed to have been channeling his father’s spirit on stage.