In 1993, Kinshasha erupted again in violence and looting. Luc, a Belgian daredevil friend, convinced me to dress like a nurse (as a sort of psychological ploy to disarm bad intentions) and go with him to look for a mutual friend. Unfortunately, his truck broke down and burst into fire. And that is when the trouble started. From Grains of Golden Sand:
"Busy fighting our fire, we didn't notice the two cars slide into the parking lot and brake to a shuddering stop. I heard the noise and looked up from frantically searching under the vehicle for more flames and smoke. My heart nearly stopped. A pair of yellow taxis—probably commandeered—were bursting with uniformed military. They stared for a brief second then, menacingly, they clambered out like Genghis Khan’s warriors dismounting dun-colored ponies. Efficiently, they surrounded our wounded truck.
Luc straightened up from the hood, water pail in hand. I saw his fist tense up on the bucket as he faced the troops.
“What the hell are you doing here?” barked the jut-jawed leader. He was a clean-cut officer, younger than half his henchmen. His squad glared at us belligerently with drawn AK47s. They bristled with barely restrained violence.
Luc started forward and the men lifted their weapons higher. Luc stopped, mouth working soundlessly.
“Did you hear me?” This time a bellow: “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hey man, can't you see? Vehicle broken down!” Luc hollered back. He stabbed a finger at the cab. “Look at those fuses!”"
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