Our electricity board had been making a weird noise for some time. Sometimes it was loud, and at other times hardly audible, but someone who knows about those things said the noise must be caused by a bad connection, which could start a fire if not attended to. We called the electrician but he didn’t turn up.
A few days later we had been out saying a sad farewell to a colleague who had quite her job because she was in love with someone who lived somewhere else. It was 1.30 a.m. when we rocked up at home slightly worse for wear, to be greeted by a funny smell. One of our Swedish neighbours was on the stairs looking very agitated. He told us that his colleague, who had just that evening got back from some travels, had woken up to find her kitchen on fire. She had a friend visiting from Sweden who was sleeping there also.
I go up stairs with him. The smell is horrible and a noxious white smoke is pouring from the flat. One can see nothing, but it seems to be coming from the fridge. The flat owner has found a fire extinguisher in the stairwell. We shoot it at the bottom of the fridge, but it is dead. Nothing happens. There are other extinguishers on the stair, but none work.
Thank goodness I have a little extinguisher in the car and a powerful little LED torch. The torch helps to show where the smoke is coming from and we use the extinguisher to hit the fire. It seems to go out.
The Swedes decide to ring the UN fire service, asking them to come and check whether everything is now OK. Meanwhile, much to our amazement, a so-called “fire policeman” arrives. This was a truly astonishing event: there is no fire station in Kinshasa, though there are three large red trucks parked at the side of the road not far from us. These trucks look abandoned: there are none of the shiny brass fittings and gleaming paintwork which one associates with a disciplined fire service. Although we had seen these fire engines driving around once or twice, the last thing we expected that night was for one of these mighty machines to visit us, but there it was. It had been called by the security guards.
The fireman, a 5ft 6in master of all he surveyed, tried hard to look important, a job made more difficult by the fact that that his team had neither extinguishers nor water. “I must make a report”, he says, surveying the room with a cooker, sink and burnt fridge, “what room is this?”
The UN fire service hadn’t come and probably wouldn’t, so it seemed that there was not much more to be done. We invite the helpless maidens and their male colleague down for a drink. That takes a while, as the girls decide that their skimpy nighties are not appropriate, and they must change into some more suitable clothes – very baggy shorts and tee shirts which their male colleague lent them.
We drink whisky and discuss the events of the evening. The sense of shock was palpable, and we sat in a bemused trance mulling over events. We wonder what might have happened if the flat’s owner had not come back that day – her guest had heard and smelt nothing and would have slept through it all. She might have been burned alive, not to mention the fact that the whole building might have caught fire.
Then the conversation moves onto the subject of landlords. The Swedes had also been having trouble getting the maintenance done: now we all had a trump card and MUST get our electrical systems checked out. We plan unionized action. It was 4.30 before they left.
The next morning my driver looked at me with admiration. “I hear that you rescued the Swedish women from the burning flat”, he said. I felt it was a bit churlish to spoil his story so said little more than “It was the least I could do.” When we got back that evening we were told that all the Swedes were suffering from smoke inhalation and had been taken to the clinic for oxygen treatment.
I, being the tough guy, of course didn’t need it . . .
Meanwhile we’re still waiting for the electrician.
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