Title: Fela Kuti’s Vision of Shared Happiness: A Call for Collective Well-Being in Nigerian Communities

By Kolade Titus Fagbemigun,

400L Medical Student, Ondo State University of Medical Sciences

 

 

 

The image of Fela Anikulapo Kuti, shirtless, defiant, and with both fists raised toward the sky, is more than just a portrait of a legendary musician. It is a symbol of resistance, uncompromising truth, and boundless empathy. The words above the image—“I don’t want happiness for myself alone, but I want it for everybody”—capture the core of Fela’s worldview: a belief in communal joy, justice, and shared humanity. As a medical student and beneficiary of the Aiyeku Foundation’s support, I have come to see that this quote transcends music and philosophy; it is a challenge, a compass, and a dream—one that is deeply personal and universally urgent.

 

Fela’s statement sits at the intersection of Afrocentric philosophy and radical activism. His ideal of happiness is communal, rooted in African humanist values such as ubuntu—“I am because we are.” In contrast to the Western emphasis on individualism, Fela’s vision posits that fulfilment is incomplete when it is experienced alone. His artistic expressions, often laced with satire and scathing critique, were not for private gain but for public awakening. In traditional Nigerian communities, this ethic of togetherness is not unfamiliar. From the Yoruba concept of “Ara ilu mi” (my fellow townsman) to the Igbo practice of communal labour (igba boi), collective identity has historically shaped how happiness and success are pursued. Fela’s words, then, are not radical because they are new but because they remind us of something we have gradually unlearned in a society driven by hyper-individualism and fragmented by inequality.

 

The tragedy, however, lies in the distance between Fela’s ideal and the current Nigerian reality. Happiness, in this context, is not evenly distributed. According to recent World Happiness Reports, Nigeria ranks far below global averages in indicators like social support, trust in institutions, and perceived freedom. The economic disparity is staggering. A few ride in private jets while millions walk miles for potable water. The social contract, if it ever existed in modern governance, seems to have been broken long ago. As a medical student rotating through public hospitals, I have witnessed the human consequences of this divide. Patients arrive late because they cannot afford transportation. Some leave prematurely, not because they are healed, but because they fear incurring costs they cannot pay. Hospital beds are limited; electricity cuts are routine. In these settings, the notion of shared happiness feels distant, if not impossible. But perhaps that is why Fela’s message matters even more. It reminds us that inequality should not be normalized and that shared suffering must provoke shared solutions.

 

Critics may label Fela’s ideal as overly romantic or politically naive. How do you share happiness in a system defined by scarcity, tribalism, and a winner-takes-all political culture? But to dismiss the vision is to surrender to despair. History shows that seemingly impossible dreams often plant the seeds for systemic change.

 

The EndSARS movement, led by Nigerian youths in 2020, is a compelling example. Though the protests were sparked by police brutality, they grew into a broader call for justice, accountability, and equitable governance. It was not just about ending violence; it was about reclaiming dignity. This spirit of solidarity echoed Fela’s ethos. Happiness, the kind rooted in justice and safety, was being demanded not for some but for all.

 

Similarly, Nigeria’s vibrant civil society, creative industries, and community-based health and education initiatives reflect a growing commitment to collective empowerment. Foundations like Aiyeku are quietly yet powerfully building this future—not by waiting for systemic reform but by investing directly in lives, one student or scholar at a time.

 

For me, Fela’s quote also has deeply personal and professional implications. Medicine is not just a science; it is a service. It is a service grounded in empathy, fairness, and a desire to reduce suffering. At its best, healthcare is a shared project, one that involves not only physicians and patients but also families, communities, and policymakers. However, healthcare in Nigeria is too often treated as a privilege rather than a right. The lack of functional primary healthcare systems in rural areas, the brain drain of health workers, and the overburdened urban hospitals are all symptoms of a society where happiness and wellness are unequally distributed.

Fela’s philosophy urges us to rethink health not as a commodity but as a collective necessity. In public health terms, we cannot achieve herd immunity against disease if some are left unvaccinated. We cannot reduce maternal mortality if rural clinics lack skilled birth attendants. True health equity requires what Fela envisioned: shared responsibility and shared outcomes.

