For many music fans, Lemi Ghariokwu’s name is inseparable from Fela Anikulapo-Kuti. Widely known as the “King of Covers,” the Nigerian visual artist helped shape the visual identity of Fela’s music, creating album artworks that became part of the musician’s cultural legacy.
But the 26 covers he designed for Fela represent only a fraction of his career. With more than 2,000 album artworks to his name, Ghariokwu has built a body of work that spans generations and musical styles.
He continues to work with contemporary artistes, including Davido and Falz, while remaining concerned about how African creative history is documented and preserved. “We are not ready yet, but we shouldn’t give up. We have to keep preaching until people become conscious and decide to do the right things in Africa,” he says.
His concerns extend to the people whose contributions make recorded music possible. Looking back at an era when album sleeves listed musicians, instrumentalists and other contributors, he believes preserving music history means remembering not only the stars whose names dominate public conversations but also the creative professionals behind their work.
In this exclusive interview with The Nollywood Reporter, Ghariokwu reflects on his legacy beyond Fela, the creative freedom that shaped his work, his approach to designing for different generations of artistes, and the need to preserve Africa’s cultural archives.
TNR: You designed 26 album covers for Fela Kuti, but your career extends far beyond that collaboration. How do you think people should understand your wider contribution to African music?
Lemi Ghariokwu:
Part of my duty is to shine a light on some of my other works. I’ve designed over 2,000 album covers, so the 26 I did for Fela represent about 1% of my career. But those 26 covers are my call to fame, and I’m proud of them.
A white journalist in New York once asked if I wasn’t tired of Fela, Fela, Fela, and whether I felt I was living under his shadow. I told him, “Yes, I’m on a solid shadow, and I’m proud to be under that solid shadow. That is my destiny.”
From the way you describe your working relationship with Fela, it sounds like he gave you considerable creative freedom when designing his album covers. How did that freedom shape your creative process and the different artistic directions you explored?
Thank you. Fela gave me total freedom. He didn’t direct me or give me a concept of what to do because he knew that I understood the music. He also knew I wouldn’t take liberties with the work. I would operate with the utmost responsibility, which I did and am still doing.
My style is very eclectic because I learn from different sources. It also depends on how I feel at a particular time when I’m working on a cover. Sometimes I’ve discovered a new art style that I want to experiment with, and I’ll use the next Fela cover as an opportunity to try it.
The JJD album was released as a double-sleeve vinyl record, featuring two different artworks. Can you take me through the creative process behind the cover and how you arrived at the decision to use both designs?
I had already prepared a painting based on my idea of young people at the time. I was thinking about their denim jeans, platform shoes, wide-bottom trousers, American flag ties and the badges they pinned to their jackets. I wanted the artwork to speak visually to young people like me.
When I showed the painting to Fela, he looked at it for about 10 seconds without saying anything. Then he said, “Lemi, no, no, no. I don’t want this one.” He didn’t want young people to think he was attacking them. He suggested that I draw a different kind of figure.
It was the first time he had rejected my work and the first time he had given me a specific direction. I wasn’t happy, but I went home and produced another painting based on his concept.
However, my spirit told me I couldn’t throw away my original work. So I decided to use both paintings. I put Fela’s preferred artwork on the front and my own on the back, with the lyrics and credits in the centre spread.
I took the designs directly to Decca’s managing director without telling Fela. When the album was printed, I showed Fela the front and told him, “This is your own.” Then I flipped it over and said, “This is my own.” “He looked at me and said, ‘Lemi, you hit me below the belt.’ So I ran out of the house.”
You were present during the events that inspired Fela’s “Sorrow Tears and Blood,” and you were also involved in translating the song’s ideas into visual form. Can you take me back to how the song came about and how you became part of that process?
On June 16, 1976, Fela gave me Goro. I don’t know if you know it. It is his marijuana concoction. That day was important because it was Femi Kuti’s birthday, and Fela was going to visit his first wife and their children. He took me along because I was high and he wanted to keep an eye on me.
We were at his first wife’s house when the news came on that the South African government had killed students in Soweto. The police had shot them. It was headline news at around 9 p.m.
Over the next week or two, we discussed what had happened. Fela was already singing about police brutality in Nigeria, and that was where the idea for “Sorrow Tears and Blood” came from. As usual, I was expected to understand what to draw and how to illustrate the song.
The song was eventually recorded in 1977, after the burning of Kalakuta in February 1977 and the disruption that followed. By the time it was recorded, the song was already about two years old.
I understand that you shared a close working relationship with Fela. Over the years, did that relationship ever change, and were there moments when you found yourselves disagreeing?
