Tragedies happen for a reason.
Early in April, I slipped in the bathroom, dislocated my middle finger and damaged other fingers. I was worried about this, as an artist in a family of artists. I feared it might damage my work.
My relatives are known as artists. Fela Kuti, with whom I stayed for three years travelling in Africa and Europe, was a great artist. And his son, Femi Kuti, is known as Africa’s most famous musician. I am a trumpet player myself, as well as a keyboardist.
I primarily see myself as an advocate, however. I mention this because when I went to Washington Hospital Center after my hand accident, things didn’t look good. After an X-ray, the doctor put my finger in a splint. But, a week or so later, after I removed the splint, the finger still looked bent.
And then I incurred a further injury!
I had heard that vouchers were being distributed by the Housing Department, and that those in need of such documents were gathering at a government building at in Judiciary Square, partially to be protected from bad weather conditions while awaiting the vouchers.
I tried to climb the back of this building to the first floor, but fell — injuring my collarbone, actually breaking the clavicle. I didn’t go to the hospital immediately, but when I did, I was treated for the collar break and also had my dislocated finger re-bandaged.
I was just trying to get some help. Now I need to be wary of why I’m in a cycle of tragedies.