 

It would be remiss not to highlight how institutions like the Aiyeku Foundation play a crucial role in manifesting the kind of happiness Fela envisioned. By offering scholarships, mentorship, and a platform for intellectual development, the Foundation is not merely giving financial aid—it is giving dignity, possibility, and hope. I am a direct beneficiary of this vision. Without this support, the path to medical education would have been strewn with even more challenges. But more than the financial relief, the scholarship reaffirmed my sense of belonging in a system that often marginalizes those without wealth or connections. It instilled in me the belief that my success is meaningful only if it contributes to the success of others.

Foundations like Aiyeku remind us that systemic transformation is not always top-down. It can begin with a student supported, a voice amplified, and a story told.

 

Fela’s quote, once viewed as a slogan, now feels like a mission statement. It challenges me to approach medicine not just as a means of personal achievement but as a platform for advocacy. It challenges me to measure my career not by income or accolades but by how many lives I touch, how many patients I empower, and how many systems I challenge. It challenges me, too, as a Nigerian, to participate in the civic process. To vote. To mentor. To demand better. To uplift others. Because in the end, if I am happy while my neighbour suffers, my joy is incomplete. As the African proverb goes, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”

 

In the portrait that began this essay, Fela stands bold, determined, and unflinching. His words, etched above his image, offer a simple yet revolutionary truth: happiness is not happiness until it is shared. This is more than moral idealism; it is a social blueprint. It is a political philosophy. It is a public health imperative.

As a medical student, a citizen, and a proud Aiyeku Foundation scholar, I accept the challenge of that vision. I do not want happiness for myself alone. I want it for my patients. For my community. For the child who studies under candlelight. For the nurse who walks two miles to work. For every Nigerian who dares to hope.

Fela gave us the rhythm. It is up to us to write the lyrics of a better, fairer Nigeria—one where happiness, like justice, is not the privilege of a few but the right of all.

 

Title: Fela Kuti’s Vision of Shared Happiness: A Call for Collective Well-Being in Nigerian Communities

By Kolade Titus Fagbemigun,

400L Medical Student, Ondo State University of Medical Sciences

 

 

 

The image of Fela Anikulapo Kuti, shirtless, defiant, and with both fists raised toward the sky, is more than just a portrait of a legendary musician. It is a symbol of resistance, uncompromising truth, and boundless empathy. The words above the image—“I don’t want happiness for myself alone, but I want it for everybody”—capture the core of Fela’s worldview: a belief in communal joy, justice, and shared humanity. As a medical student and beneficiary of the Aiyeku Foundation’s support, I have come to see that this quote transcends music and philosophy; it is a challenge, a compass, and a dream—one that is deeply personal and universally urgent.

 

Fela’s statement sits at the intersection of Afrocentric philosophy and radical activism. His ideal of happiness is communal, rooted in African humanist values such as ubuntu—“I am because we are.” In contrast to the Western emphasis on individualism, Fela’s vision posits that fulfilment is incomplete when it is experienced alone. His artistic expressions, often laced with satire and scathing critique, were not for private gain but for public awakening. In traditional Nigerian communities, this ethic of togetherness is not unfamiliar. From the Yoruba concept of “Ara ilu mi” (my fellow townsman) to the Igbo practice of communal labour (igba boi), collective identity has historically shaped how happiness and success are pursued. Fela’s words, then, are not radical because they are new but because they remind us of something we have gradually unlearned in a society driven by hyper-individualism and fragmented by inequality.

 

The tragedy, however, lies in the distance between Fela’s ideal and the current Nigerian reality. Happiness, in this context, is not evenly distributed. According to recent World Happiness Reports, Nigeria ranks far below global averages in indicators like social support, trust in institutions, and perceived freedom. The economic disparity is staggering. A few ride in private jets while millions walk miles for potable water. The social contract, if it ever existed in modern governance, seems to have been broken long ago. As a medical student rotating through public hospitals, I have witnessed the human consequences of this divide. Patients arrive late because they cannot afford transportation. Some leave prematurely, not because they are healed, but because they fear incurring costs they cannot pay. Hospital beds are limited; electricity cuts are routine. In these settings, the notion of shared happiness feels distant, if not impossible. But perhaps that is why Fela’s message matters even more. It reminds us that inequality should not be normalized and that shared suffering must provoke shared solutions.

