By Osa Mbonu-Amadi, Arts Editor
In this insightful interview, Arts Editor Osa Mbonu-Amadi sits down with FÁGBÈMÍ Ọ̀ṢÌNÚGÀ, the visionary curator behind “The Underground Spiritual Game” exhibition, a compelling tribute to the legendary Afrobeat pioneer Fela Aníkúlápó Kuti. Through a rich blend of photography, art, and rare archival materials, the exhibition brings to life Fela’s revolutionary spirit and the powerful intersections of music, politics, and cultural resistance. Ọ̀ṣìnúgà shares the inspiration behind the exhibition’s themes, the significance of hosting it in Hull, UK, and reflects on the urgent contemporary relevance of Fela’s legacy in a world grappling with cultural identity and migration. This conversation invites readers to journey beyond Fela’s music and enter an immersive experience of history, activism, and the enduring fight for freedom.
1. You exhibited photography, art, and archival materials. Could you mention some of the archival materials being shown at the exhibition?
Yes, some of the most compelling pieces in The Underground Spiritual Game Exhibition were old newspaper clippings that captured Fela’s life in real time, not as myth, but as lived history. One of the central archival pieces was an article titled “FELA ANIKULAPO-KUTI — the Afro-rock giant they cannot silence” by Chris May.
That piece, captured covers from Punch Newspaper and Sunday Sketch, chronicling the aftermath of the Kalakuta Republic raid, where Fela’s home and studio were burned down by government forces. The cover stories also included quotes from his mother, Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti, who was a respected activist herself; from Fela declaring that “he won’t talk in chains”; and a deeply human note of solidarity from his cousin, Professor Wole Soyinka.
These clippings don’t just tell a story — they remind us of how state power can collide with artistic truth. It’s important for people to see those moments, not just read about them in hindsight.
2. We heard that something connected to Uncle Sam Amuka, publisher of Vanguard Newspapers, turned up at the exhibition under archival materials. Could you explain to us what the material is?
That’s correct. One of the archival clippings on display was from Punch Newspaper, back when it was managed by Uncle Sam Amuka, before he went on to establish Vanguard.
It was an interesting discovery because it unintentionally created a link between Nigerian media history and the exhibition itself — especially since Tuoyo Amuka, Uncle Sam’s son and Vanguard’s Chief Growth Officer, was one of our panel moderators at Felabration Hull 2025. It felt symbolic: a father who once helped document history through journalism, and a son who now helps interpret that history through conversation. That continuity of storytelling across generations felt very Fela-esque — bridging past and present, art and truth.
3. Why is the exhibition called “The Underground Spiritual Game”?
The title, The Underground Spiritual Game, comes directly from Fela Aníkúlápó Kuti himself. He used that phrase to describe the deeper philosophy behind his music — a fusion of spiritual energy, creative resistance, and social awakening.
In his 1992 album Underground System, Fela paid tribute to Thomas Sankara, the Burkinabé revolutionary who was assassinated for his ideals. The “underground system,” as Fela described it, referred to the invisible network of political and economic elites that kept Africa in a state of silence. Against that, he imagined an “underground spiritual game” — the counter-movement of ordinary people using rhythm, community, and spiritual consciousness as tools of resistance.
Fela’s “spiritual game” was never theoretical. It happened live, in real time, at the Afrika Shrine in Lagos — a place where music became ritual, politics became rhythm, and truth was spoken through art. His performances were as much about transformation as entertainment; you didn’t just watch them, you experienced them.
That same philosophy shaped this exhibition. We wanted visitors not just to view Fela’s life from a distance, but to enter his world — to understand his creative and political journey through sound, art, and spirit. Alongside the photography, masks, and archival material, we secured the rights to screen Finding Fela, the acclaimed documentary that traces his evolution as an artist and activist.
Together, the exhibition and the film form an immersive experience. Anyone who walks through The Underground Spiritual Game and then watches Finding Fela will almost certainly leave seeing him differently — not just as a musician, but as a thinker, a spiritual teacher, and a revolutionary who used art as a tool for collective healing.
In that sense, what happens in Hull mirrors what once happened at the Afrika Shrine: visitors come curious, leave awakened, and become, in their own way, part of the underground spiritual game.
