It was the kind of text you never anticipate on a normal afternoon: “Are we still on for the shrine tomorrow? You can’t back out o, Harriet!” My friend, Zainab, was a champion of spontaneous adventures. But the word “shrine” didn’t exactly evoke images of a fun outing. Was this an exorcism? An ancestral meeting? A cult initiation?

“Which shrine are we talking about?” I typed back, trying to sound casual while wondering if I needed to burn sage after this. The reply came swiftly: “Fela’s Shrine, of course. Dress comfy. See you at 7!”

And that’s how I found myself at the New Afrika Shrine in Lagos — one of the wildest, most magical places I’ve ever been. But let me explain.

What is the New Afrika Shrine?

For those unfamiliar, the New Afrika Shrine is not a literal shrine in the sacrificial-goat-and-drum-beating sense. It’s a cultural hub dedicated to the music and legacy of Fela Anikulapo Kuti — the Afrobeat king, political firebrand, and all-around legend. The Shrine is equal parts music venue, political space, and spiritual gathering for anyone who loves Afrobeat or has ever questioned societal norms while tapping their feet.

Let me be clear: This isn’t your average cozy spot for live music. Forget mahogany-stained furniture and overpriced cocktails. The Shrine is a heady mix of smoky air (ahem, both legal and… otherwise), larger-than-life murals of Fela, and the kind of vibe that makes you feel like you’re on the verge of something unforgettable, or very possibly illegal.

My First Impressions: A Kaleidoscope of Chaos

The moment Zainab and I walked in, I heard drums pounding so hard I thought my ancestors might rise from their slumber to join the rhythm. Hawkers sold everything from grilled suya to bottles of Orijin (a fan-favorite alcoholic drink), and the air smelled like peppered fish, sweat, and rebellion. The crowd was a glorious mess — musicians with dreadlocks longer than my legs, expats trying (poorly) to blend in, artists with sketchbooks tucked under their arms, dancers who moved like they had no bones, and of course, men wearing sunglasses indoors because… coolness?

“Are you sure this isn’t illegal?” I asked Zainab as she ordered a small plate of peppered snails like we weren’t literally surrounded by chaos. She laughed and handed me a bottle of Orijin. “Relax, Harriet. Just let the Shrine do its thing.”

The Shrine did its thing, alright.

Lessons Learned at the Shrine

  1. Let Go of the Script
    You can’t visit the Shrine and expect a predictable, tidy night. There’s no set itinerary — no one telling you, “First we’ll discuss jazz, then we’ll sip wine, and then we’ll exchange polite nods.” Instead, you might find yourself in the middle of a debate about capitalism with a man who hasn’t worn shoes since 2013, or dancing beside a complete stranger who twirls you like it’s a ballroom competition. Relationships — the romantic kind and the fleeting “Are we best friends now?” kind — are often like this: messy, unexpected, and thrilling when you stop trying to control the narrative.

  2. Being Present is Underrated
    Midway through the night, I realized my phone had remained untouched for hours. Who had time to scroll Instagram when Fela’s son, Femi Kuti, was on stage blowing his saxophone like his life depended on it? I’ve learned that real connection — whether it’s with a place or a person — requires showing up fully. No texting in between. No overthinking. Just meeting the moment as it is.

  3. Vulnerability Looks Different on Everyone
    At one point, we all sat on dusty benches, the lights dimming as someone recited spoken word poetry. “We rise,” the poet bellowed, “because oppression keeps trying to bury our joy.” Whoa. I didn’t expect to cry that night, but there I was, tearing up next to some stranger eating nkwobi (spicy cow foot). Around me, other people were nodding, clapping softly, or just listening. Vulnerability isn’t about how much you bare yourself; sometimes it’s as simple as holding space for a shared moment of honesty.

The Dating Parallel

I couldn’t help but draw a comparison between the Shrine and the dating world. Hear me out.

Walking into the Shrine felt like being on a blind date. You’re unsure of the vibe, a little nervous, but deeply curious. The key to surviving both, I realized, is embracing the unknown with equal parts curiosity and courage.

Similarly, the Shrine will keep you on your toes. One minute, you’re laughing at someone’s attempt to dance Shoki; the next, a band tears through the crowd with drums loud enough to shake your internal organs. First dates, too, can be unpredictable. One moment, you’re bonding over a shared love of Tiwa Savage; the next, you’re awkwardly dodging an overshare about an ex. But isn’t that the beauty of it all? The chaos, the charm, the possibility that something extraordinary could emerge from, well, the unexpected?

A Guide to Surviving the Shrine (and Life)

  • Wear Comfortable Shoes. Trust me, you need to come prepared if you’re going to get dragged into an impromptu dance circle. Also, real love — be it for Afrobeat, a partner, or yourself — tends to require movement.

  • Come Hungry. Both figuratively and literally. There’s no room for half-heartedness at the Shrine. Whether you’re devouring steaming suya or soaking in the infectious rhythms of live Afrobeat, being “all in” is non-negotiable.

  • Talk to Strangers. Yes, my mum told me not to, but the Shrine proved otherwise. Some of the most delightful interactions happen when you lower your guard. Is the person standing next to you wearing a questionable amount of shea butter? Perhaps. Are they also about to teach you to dance azonto? Absolutely.

  • Be Open to Learning. The Shrine constantly shifts between a party and a class on social justice. Someone might passionately lecture you about colonialism right after singing along to “Water No Get Enemy.” The lesson? You’ll grow in ways you never anticipated when you keep an open mind.

Why I Keep Coming Back

By the end of the night, my face ached from smiling, my feet ached from dancing, and my spirit felt like it had been plugged into a much-needed power source. The Shrine had stripped away the polished facades of Lagos life and reminded me what it felt like to simply be. No filters, no pretense, just pure, unfiltered connection — to music, to people, and to myself.

In a world that demands perfection — perfectly curated Instagram captions, perfectly rehearsed date-night banter — we need spaces like the Shrine. Spaces that allow us to celebrate the messy, the raw, the chaotic, and the beautiful.

So, whether you’re navigating Lagos’ traffic or the minefield of modern love, let the Shrine mentality guide you: Dance when the music demands it. Laugh when the absurd unfolds. And, most importantly, show up ready to embrace the madness.

Because sometimes, the craziest place you’ve ever been is exactly where you discover yourself.