 

Critics may label Fela’s ideal as overly romantic or politically naive. How do you share happiness in a system defined by scarcity, tribalism, and a winner-takes-all political culture? But to dismiss the vision is to surrender to despair. History shows that seemingly impossible dreams often plant the seeds for systemic change.

 

The EndSARS movement, led by Nigerian youths in 2020, is a compelling example. Though the protests were sparked by police brutality, they grew into a broader call for justice, accountability, and equitable governance. It was not just about ending violence; it was about reclaiming dignity. This spirit of solidarity echoed Fela’s ethos. Happiness, the kind rooted in justice and safety, was being demanded not for some but for all.

 

Similarly, Nigeria’s vibrant civil society, creative industries, and community-based health and education initiatives reflect a growing commitment to collective empowerment. Foundations like Aiyeku are quietly yet powerfully building this future—not by waiting for systemic reform but by investing directly in lives, one student or scholar at a time.

 

For me, Fela’s quote also has deeply personal and professional implications. Medicine is not just a science; it is a service. It is a service grounded in empathy, fairness, and a desire to reduce suffering. At its best, healthcare is a shared project, one that involves not only physicians and patients but also families, communities, and policymakers. However, healthcare in Nigeria is too often treated as a privilege rather than a right. The lack of functional primary healthcare systems in rural areas, the brain drain of health workers, and the overburdened urban hospitals are all symptoms of a society where happiness and wellness are unequally distributed.

Fela’s philosophy urges us to rethink health not as a commodity but as a collective necessity. In public health terms, we cannot achieve herd immunity against disease if some are left unvaccinated. We cannot reduce maternal mortality if rural clinics lack skilled birth attendants. True health equity requires what Fela envisioned: shared responsibility and shared outcomes.

 

It would be remiss not to highlight how institutions like the Aiyeku Foundation play a crucial role in manifesting the kind of happiness Fela envisioned. By offering scholarships, mentorship, and a platform for intellectual development, the Foundation is not merely giving financial aid—it is giving dignity, possibility, and hope. I am a direct beneficiary of this vision. Without this support, the path to medical education would have been strewn with even more challenges. But more than the financial relief, the scholarship reaffirmed my sense of belonging in a system that often marginalizes those without wealth or connections. It instilled in me the belief that my success is meaningful only if it contributes to the success of others.

Foundations like Aiyeku remind us that systemic transformation is not always top-down. It can begin with a student supported, a voice amplified, and a story told.

 

Fela’s quote, once viewed as a slogan, now feels like a mission statement. It challenges me to approach medicine not just as a means of personal achievement but as a platform for advocacy. It challenges me to measure my career not by income or accolades but by how many lives I touch, how many patients I empower, and how many systems I challenge. It challenges me, too, as a Nigerian, to participate in the civic process. To vote. To mentor. To demand better. To uplift others. Because in the end, if I am happy while my neighbour suffers, my joy is incomplete. As the African proverb goes, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”

 

In the portrait that began this essay, Fela stands bold, determined, and unflinching. His words, etched above his image, offer a simple yet revolutionary truth: happiness is not happiness until it is shared. This is more than moral idealism; it is a social blueprint. It is a political philosophy. It is a public health imperative.

As a medical student, a citizen, and a proud Aiyeku Foundation scholar, I accept the challenge of that vision. I do not want happiness for myself alone. I want it for my patients. For my community. For the child who studies under candlelight. For the nurse who walks two miles to work. For every Nigerian who dares to hope.

Fela gave us the rhythm. It is up to us to write the lyrics of a better, fairer Nigeria—one where happiness, like justice, is not the privilege of a few but the right of all.