By 1978, my relationship with Fela had started hitting the rocks. There were some personal matters I may not need to go into, but it had reached a point where he felt I wasn’t showing him 100% loyalty.
You have worked closely with Fela and witnessed a time when audiences appreciated the contributions of individual musicians, not just the lead artiste. How has the way we recognize and document the people behind music changed over the years, and what do you think is at risk of being lost?
One of the things we have lost is the culture of documenting everyone who contributes to making an album. In the past, you could buy an album, give it to somebody, and they could read the credits at the back. That is what is missing today, and it is not good for posterity, especially for the professionals who play important roles in making music.
Today, everybody knows the superstars, the Burna Boys and the Wizkids, but very few people know the musicians behind their music. In our time, people came to the Shrine not only because of Fela. Some were fans of Tony Allen, the drummer. Others came to appreciate the different musicians and soloists, including those who played the trumpet solos.
Today, it is largely about social media and the biggest stars. That is one of the negative aspects of this era. We risk losing the recognition and historical record of the many people whose contributions make the music possible.
How do you think African music history and the work of the people who shaped it can be better preserved for future generations?
It’s very important that we share our own narratives. Outsiders have always shared our narratives with their own agenda. They take something from us, turn it into their own and claim it because we are not invested in preserving our own legacy. We don’t even value what we have.
Look at Fela, for example. If not for the Oyibo, Fela would not be celebrated the way he is being celebrated now. The 2003 exhibition in New York helped expose Fela globally. It was organized by a young Jewish man who came to Nigeria, heard Fela’s music and felt that the story was too great not to be shared with the world.
As for my own archive, no cultural institution has approached me yet. I have one of my works at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, but it was acquired through a donation. If we were ready to preserve our archives properly, it should happen here in Nigeria, perhaps at the National Museum or the Centre for Contemporary Art at the National Theatre.
It’s not my duty to go and beg anybody to preserve my archive. We are not ready yet, but we shouldn’t give up. We have to keep preaching until people become conscious and decide to do the right things in Africa.
Your work is strongly associated with Pan-Africanism and political expression. Do you only accept projects that reflect those values?
Out of the 2,000 covers I’ve designed, how many do you think are ideological? I’m not sure they are even up to 100. I have bills to pay. This is my profession. Should I say I only work with Christians and refuse to work with Muslims? They would fold up.
I work at the level of aesthetics and artistic creative value. When I listen to music, I can relate to it as a creative person.
Look at Davido’s 5ive album. His music is joyful. It’s not necessarily ideological, but it still carries an ideology. Love is an ideology. Jolliness is also an ideology.
I approached the album from a metaphysical perspective, looking at his life journey. His parents didn’t want him to do music, but he fought his way into it and succeeded. The title 5ive gave me the idea of the five fingers of the hand. I incorporated that into the artwork, along with his nicknames, a dance pose, musical symbols, and a tarot card.
There is always a way to interpret music visually, regardless of its subject or message. My job is to find that creative connection and translate it into an artwork. I don't have to agree with or share an artiste's ideology to appreciate the creative possibilities in their music. I'm not biased.
How do you approach designing an album cover when the music doesn’t necessarily communicate the ideas you are interested in?
As I said, I don’t refuse anybody. I recently completed a cover for an American rock band. Their music is instrumental, with nine songs. They told me the songs were political and that they loved my previous work. I listened to all nine songs and came up with a cover.
With Davido’s 5ive album, I had the music with me for about three months. It was password-protected, and I wasn’t supposed to share it with anybody. Interestingly, the song that became the biggest hit, “With You” featuring Omah Lay, wasn’t the one I listened to most.
The song I loved most was “10 Kilo.” The melody inspired me. I thought it would be a hit, but it wasn’t one of the biggest hits. It wasn’t necessarily the lyrics that attracted me; it was the mood.
You continue to work with younger artistes across different countries. What does your current work look like, and how do you see the next generation of musicians engaging with your legacy?
I do covers every year. Every day, I can work on up to five covers. Even though vinyl is no longer the dominant format, it’s coming back. There’s a resurgence, especially in the US.
This year, I’ve worked on a cover for an international artiste, and I’m working on covers for two young Nigerian artistes. One is Obi Original. He plays pure highlife. He contacted me because he discovered during his research that I had designed 18 album covers for Sir Shina Peters. He sent me nine of those covers and asked me to choose one and reinvent that style for him.
There’s another young artiste called Big Sopi in New York whose cover I’m working on. I’ve also been contacted by a band in Australia and another group in Atlanta whose members are from Liberia.
I’m supportive because I know many of these musicians are struggling. Sometimes, I’ll give them the lowest rate possible to support young people. But there has to be a limit. If their budget is too low, I have to tell them.
