Seun Kuti’s choice of weapon

Every Nigerian outside the corridors of power and, at times, influence, has an unflattering story about the Nigerian police to tell. This image crisis has been driven by the documented cases of violence masterminded by members of the very institution tasked with protecting lives, and properties, and preserving law and order in the country. The […]

Every Nigerian outside the corridors of power and, at times, influence, has an unflattering story about the Nigerian police to tell. This image crisis has been driven by the documented cases of violence masterminded by members of the very institution tasked with protecting lives, and properties, and preserving law and order in the country. The police are intended to be friends of the people, but they can also become their worst enemies.

However, what emerged from the disturbing video of Grammy-nominated Afrobeat artist Seun Kuti slapping a policeman was much more than the typical civilian rage against the police. It was a manifestation of the social hierarchy that grants the rich and influential, especially the politically privileged, the license to treat the rank-and-file of the Nigeria Police Force as glorified slaves in uniform.

Mr Kuti’s audacity was a result of this classist arrangement that assigns police officers with lower ranks to serve as errand boys and girls, subjecting them to demeaning tasks beyond the protection they are authorised to provide.

Last year, a certain Professor Zainab Duke-Abiola became the poster child for the dehumanising treatment of low-ranking policemen after a video of a bloodied female policewoman went public. The victim, identified as Inspector Teju Moses, was brutalised by Professor Zainab and two of her domestic workers. The police, alarmed by the shocking video of their member bleeding in her uniform, swiftly took action and ordered the arrest of the assailants.

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The starkest irony of that incident was that Professor Zainab Duke-Abiola, who functioned as a “legal practitioner and human rights activist” in the Nigerian civic sphere, had Inspector Moses tasked with serving as her orderly, yet the attack occurred because the policewoman refused to “violate professional ethics by carrying out menial and domestic chores at her house.” It was a laughable, if not disheartening, situation.

Like Seun Kuti, the police promptly sought justice and tweeted almost immediately after the attack, stating, “Prof. Zainab Duke Abiola & co were arraigned at the Chief magistrate court in Zone 6 for the offences of criminal conspiracy, causing criminal hurt without provocation, attempt to commit culpable homicide & intentional insult to cause a breach of trust (sic),” and further added, “The court ruled that the suspect be remanded in the Suleja Correctional facility while the case was adjourned to October 5th for the next hearing.”

Whatever our grievances against the Nigeria police or police forces anywhere in the world, we must resist the urge to justify an assault on their members. What Seun Kuti did is reprehensible, particularly because the assaulted policeman displayed commendable restraint amidst the provocation. Mr Kuti didn’t slap an individual; he slapped an entire institution. Despite their flaws, resorting to violence to undermine them invites anarchy. If Nigerians were to adopt such an approach to vent their hatred of the police, the consequences would signal the end of our social contract.

The Nigeria police is not a likeable organisation, and understandably so. But their path to redemption can be paved by a sincere commitment to pursue justice. Seun Kuti comes from a lineage with a trove of grievances against the police. His late father Fela Kuti’s body, even showcased in documented videos, bears witness to the wounds he sustained from police brutality while in their custody.

In an undated documentary, where he even revealed injuries on his buttocks after his release from police custody, some members of his band shared their stories. One that caught my attention was a woman who was seven months pregnant. She recounted being beaten up by the police, thrown into their vehicle, and subjected to public exposure of her private parts. Such an indignity is irreparable, and it would take a miracle for her seven-month-old fetus, who is likely a 30-year-old man or woman today, to forgive or hold any fondness for the police.

Fela Kuti’s mother, Funmilayo Ransome Kuti, a legendary figure in Nigeria’s struggle for political independence from colonial rule and women’s rights, was not spared either. During the military rule in 1977, when both the police and the military united against her radical son due to the threat he posed to the government, soldiers, acting on behalf of the regime, stormed his residence known as the Kalakuta Republic. They forcibly dragged the old woman by her hair and threw her out of a second-story window. She succumbed to injuries from that incident and passed away the following year.

What these brutes have done to two generations of Kutis is more than enough reason for Seun to rebel against the police. However, he has chosen the wrong weapon to fight back. Fela’s music was the acid that burned through the fabric of our history, haunting even long after the actors had left the stage. Seun’s grandmother possessed a credible voice that none of the villains in her stories could slander or silence. She danced to silence their guns and fought to give generations of nationalists and feminists the audacity to challenge their tormentors.

Over two decades after Fela’s death, his music continues to be a recurring nightmare for those who abused their power when they were in charge, leaving an indelible stain on their legacy. Fela’s music has inspired subsequent generations to fight against the system, and the collective rage it has ignited has fueled protests opposing the police, who seem to terrorise the citizens they are supposed to protect even more than the criminals they are meant to apprehend.

In an earlier video, which was from an engagement with his fans on Instagram, Seun Kuti was heard boasting about losing count of the number of policemen he had slapped, advising his audience to build the kind of reputation that would afford them such a privilege.

Unfortunately, that is not what made his ancestors stand out. It was the sincerity of Fela Kuti’s music and the credibility of Funmilayo Kuti’s voice that turned them into immortal symbols of the fight against injustice. Their impact was not measured by their ability to physically assault their villains. What Seun Kuti has done is not rebellion; it is offering an already handicapped enemy a weapon to further wound their essence.