I was twelve years old when the fire started. At the time, I didn’t really grasp the concept of human tragedy, and as such, only knew two things about the event:

1) Fire is hot, and therefore, bad for you.

2) We had to move soon.

Fifteen years and three political coups later, they finally got around to putting it out last week. For the hell of it, I went back to the area. Maybe I was just trying to find out what exactly happened.

There are people who can tell you what happened. They remember every precise detail, down to what you were wearing the Day Of. You should never, under any circumstances, listen to them. These people can charm you in six languages (two of which are secret languages I don’t understand) before they beat you and rape you and steal your wallet.

(Continued)