CHAPTER 1

RIGHT IN THE CENTER OF LAGOS

I was born Tony Oladipo Allen in Lagos on July 20, 1940,and I grew up in the area called Lafiaji, right in the center ofLagos Island. My family lived at number 15, Okusuna Street.Lafiaji was a good area. It was very near to what we calledthe Race Course in those days. Today they call it Tafewa BalewaSquare. King's College is in that area, too. Later on, my familymoved to Ebute-Metta, on the mainland.

My father's name was James Alabi Allen. He was a Nigerian,a Yoruba from Abeokuta. We don't exactly know how the name"Allen" came into my father's family, but it's probably a slaver'sname. It must have come either from my great-grandfather orfrom his own father, because one of them was among thosepeople rescued by the British slave patrols in Sierra Leone.Many of the slaves that were taken from Nigeria and rescuedby the slave patrols—especially the Egbas that were taken fromAbeokuta—they would drop them in Sierra Leone. That's whytoday my father's family still has a place in Sierra Leone. I rememberthat once when I was arriving in Britain, the immigrationofficer looked at me suspiciously and asked where I got thename "Allen." I just looked at him and laughed and told him, "Iwish I could know my real name. Because the name 'Allen' iscoming from you guys. You gave me my name, historically, sowhy are you asking me where I got this name from?" He kept hismouth shut after that.

My father's father, Adolphus Allen, was a prominent man in Lagos.Allen Avenue in Ikeja is named after him. I don't know too much abouthim because I was only two years old when he died. What I do know isthat he was a clergyman who founded a church called Bethel Cathedral,which is on Broad Street on Lagos Island. Before that he was a policeman,and he must have passed through some hard things working withthe white guys back then, because it was his will that none of his childrenwould become policemen, and none of them did. My grandfather alsoowned a big piece of farmland in Ikeja, on the outskirts of Lagos. Thatland was later sold by my father and his brothers to the Lagos State government,and the government built the Airport Hotel on it. It was alsopart of that land, but on the other side of Obafemi Awolowo Way, thatmy father sold to Fela years later. In the old times, that was the smallerpart of the farm.

My mother's name was Prudentia Anna Mettle. She was born in Lagosas one of the daughters of the Ghanaian settlers in those days. Her parentsand grandparents had settled in Nigeria way back, probably in the1800s. My mother's mother was from Keta, Ghana. So my mother spokeGa and Ewe, and believe it or not, she could even speak Yoruba betterthan my father! As for me, I grew up in Lagos speaking Ga, Ewe, andYoruba. In those times, most of the Ghanaian settlers were fishermen,and they lived on Victoria Island. Back in the old days, Victoria Island wasa real fishermen's village. Think about environments like Hawaii with allthe beaches and fishermen's huts—that is what Victoria Island was likebefore they developed it into what it is today.

There were six of us children in all, and I am the oldest one. The oneright under me is my brother Adebisi. He's an aeronautics engineer,working for British Airways in London and Lagos. The next one afterhim is my brother Olatunji, who is a civil servant in London. After himis my brother Olukunmi, who is a doctor in London. After Olukunmi ismy sister Jumoke, who is a head nurse in Boston, in the United States.And the baby of us all is my sister Enitan, who is a trader in Lagos, inthe market. I also have a half-brother from my father. He's called Tundeand he's a mechanic in Germany. Since I myself have been in Paris fortwenty-five years, you can see that we have all spread out from Nigeria,across the world.

We all have Yoruba names, but since our mother was from Ghana, weeach have a Ghanaian name too. For example, my brother Adebisi is alsocalled Kofi, and my sister Enitan is also called Afi. As for me, there arepeople in Lagos today who still know me as Kwame, because I was bornon a Saturday and that's the customary name in Ghana if you were bornon that day. My family on my mother's side all call me Kwame.

Maybe being a "dual breed" like that is why I've always done my ownthing. I've always been independent. Like when it comes to clothes, I'msomebody that always liked dressing casually, ever since I was young. Isimply like casual dressing. But it was the pride of all my colleagues I wasgrowing up with to have these fancy Yoruba attires, these big agbadas andall that stuff. If you want to talk about our own traditional Yoruba clothing,you have to have about three layers to put on, maybe four. First youput on the normal singlet (sleeveless undershirt) underneath, for the perspiration.Then you put on the one called buba. That's the one with shortsleeves. After that you put dansiki on top, which is the third layer. Andstill, you must put agbada on top of that. Then it's complete. And somepeople can even put some lighter materials on top of that! That's the tradition.Even all of my brothers love it. But for me, I prefer to pick what Ilike, dress casually, and go by my own style. I mean, dressing is not reallypart of what I think about. I can dress elegantly if I want to. But I'm notreally putting a lot of energy into styles and all that. I just want to be comfortable,that's all.