4. What informed the choice of the UK as the country of the exhibition, instead of Nigeria, Fela’s homeland?
It’s a fair question, and the most honest answer is simple: because I live here, and Hull made this conversation possible.
I am based in Hull, a quiet city in the north of England with a surprising and powerful history: it is the birthplace of William Wilberforce, the man whose campaign helped end the transatlantic slave trade. That historic link — political abolition on one side and cultural emancipation on the other — felt like a natural place to stage a conversation about Fela. Putting Fela in Wilberforce’s house was deliberate. It created a meeting of two different kinds of freedom: one fought through law and parliamentary life, the other fought through music and spiritual resistance.
My work with The Gidi Vibes is rooted in that belief: art, music, and storytelling are ways to connect African creativity to new audiences and open stages for talent that might otherwise be overlooked. While curating Echoes of Our Heritage with the Black Heritage of Hull Collective last year, I was tracing the history of Black music, from African ritual through highlife and soul to hip-hop and Afrobeat. That research brought me back to Fela, not as the caricature some remember, but as the architect of a musical and philosophical movement.
Fela was already part of my life. I first stumbled into his music as a teenager: it was the sound you heard on the street, in barbershops, in hostel corridors at Obafemi Awolowo University — rough around the edges, full of mischief, and then suddenly raw with meaning as you grew into it. Years later, in advertising under mentors like Kayode Olagesin and through conversations with people such as Theo Lawson, I began to see Felabration as more than an event — as a living platform for cultural memory and critique. I even worked on brand activations at the New Afrika Shrine; I had stood in the cradle of Afrobeat and felt its force.
Bringing Felabration to the UK wasn’t about removing Fela from Nigeria. It was about extending his reach, licensing the festival so the conversation could happen in different places and contexts. Hosting it in Hull allowed us to place his work in dialogue with local history and audiences who might not otherwise engage with that story. It invited people to see Fela’s music as part of a broader global conversation about freedom, identity, and memory.
So no — we didn’t take Fela out of Nigeria. We created space for his ideas to meet another history of liberation. Two men, two centuries, different methods — Wilberforce and Fela — both challengers of injustice. Putting them in conversation showed that the struggle for freedom has many languages. That’s why the UK, and Hull in particular, felt like the right place to stage this exhibition.
5. Fela was a global icon, and that might have justified holding the exhibition in the UK. But in many countries today, especially the U.S., UK, and South Africa, people are clamouring for immigration policies that will prevent others from coming in. How would you reconcile Fela’s globalized stature with those countries’ increasingly hostile attitudes toward immigrants?
That’s a powerful question — and honestly, it sits at the heart of why Felabration matters now more than ever.
I believe Fela Kuti transcended music. He was an activist in motion, a fearless voice for justice, identity, and liberation whose every note carried resistance. Through his art, he exposed how borders, class, and race were all systems of control, artificial instruments designed to divide what was once whole. His music, especially songs like Colonial Mentality and 2000 Blacks Got to Be Free with Roy Ayers, argued that true freedom isn’t just political — it’s psychological and spiritual.
So, when we brought Felabration to cities in the UK, it was not to romanticise migration or play into token inclusion. It is to reclaim a shared global story — one that reminds us that culture moves freely, even when people can’t. The irony is that modern Britain’s identity, from its art and sound to its food and language, has been profoundly shaped by the very cultures some now want to exclude.
Here in Hull, we are offering a counter-narrative. Through Felabration, we are showing that culture isn’t a threat to national identity; it is national identity. Every wave of migration, from the Caribbean to Africa to Eastern Europe, has expanded the British imagination. Afrobeat, in particular, has become a global bridge, a sound that connects Brixton to Lagos, Liverpool to Accra, and yes, Hull to Kalakuta.
Reconciling Fela’s global stature with the current climate of exclusion means doing exactly what he did: using art to awaken empathy, provoke thought, and dismantle fear. It means reminding people that freedom anywhere is incomplete without freedom everywhere.
At its best, Felabration Hull is not just a festival — it’s a bridge. One beat, one conversation, one exhibition at a time.
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