True, I’ve never been to Lagos. Or even Nigeria. The only time I left New England was to be a bridesmaid in my sister’s wedding in Dripping Springs Texas. And that one time my girlfriend-at-the-time and I went to Tallahassee Florida because we didn’t think it existed.
And no, I never ran for president of my country or had twenty-three wives. Hell, I have enough problems with the one woman I’m with. Twenty-three? No thanks.
I didn’t invent a poly-rhythmic form of music that pulled from American R&B, Soul, and traditional African forms, stretching out into twelve and thirteen minute improvisational protests against the ruling party. I don’t play the saxophone and my mother wasn’t murdered by soldiers. I have trouble with the kazoo, even, and my mother went of congestive heart failure, which served her right for not listening to me about those menthol cigarettes and Blue Bunny ice cream sandwiches.
Like I’ve always said, if you’re going to go, go for something worthwhile.
So why am I–a fifty-three year old white woman–the Fela Kuti of Willington Connecticut, you’re probably asking yourself.
Here’s why:
I, too, have a near-insatiable appetite for sex and little or no regard for women’s equality.
That’s why.