But the Yorubas are really into conformity. For example, every timewhen there is any occasion, like a funeral or whatever, they have to celebrateand throw a big party. And every group at the party has to have veryspecific garments. Like maybe this side is the mother's side of family.The family will tell them that they should dress in a certain style. Andthen on the father's side, they will tell them to choose another style. Thefamily will bring the sample cloth out to the family and tell you, "Thisis what we are choosing for the occasion and this is how much it costs."It's not like here in the West, where you can just put on a regular suitfor any occasion. You have to have the garments made in a certain style,and every section of the family has to wear the same stuff. That meansit's gonna cost you to be at that party, because you have to get this stuffmade. And then you only use it that one time. For a different occasion,you have to get a whole new set of clothes made. If it's not a funeral, it's anewborn baby. If it's not a newborn baby, it's a wedding. If it's not a wedding,it's the opening of a new house. And some people don't even haveall this fucking money! They have to go borrow this money, just to be partof this occasion. I never played this game, man. It's one game I detestedcompletely from home.

In the old days, I always preferred to go for the normal English suit,without the tie. And after a while, even the suit itself became a big problemfor me, because it was becoming too heavy in the climate. It was likepunishment for me in that climate. You know what I mean? I felt likeI couldn't handle that. That's why back in the '70s, I was dressing withthe jeans with the short cutoff vest. Sometimes I would come into Fela'shouse and he would look at me and say, "Allenko, you know what youlook like? You look like those ones in the North that drive the cows. Likea cowboy! It's the cowboys that dress like this." He was trying to tell methat I looked "bush." And I would tell him, "Well, as long as it looks niceon me, I don't care. I love it like this!" It's just that I always had my ownoutlook, even before I got into music. That's my basic personality. I liketo be myself. And I wouldn't have made my own way in life if I wasn'tlike that.

I grew up fast because I was the oldest one. I took care of all my brothersand sisters, especially the two right behind me. My mother let me do thatfrom the age of about eight. Sometimes I used to sit in the kitchen withher and the other housewives from the neighborhood, and I would cookright along with them. The other housewives were a little jealous of that.They always used to tell my mother that she was spoiling me and that Iwouldn't respect women in the future if I could do their work for them.But it was good for me because I've always been a good cook and havealways been able to take care of myself. I wasn't really brought up withNigerian cooking, because I was brought up by a Ghanaian mother. Onthe other hand, my father was a Nigerian, a Yoruba guy from Abeokuta,and he had his own way of eating, which he could have preferred. But mymother did the cooking, and she had to satisfy my father. He must be ableto enjoy his dinner, and I never heard him complain a day in his life. Thattells you something about my mother's cooking! And that's why for me, Iam cooking more on the Ghanaian side than the Nigerian side. The Ghanaianshave their own approach to recipes, which is different from theNigerians. Different ingredients. So if I say I want to cook African food,you'll really be having two things in one—part Nigerian, part Ghanaian.

When I was eighteen, my mother left and went to Ghana for a while,and took Jumoke and Olukunmi with her. That left me to take care ofthe house and the rest of the kids. I was cooking for everybody, even myfather. He used to go to work and leave money for me to buy food, becausehe couldn't even fry an egg! So I did everything around the housefor a year and a half, until my mother came back.

I was even driving from around the age of thirteen. But the way Istarted is a real story! You see, my father specialized in automobiles, andhe used to have jobs at home sometimes, because people would bringtheir cars to him instead of taking them to the workshop, where theyknew they would be charged much more for the workmanship and thematerials. So this particular day, one guy was supposed to come and collecthis car while my father was at work. And because the kids were onmidterm holidays, I was at home. My father gave me the keys to the carand told me that if this guy came, I should give him the keys so he couldtake his car.

On that particular day the car was right in front of the house, and thesun was really hot. But there was a big tree right across the street, in frontof the Catholic school. So this guy from the neighborhood who was kindof like a big brother to me—I was thirteen and this guy was maybe liketwenty-five—he came to tell me that there was too much sun on the carand that I should move the car under the tree. I didn't know anythingabout driving cars, nothing at all. But since he was a grown-up and I wasonly thirteen, I couldn't think quickly for myself to ask, "What the fuckis this guy telling me? The car is not suffering!"

