Seun Kuti And The Deaf Ear Of The Nigerian Youth -By Stephen Akanbi

In 2017, while working with Digicel in Kingston, Jamaica, I met a young Australian woman of mixed White and Aboriginal heritage. The moment she discovered I was Nigerian, her face lit up with genuine excitement, all because of one man: Fela Anikulapo Kuti, the Abami Eda himself.

She spoke of him with a reverence usually reserved for global icons. To her, Fela was one of the rare leaders who inspired generations across continents to rise against oppression. She admired his lifelong rejection of materialism, his insistence on truth, and his fearless use of African music as a weapon of liberation. She was stunned when I mentioned that I once lived just a street away from his home in Lagos.

Seun Kuti

In 1994, I lived on Oladipo Kuku Street in Ikeja. The street continued into Gbemisola Street, where the Great Abami Eda resided in the famous Kalakuta. My Friday evenings often began at a game arcade on Allen Avenue, owned by a British woman. My friends and I would join passersby in cheering as Fela’s convoy of two Peugeot cars crawled through traffic toward Awolowo Road roundabout, a familiar prelude to the night’s magic at the Shrine on Pepple Street.

After paying the modest gate fee, we would immerse ourselves in unforgettable Afrobeat performances and the legendary yabis sessions. In the early hours of Saturday, I would walk home through Ikeja bus stop and the notorious Ipodo area. I felt safe; the area boys knew me well.

One particular Friday night stands out. A young Seun Kuti took the stage and performed Palaver, receiving a thunderous standing ovation. The crowd was mesmerized witnessing not just talent, but destiny in motion. In 2003 I later met him again in Victoria Island through a close friend of my younger brother, Henry Asiedu. At the time, Seun was studying in the UK and visiting Nigeria briefly.

Years later, I began seeing Seun’s videos online, bold discussions on Pan-Africanism, Nigerian history, and the politics of our time. As a student of Pan-African I thought to myself, having read works by Kwame Nkrumah, Cheikh Anta Diop, Walter Rodney, Professor Kehinde Andrews, and others, I was immediately drawn to his style. His delivery carries that unmistakable fire, unapologetic and piercing signature, which is reminiscent of his father’s truth-telling genius.

To me, Seun Kuti is far ahead of his time, just as Fela was. Yet many young Nigerians seem unable or unwilling to appreciate this rare gift. His contributions to national discourse and his uncompromising Pan-Africanist ideas are often brushed aside, frequently not for their content, but because of ethnic and religious bias.

Seun challenges the comfort zones many Nigerians have built around survival. He argues that Africa’s liberation must go beyond politics and dive into the deeper struggle of mental decolonization. He forces us to question why we still uphold the borders, institutions, and constitutions imposed by colonial masters; why our economies remain extractive and dependent; and how segments of the African elite actively collaborate with foreign interests to maintain this status quo.

He also warns against the mediocrity we often accept as “development.” I recall his debate with a young Nigerian who insisted that the country had an automobile manufacturing industry. Seun correctly argued that we do not. I agreed, having myself previously written and published an article about Nigeria’s lack of a machine tooling industry, the backbone of true manufacturing. Without it, we merely assemble vehicles, unlike countries that both assemble and produce machines and automotive parts through extensive tooling capacity.

Perhaps Seun’s most unrelenting critique is of Nigeria’s peculiar admiration for the oppressor, the automatic praise for the wealthy and powerful, regardless of how they acquired their wealth. Social media reflects this painfully well. Nigerians repeatedly leap to defend pastors, retired military officers, celebrities, and politicians even when they violate the law or are caught in scandalously immoral acts.

You often hear:
“Leave him alone!”
“It’s tribalism; they’re attacking him because of where he’s from!”
“He’s a big man; poor people are just jealous!”

And when such people flaunt illicit wealth, the excuses multiply:
“Na God do am,”
“Pray for your own,”
“It’s his turn; our turn is coming.”

Seun attacks this mindset relentlessly. He identifies it as a national-scale Stockholm Syndrome that allows the ruling class to retain power effortlessly. By convincing the masses to defend the very people impoverishing them, the elite do not need to fight, the people do their defending for them. Seun contextualizes this mentality historically, tracing it to the psychological wounds of colonialism and the post-colonial state’s failure to build a national identity rooted in dignity and justice.

And so, the Nigerian population repeatedly excuses the transgressions of those responsible for their daily suffering. In their misplaced loyalty and wilful ignorance, many young Nigerians silence one of the most important voices of their time. While they chase the shallow validation of the elite on social media, they discard a man offering them the intellectual tools for liberation.

Seun Kuti stands at the intersection of two eras, the revolutionary fire of his father’s generation and the urgent struggles of today’s youth. He is not merely a musician; he is the custodian of a legacy of fearless truth. The tragedy is not that his message is too radical, but that it is too necessary.

His global reception, including the interviews he grants on international platforms, highlights a bitter irony: a prophet is often without honour in his own home.

Until young Nigerians look beyond the seductive glamour of ill-gotten wealth and the toxic pull of tribalism, they will continue as Fela said, “suffering and smiling,” all while ignoring the very voice shouting for their freedom.

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