My country will be a symbol of free human society.

Host:
The night in Lagos was alive with sound — the kind that never really sleeps.
A drum rhythm echoed from far-off streets, mingling with the buzz of motorbikes, shouted laughter, and the distant pulse of Afrobeat rising like the heartbeat of the city itself.

The air was thick with smoke, heat, and electricity — not from wires, but from people. You could feel the weight of survival in every conversation, the music of defiance in every shout.

In a small rooftop bar overlooking the crowded market below, Jack sat at a wobbly metal table, the warm bottle of Star beer sweating in his hand. His grey eyes reflected the lights of the city — restless, questioning, caught between admiration and melancholy.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her brown eyes full of fire, alive in the way that people get when they talk about revolution and mean it. The wind played with the loose strands of her hair, carrying the scent of rain and roasted plantain.

Between them lay an old vinyl record sleeve, the faded image of Fela Kuti mid-performance — shirtless, wild, radiant, immortal.

She touched it gently, her voice rising with reverence as she quoted him:

"My country will be a symbol of free human society." — Fela Kuti

Jeeny:
(softly)
Can you hear it? Even in that one line — the rhythm, the faith, the challenge. It’s not a prediction; it’s a promise he made with his whole being.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Yeah. But promises like that — they burn people. The freer the dream, the higher the cost.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
And yet, he paid it anyway. He lived freedom, even when they tried to cage it.

Jack:
That’s what I find incredible — he didn’t just talk about revolution. He performed it. Every song, every beat, every horn was rebellion.

Jeeny:
Exactly. He understood that freedom isn’t given; it’s performed until it becomes undeniable.

Jack:
(leaning forward)
But it’s dangerous, too. People love the idea of freedom until they realize it demands honesty.

Jeeny:
Or sacrifice.

Host:
Below them, the market erupted in laughter as a vendor haggled with a stubborn customer. Music rose from somewhere — brass and drums, a sound so alive it almost moved through the air like color. The entire night seemed to pulse with the idea of something unbroken, something unkillable.

Jeeny:
Do you know what he meant by a “symbol of free human society”?

Jack:
Freedom not as luxury — but as inheritance. A society that breathes truth instead of hierarchy.

Jeeny:
Yes. Not just free from colonialism or dictatorship, but free from fear.

Jack:
(smiling)
That’s the hardest chain to break.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
He tried. With rhythm instead of rhetoric.

Jack:
And rhythm travels faster than bullets.

Jeeny:
That’s why they feared him. A melody can outlive an empire.

Jack:
(pauses, looking at the city)
And maybe that’s what he meant — his country wouldn’t just be a political symbol, but a spiritual one.

Jeeny:
A mirror of what humanity could be — if it stopped kneeling to power and started dancing with truth.

Host:
The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of thunder. The neon lights flickered, reflecting off puddles in the street. The rhythm below didn’t stop; if anything, it grew louder — as if defying the sky itself.

Jeeny:
You know what I love about him? He believed art wasn’t separate from the fight. It was the fight.

Jack:
Yeah. He used music as both weapon and medicine.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
That’s the balance, isn’t it? To cut through corruption without losing compassion.

Jack:
To rage and still make it sound like joy.

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s why his freedom still echoes — it wasn’t bitter. It was alive.

Jack:
And that’s what makes him timeless. Dictators die, systems crumble, but a groove like his — that’s eternal.

Jeeny:
Because truth has rhythm. It syncs with the human pulse. You can suppress it for a while, but you can’t silence it.

Jack:
That’s why he called his music “Afrobeat,” not “protest songs.” Protest fades — but the beat stays.

Host:
A flash of lightning split the horizon. The air trembled. And for a moment, the whole city — its lights, its voices, its chaos — looked like a living organism breathing in rhythm with the thunder.

Jeeny:
Do you think his dream ever came true? That his country became that symbol?

Jack:
(pauses, thoughtful)
Not yet. But maybe that’s the point — the symbol doesn’t die with the man.

Jeeny:
(smiling sadly)
It moves from generation to generation — unfinished, alive.

Jack:
Freedom isn’t a destination, Jeeny. It’s maintenance. You have to keep it oiled, keep it honest, or it rusts.

Jeeny:
Yes. And he left the blueprint — not in constitutions, but in rhythm.

Jack:
In the way the drums refused to obey silence.

Jeeny:
Exactly. His idea of a “free society” wasn’t perfection. It was permission — permission to be loud, to be flawed, to be human without apology.

Jack:
You know, that’s what’s radical about his statement. “Free human society.” Not free Africans. Not free Nigerians. Human.

Jeeny:
He wasn’t just fighting for a country — he was fighting for a condition of the soul.

Jack:
And the soul doesn’t recognize borders.

Host:
The rain began, light but steady, tapping softly against the metal table. The city below shimmered, every streetlight multiplied into a hundred trembling reflections. Jeeny closed her eyes briefly, listening to the rain merge with the beat still echoing from the market.

Jeeny:
You can hear him in that, can’t you? The way the world keeps humming — like we’re all playing his song, even when we don’t know it.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Yeah. Every drumbeat, every act of courage — a remix of his revolution.

Jeeny:
That’s the thing about dreamers. They leave frequencies behind.

Jack:
And the rest of us — we just have to tune in.

Jeeny:
(pauses, her voice softening)
Maybe that’s what freedom really is — a frequency we can all find if we listen hard enough.

Jack:
Or feel. Sometimes freedom isn’t sound — it’s vibration.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Then Fela didn’t just make music. He made vibration tangible.

Jack:
He made courage audible.

Host:
The rain grew louder, now drumming in rhythm against the tin roof above them. It wasn’t storm — it was percussion. It was the sky joining the conversation.

Host:
And as they sat there — two voices carried by thunder, two souls lit by conviction — Fela Kuti’s words seemed less like memory and more like prophecy:

That a country is not lines on a map,
but a pulse shared between people.

That freedom is not granted —
it is practiced,
danced,
defended,
and sung.

That to be truly human
is to refuse silence,
to speak through rhythm,
to fight through beauty.

And that the greatest symbol of a free society
is not the absence of oppression,
but the presence of spirit.

The rain softened.
The drums below continued.

And as Jack and Jeeny looked out over the glowing, chaotic, beautiful sprawl of the city,
they realized — quietly, completely —
that freedom, like music,
never really stops.

It just changes hands.