Childhood at Afrika Shrine Shaped My Freedom, Says Made Kuti

A rising star in the music world, Omòrìnmádé Aníkúlápó-Kútì, better known as Made Kuti, credits his early years at the Afrika Shrine for instilling a sense of liberty in him that influences his life and art today. In a candid chat, the young performer opens up about his roots in a legendary musical dynasty, the joys of his youth amid lively crowds, and the discipline that drives his craft.

The vibrant venue, a hub of sound and spirit built by his father Femi Kuti and aunt Yeni Kuti back in 2000, holds fond place in his heart. At just five years old, he blew his first notes on the trumpet during its grand launch, a moment that sparked lifelong passion. Week after week, he watched his dad take the stage for marathon sets, wrapping up epic Friday nights before dawn and heading off to lessons. There, amid the buzz, he roamed wild—leaping onto tables, wheeling bikes and boards through the throng—building memories filled with pure delight.

Music never felt like a choice for him; it seeped in through every corner of home life. Bandmates from his father’s group patiently showed him the ropes on whatever tool caught his eye, from trumpet to saxophone, keys, strings, and percussion. His dad kept it simple: put in the hours if you aim to shine. In his mid-teens, he honed piano skills to clear a school test, now handling five with ease, though strings like the violin didn’t stick.

Blending his afrobeat heritage with lessons from Western styles comes naturally, without forced mixes. That rhythmic pulse, born from his family’s sound, stays at the core, letting other flavours emerge on their own. His fresh record dips into new tones, a shift that brings him joy.

Carrying the Kuti name feels like a gift, tied to a line of trailblazers in tunes, healing, rights fights, and learning. Still, he longs for listeners to judge his tracks on their own spark, wondering how they’d land without that famed tag. No weight to top his elders weighs him down— that fell heavier on his father, who battled doubts over his breakout tune, whispers saying his dad penned it. Unlike the bold past, his father shields him, spotlighting his solo strides.

From his dad, the top takeaway is steady grind: endless drills before gigs, tough trips abroad where bandmates vanished, souring trust and travel chances for all. When crafting songs, he builds the beat and layers first, words trailing behind—often light or none at all. Tracks tackle linked woes, like mob attacks or shaky safety nets, echoing chats with his father. Lately, his work turns inward, urging joy through owning one’s path, ditching finger-pointing for shared lift-off among millions.

On stage, he grew bold over time, shaking off jitters from backing his dad on bass and horn, stiff recitals, and fronting crowds solo. Intimate groups test him more than vast ones, his flair honed from dad’s ways yet truly his own. Juggling home and hustle flows smooth; his partner helms her fashion line while aiding his posts and trips, their bond real and calm. Tribe lines never tripped them—family’s already a blend—and he’d choose her again, shrugging off election-era divides.

To young folks in the country, he urges ditching quick-scroll traps for solid know-how, steering clear of slump or stepping up with duty. Activism tugs at him, like his kin’s calls to arms, but he ponders its punch—folks tuned out those giants before. He leans to self-check and root shifts over jabs at leaders, picking words that might truly land.

As a lad, indie outfits like Arctic Monkeys and Radiohead lit his fire, pulling him to players over singers. Downtime means pitch games weekly, board battles, kin time, screen flicks, and pages turned. His sound bloomed from shrine sets, city jaunts, and world stages, crowd vibes tweaking his pen.

For those in spotlight clans chasing solo shine, just be true—good work rises on its own. The family’s tight-knit: dad, brother Seun, aunts, uncles, all circling for his big day bash. Ties stretch wide, from Aníkúlápó to Ransome roots, linking up across seas.

Top thanks go to his circle. Dad’s no silver-spoon tale—shunned young, self-taught on sax against fishing pleas, still drilling daily at 62. Clan might need chats with pros, but dad’s grit paved his ease: tunes studied, mentors like an Argentine keys whiz, aunt’s London watch, dad’s spouse picks. Five sibs trail him, offbeat paths like law, hoops, viral clips—no tune chasers there. One pang: skimping drills early, hopping tools sans deep dives. Craft’s the real grind—highs, lows, lips tiring fast on brass after skips.

No top dish or pick for him. He whips up meals from London days, treats her on hearts’ day, and tidies spots, preaching clean starts at home. Shoe-free zones rule his pad, chores linger despite help. Dad drilled heart over hustle: solid self fixes the rest.

Lately, gigs pay the bills over streams, a luck he owns. Lagos beats fade—cash crunch kills spots, crowds thin, talents idle. Fresh drop ‘Chapter One: Where Does Happiness Come From?’ probes inner peace, nudging world views as shadows loom: fights, tech takeovers, bot jobs. He’s touring: Paris soon, Berlin next, Swiss mentorship, then home for a Fela showcase gig on the 31st.

Trophies? Mere doors, nods, boosts—not tune tweaks.