Bottomless pit

There’s a standard joke in Kinshasa.

“Why does the fire station in Kinshasa have no roof?”

“I don’t know, why does the fire station in Kinshasa have no roof?”

“Because it burnt down.”

True.

And there it is for all to see, just opposite a small park in the centre of town, its only advertisement being the three faded red fire engines parked amidst the rubble.

The subject of fire is a sensitive one in the office these days. Five representatives from the single nationalised insurance company had come to demand $30,000 for the annual fire insurance policy for our five offices. “And,” the boss asked, “if we have a fire?” The response: helpless laughter, because they know that the point of establishing an insurance company is to collect money, not a pay it out. Why else would they be working there? My boss didn’t see the joke.

A colleague recently had a small traffic accident. It cost about $1,000 to repair the damage, and she was determined to claim. After all, all motorists have to pay about $450 a year for insurance, whether they like it or not, so she was entitled to do so. What follows is a reconstruction of the process concerning my colleague’s claim. Her side of the story is factual; what happened behind the scenes can only be speculation.

The scene: the Kinshasa office of the insurance company. It is 4.30 p.m. in a large office with about 25 simple wooden desks. Only about three are occupied by staff who are idly pushing around sheets of paper waiting for their colleagues to return.

Enter about 15 people, clearly excited. The workers jump to their feet: “How much?”

“Wait: don’t be greedy. Give us time!”

They sit down and count the takings from the road block they have been conducting to trap defaulting customers. The leader of the team gets to his feet, and hushes the expectant crowd with his arms. Silence comes quickly.

“We managed to get $1000 out of someone,” he said, “he was so scared. Most of them only gave $50 or $100 to avoid paying, but we’ve done well.” He consults his notes. “Let’s see . . . we’ve got a total of $18,700. That makes $500 each for today, $3,000 for me for organising everything and paying the police to help us. That’ll leave enough for the people upstairs who are getting so difficult these days. ”

As he’s sitting down to divide up the cash, one of the clerks comes up to him, speaking in an urgent whisper.

“Chief, that woman was in here again today. She’s demanding payment.”

“Send her away to get police statements.”

“We did that.”

“Make her bring photos of both cars.”

“She already had some.”

“Get a letter from immigration to confirm she’s here legally.”

“She even got that, I don’t know how she knew we would ask for it.”

“Tell her we haven’t got any money.”

“We’ve done that too. But she just stands and argues. It’s upsetting our customers.”

“Ok, Here’s the deal. We’ll give her $150 a month for eight months, that’ll keep her out of our hair.”

And so it came to pass, as they say . . . She’s since left the country, so someone else from the office has to collect the money once a month. Five months to go.