So I just took the key and opened the door to the car. I thought I wouldstart it and then try to put it in gear. But it was already in gear! The cartook off, and there was no way I could control anything. I was just luckythat there was no oncoming car. I was able to cross to the other side ofthe street, but the trunk of that tree was right in front of a gutter, and Iwent toward there. I meant to stop under the tree, but—no way. And atthe same time, there was a woman with a baby coming out of the maternityhospital that was just down the road. I brushed the woman with thecar, and she fell into the open gutter with the baby in her hands. And thebaby was just one week old!

Luckily for me, there was this guy pushing a hand truck or street cart,what we call omolanke. They used to use it to carry heavy loads on theroad. The guy took off running, but he left his omolanke sitting there, andwhen I hit it, that was what stopped the car. Meanwhile, the woman waslying in the gutter with a one-week-old baby and a broken leg. They calledfor an ambulance and took her to the hospital. And then they called thetraffic police. And of course the guy who told me to move the car had disappearedcompletely, and he didn't come back to the house until twelveo'clock in the night! The police came, parked the car properly, took meto the police station, and phoned my father. They couldn't put me in thecell because I was too young, so they put me behind the counter. Whenmy father came they gave me bail and released me with him, but a courtcase was on now because that woman with the baby had been admittedinto the hospital.

At the end of the day it was a Yoruba thing, and my father wantedto settle the police matter through the back door. But it took time onthe police side, because it was a case for them. The charge was drivingwithout a license, and reckless endangerment. They told my father that Ishould appear in the police station every morning before going to school.And this went on and on. Even after the holidays it continued. We evenwent there on Saturdays. It was really just a matter of corruption, becausemy father had to pay them some money every time we went.

My father was trying to pay to scrap the case, but it wasn't that easybecause the big guys there were white men and you couldn't just scrapa court case like that. On the other hand, if they found out that I drovea car, I might have ended up in welfare (i.e., child services). Finally, thepolice told us that we had to see the inspector, who was an Igbo guy. Myfather gave money to this inspector, and they still didn't scrap the case.They were still making us come every morning, and my father was stillpaying. And we weren't even going to the station anymore, but to thehouse of the inspector in the barracks!

Luckily for us, this white sergeant came in one day and said, "I seethese people here every day—what is the problem? What are the chargesagainst them?" The inspector told him that I had pushed an omolankeinto a woman and the woman fell into a gutter. He said it like that becausehe wanted to keep taking money from us every day, but if he toldthem I drove a car they might take me and put me into welfare. So thesergeant said, "This boy pushed a hand truck? What the hell is he doinghere!?" And he told my father that from then on, we shouldn't come backthere anymore. So, luckily for me, I got out of that one!

This was one time that I thought my father was coming to eliminateme completely. I thought I'd be dead! But he never touched me! I thinkit was because he never looked at it like something normal that I woulddo on my own, 'cause I had explained everything to him. I was not eventhinking that the car was in the sun. This guy came to put it in my headand I fell for it because I didn't have my own thinking cap in order at thattime. And the day that all this shit happened, they were looking for theguy 'til about midnight. He never even came back home to his own familyto eat. Everybody was waiting for him, so he came back in the middle ofthe night and he had to face his own family that were asking him, "Whatthe fuck have you done!?" My father understood what was going on. Hewas not a wicked guy, he was a very nice guy. He would never think tobeat us unless our mother reported us to him.

My mother was Catholic and very, very religious. When I was veryyoung she sent me to a Catholic school called St. Paul's, in Ebute-Metta.I was serving on the altar with the reverend fathers every Sunday, andit seemed like I was bowing to everything. But as soon as I left school,that was it. I seldom go to church as an adult, and if I do decide to go, Imight fall asleep in the middle of the mass, because I probably will havejust finished playing in a club on Saturday night and gone to church directlyfrom there. It's not that I don't believe in God. I believe in God, butI rarely go to church.

So I must be a bit like my father. He was a Protestant, but this is a guythat I never saw put his feet in the church. My mother was the only onegoing to church. I remember that when I was six, the reverend fathersand reverend sisters came to our house to preach to my father. Even if hewouldn't convert, they were preaching to him that he should come andmarry my mother in the Catholic church. It took some time, but laterhe agreed to do it. That was the only day I ever saw his feet in a church.

But he was a guy who prayed every day. He had a Bible and he used towake us up to pray the Psalms every morning before he went to work. Itwas just that he didn't want to deal with all the politics of the church. Ifyou're not attending church regularly and you die, they won't bury you,but he used to say he didn't give a shit about that. He always told us thatwhen he died, we should just throw his body onto the street because wewould just be dealing with the body, not the real him! That was alwayshis joke. And years later, when he died, we did have to go and wrestlewith the church and pay a certain amount for all his back dues so that hecould get a proper burial.