Angélique Kidjo's life and work is defined by one thing — freedom

CBC

25-03-2025

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Angélique Kidjo still remembers the night she learned what it means to be "naked spiritually" on stage. It was something her mom taught her.
When the Beninese singer was young, her mom ran the largest theatre company in West Africa, so most of her childhood was spent messing with costumes that had been carefully laid out in the dressing rooms. Mesmerized, she told her mom that one day she wanted to wear clothes like that herself.
She got her big chance when a little girl who was supposed to play a princess fell ill. Kidjo's mom needed to find a replacement as soon as possible, and Kidjo had spent enough time backstage to know the piece by heart.
WATCH | Angélique Kidjo's full interview with Tom Power:
"[My mother] came and dragged me by my ankle," Kidjo recalls in an interview with Q 's Tom Power. "She said to me, 'You bug me every day. You want to be the girl? You want to sing? This is your chance.'"
Before she could change her mind, her mom had already shoved her onto the stage. Kidjo remembers the spotlight being so bright that she couldn't see the audience in front of her so she thought no one was there. It wasn't until after she had sung her heart out that she realized people were watching her the whole time, and she was met with a standing ovation.
"If you're not naked spiritually, you can't get there," she says. "It means you just have to give yourself completely. You can't hold anything back, because if you're onstage and thinking about what you have to do after … what the heck are you doing on stage?"
Today, Kidjo is known as a legendary singer, a five-time Grammy winner and one of the most lauded African artists of our time, but her path in music was almost cut short. Looking back, her life and work has really been defined by one thing: freedom.
In Benin, Kidjo grew up under a strict communist dictatorship that prevented free speech. Even in her family's own house, they had to keep their doors locked and communicate in whispers.
"It becomes stifling," she says. "It makes you feel little. It makes you want to jump out of your body, but you don't know where to go, because there's nowhere to go…. They don't have to put you in jail. They jail you in your home."
Under this regime, all art was expected to be politically-charged in the government's favour. Kidjo recalls being invited to sing at a concert where her parents watched her closely from the wings the entire time she was onstage, making sure she was careful with her words.
When they got back home, they sat in the car as Kidjo's father explained how they would get her out of Benin to join her brother in Paris. After spending a year setting aside whatever money they could, Kidjo and her father drove to the airport — or rather, to an unlit area within walking distance of the airport where no one could see Kidjo exit with her suitcase.
"The last image of my father is my father behind the wheel of his car, weeping like a child," she says. "He was saying, 'What am I doing? What if you get caught? How am I going to live with myself?' And I said, 'Dad, please let me go. Even if I go to jail, I will never blame you for you giving me a chance.'"
She made it out of Benin and escaped to France. But even though her home wasn't safe for a very long time, Kidjo says it's impossible to ever feel fonder for someplace other than where you grew up, and this sentiment shines through in everything she creates.
Her original music is an undefinable combination of genres, but is undeniably driven by the rhythms of West Africa, played on traditional percussion instruments.
"I live in exile, with the drums in my head," she says. "It's a reminder of me, where I come from, and it's a comfort for me, too."