Photo credit—felakutiofficial Instagram
When Fela Anikulapo Kuti walked the earth, he did so like a man possessed. Not by spirits though the Shrine knew its fair share of ritual but by a vision. Afrobeat was protest, pageantry, and prophecy all in one: 12-minute sermons with horns, funk, pidgin English, and takedowns of military dictators, colonial puppeteers, and capitalist saboteurs. Nearly three decades after his death, Fela’s political fire remains uncannily relevant. In 2025, when democracy seems more like performance art than public service, the radical spirit of Fela Kuti offers necessary instruction.
Fela weaponized Afrobeat against oppression. Tracks like “Zombie,” a blistering satire on military obedience, or “Sorrow, Tears, and Blood,” written in the aftermath of a brutal government raid on his home, were sonic exposés of authoritarianism. These weren’t abstract critiques. In 1977, soldiers stormed his Kalakuta Republic, burning it to the ground and infamously throwing his mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, a renowned activist in her own right out of a window. Yet, Fela never relented.
His political commitments were inherited: his mother was one of Nigeria’s leading feminists and anti-colonial voices, and Fela transformed that lineage into something electric. His music became a gathering space for the disillusioned, the angry, and the hopeful.
Fela formed his political party, the Movement of the People (MOP), in 1979, vowing to clean up Nigeria’s deeply corrupt political system. His ideology combined Pan-Africanism, anti-imperialism, and radical honesty. It was populist for the people’s sake.
Fela’s influence is not confined to Nigeria. His sound and politics have inspired global artists like Mos Def and J. Cole, who reference him as a spiritual forefather, showing his contemporary relevance. The Tony Award-winning Broadway musical Fela! Introduced his story to new global audiences, while Spotify’s algorithm and fashion week runways continued to revive his image.
In the U.S., where the line between surveillance and policing has grown razor-thin, and in Nigeria, where state repression continues to haunt young protesters, Fela’s rage sounds almost prophetic. His critiques of international financial institutions, neocolonialism, and the complicity of African elites could be reprinted in today’s op-eds.
Fela would look at Nigeria’s current condition where the people still “suffer and smile,” fuel is unaffordable, and the naira is spiraling and he’d beat the drums harder. During the 2020 #EndSARS protests, his voice blared from speakers across Nigeria. His Shrine became a hub for resistance once again, as his sons Seun and Femi took to the stage, reminding a new generation that advocacy was cultural before it was political.
What Fela offers today is a blueprint for modern resistance. His politics were unapologetic and rooted in the community. He believed an artist’s role was to reflect the times. A philosophy desperately needed now, as political theater threatens to eclipse real change on both sides of the Atlantic.
His life encourages us to ask difficult questions: What does political art look like in the age of the algorithm? How do artists speak truth in nations where reality itself is under siege?
And perhaps most importantly: How can radical honesty survive when convenience is currency?
Fela’s answer, we can imagine, would be simple: Say it. Sing it. Never stop. He’d just step on stage, shirt off, sax in hand, and let the music slice through hypocrisy like it always did. Because when truth is under attack, silence is betrayal.
