Several of Kuti's queens (he would eventually marry 27 of these women at the same time) were raped and otherwise brutalized, and his beloved mother was thrown off a second-story balcony and would die from her injuries.
Up to that point, the show had been a riot of color and sound, a feast that defies your senses to take in. Director Bill T. Jones's Tony-winning choreography pulls off the masterful feat of not looking choreographed at all -- there are dance circles wherein humorous sexual tension explodes into utter jubilation; they compress and explode like...fucking galaxies of sound, motion and color, and the music of Antibalas and assorted drummers and Orisha chanters and majestic griot-singers raises every follicle on your body.
And then comes the raid and its aftermath. All is bleak. As a single bell tolls, we read of the rape of one of Kuti's wives while she was on the toilet, how the soldiers hacked the pubic hair off another, how they carved their initials in the backside of a third.
After Funmilayo's death, Kuti wanted to know if she had ever wavered, had ever in those last few seconds questioned whether it had all been worth the fate she was enduring. To find out, he consults his guiding Orishas, and they guide him to the spirit world, and this number is hauntingly unforgettable, not least for the equally soulful and operatic singing of Melanie Marshall's Funmilayo and the amazing costumes worn by the Orishas. (Designer Marina Draghici won another of the show's Tonys; sound designer Robert Kaplowitz got another. The show was co-produced by Shawn "Jay-Z" Carter and Will and Jada Pinkett Smith.)
And for the record, she tells him, no, she had not been scared, and yes, the fight was not only worth it, but should only be intensified.
And so Kuti decides to lay her coffin at the feet of the Nigerian military at the head of an army of supporters. Along with it are laid the coffins of both the causes of and victims of dozens of other injustices: both Trayvon Martin and Rupert Murdoch's News of the World, to name one from each category.
Kuti only sharpened the weapon that was his music. "You can kill us today, but we will be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that," he says.
Earlier in the show, Kuti tells of how he had been baptized with a ridiculous name: Hildegard. He explained that he had to symbolically die and be reborn as Fela.
Kuti's actual death came in 1997, when he succumbed to an AIDS-related illness.
This show, and Ngaujah's portrayal of the man, have managed to make even that literal death seem as symbolic as little Hildegard's passing.
Fela is dead. Long live FELA!
FELA! was brought to Jones Hall by the Society for the Performing Arts and will be there through Sunday. Ticket prices range from $30 to $80 and may be purchased online at www.spahouston.org, by phone at 713-227-4772 or at the courtyard level ticket office at Jones Hall, 615 Louisiana. Hours of operation: 9 a.m.-6 p.m. Monday-Friday, and 10 a.m.-5 p.m. on Saturday. For groups of 15 or more, call 713-632-8113.