My Fire Story

Fire has always frightened me. 

As a child, when sermons turned toward the coming of Christ and the world’s end by fire, I found myself imagining an alternative: water. I would choose it without hesitation. I knew how to swim. Water suggested motion and a chance to endure. I would think of Noah and the ark, the gathering of animals, and the preservation of a small world within a larger catastrophe. In that story there was devastation, but there was also survival, a quiet continuity that endured beyond the flood. Fire, in contrast, allowed no such imagination. Fire erased and left nothing behind that could be gathered again.

In our home, water had authority over flame. When we cooked with charcoal or burned refuse outside, it was water that ended the blaze. I watched how quickly a bucket could undo what had begun with a spark. This small domestic ritual was proof that water subdued fire. Water restored order. My preference grew into conviction. I trusted water because it could be entered, because it cooled a body rather than consumed it.

My fear of fire persisted and deepened over the years. It became part of my inner life, an anxiety that followed me through ordinary days. When I heard of a family of three who died from a gas leak that ignited their home, I mumbled in disbelief, shaken by how quickly everything could be reduced to ashes. The kitchen was a place of calculation and unease. I would watch the gas cylinder, its metal surface unremarkable and silent, and imagine the invisible line between safety and disaster. I would think of the moment before ignition, the unnoticed accumulation, the instant when everything changes. I would picture a body caught in flames and try to understand what it would endure, how much pain would set in, and whether thought would persist or vanish. These reflections did not leave me. 

Fear, in this way, became something I lived with even though I wished to escape it. It occupied a space in me that I could neither dismiss nor fully confront. I would attempt to reason through it, to place it within the boundaries of probability, but the mind does not always yield to such reasoning. It returns to the image, to the possibility, to a catastrophe that can emerge from what appears stable.

On the third of June in 2015, all these anxieties were brought into a single, irrevocable point. That Wednesday began with anger, trivial in its origin and disproportionate in its hold on me. The evening before, I had argued with my parents over a new phone. I was tired of using my pocket money to buy data, tired of watching videos on the HTC phone I owned, its small screen straining my eyes and its limitations frustrating me. I could not install the music application I wanted. These grievances grew into a boil, and I flared up at them. I raised my voice, and I insisted. My parents refused to indulge me. Looking back, I see the smallness of the anger and the narrowness of its focus. 

I was in my first year at St Thomas Aquinas Senior High School, an all-boys day school in Cantonments. It was the third term. August promised a long break, and September would bring my second year. I looked ahead to that transition with anticipation. Advancement meant proximity to freedom. 

My experience in school was complicated. Some seniors kept their distance from me, aware of the attention I had received from the headmaster following the discovery of my sickle cell condition. The attention, intended as care, created a barrier. It set me apart in ways I did not always understand. I moved through the school with a certain aloof presence, conscious of being seen and avoided at the same time.

My parents did what they could within their means. They ensured that my education continued without interruption, even when my health required adjustments. On days when I experienced a crisis, they paid for a taxi to bring me back home. They gave me extra money for taxis when finding a public vehicle proved difficult. I lived in Upper Weija, beyond the Gbawe municipality, far from the school. The journey home demanded patience and endurance. There were three routes I could take, and each had its own challenges.

The first route took me from Danquah Circle to Circle, then from Circle to Mallam, and finally from Mallam to my home. The second involved walking with colleagues to 37, then taking a vehicle to Lapaz, continuing to Mallam, and completing the final stretch. The third route passed through Accra. From there, I would walk to Graphic Road, board a vehicle to Mallam, and continue home. Each route required three separate vehicles. School ended at 5 o’clock in the evening, and the journey could extend for hours.

I preferred the Circle route because it was affordable. Conductors would sometimes reduce the fare when many students boarded at once. Even so, the journey was long. Traffic delayed us, and I often arrived home late, too tired to study and too late to eat. Sleep would overtake me in the vehicle, interrupted by the movement of passengers getting off. The 37 route demanded long walks and higher costs. My condition required me to move slowly, to pause and rest. These pauses prolonged the journey. I would reach 37 late in the evening and arrive home even later. The Accra route presented its own difficulties. Vehicles were scarce, and the traffic was inexorable. The crowds moved in on every side. The market overwhelmed the senses, and the strain of navigating through it made the journey exhausting.

I moved between these routes depending on the day. That week, I had chosen the 37 route on Monday and Tuesday. I intended to continue with it. I often travelled with Solomon, a colleague who shared part of the journey. On that day, I woke with the same anger that had marked the previous evening. It stayed with me as I prepared for school. In that anger, I left behind my umbrella, something I usually carried without fail.

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What I remember most clearly is money, or rather, the absence of it. I had savings then. One thousand, five hundred naira. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Money saved from small gifts and balances from errands, the kJune and July were months of frequent rain in those years, before the patterns began to change. The rains never stopped, and August would bring abundance in the markets. It had rained on Monday morning, so I arrived late to school. I did not consider that it might rain again on Wednesday. My mother said goodbye as I left. My father offered to walk me to the roadside. I ignored them both, focused on my own frustration. I left the house around 4:30 in the morning, intending to arrive early and spend time in the library.

At Lapaz, I saw a crowd waiting for vehicles to Madina. I thought of how the 37 route spared me such queues. School proceeded as usual. I enjoyed the Religious and Moral Education class. Physical Education held little appeal for me, though many students looked forward to it. In the afternoon, the sky changed. Clouds gathered, though I paid little attention. The thought of returning home brought my irritation again. I remained in the classroom after school, working on my elective mathematics homework. I decided to leave at 6 pm.

At precisely 5:32 pm, the rain began. It was intense. I remembered my parents’ instruction to stay indoors during heavy rain accompanied by strong winds. I stayed in the classroom. The rain continued for over an hour. By 6:30 pm, it had lessened. I chose to leave, walking through a light drizzle toward Circle.

Traffic proceeded from Danquah Circle past the Police Headquarters, through GBC, extending toward Nima and Circle itself. What would normally take thirty minutes extended beyond an hour and a half. The rain returned with force. By the time I reached Circle, the area was flooded. Water covered the ground, and in addition, there was no light. I moved through it without hesitation, focused on reaching the station where I could board a vehicle to Mallam.

There were no vehicles available. Crowds had gathered, forming long queues that showed no sign of movement. The shelters were full. People pressed together, seeking cover from the rain. I noticed another shelter nearby, less crowded, with more space. I moved toward it and found myself at a fuel station. A few attendants were present. Others had sought refuge there as well. I joined them.

The lights returned after a period of darkness. The attendants attempted to disperse the growing crowd, concerned about the number of people gathered near the pumps, many holding phones. Their efforts proved ineffective and the rain intensified as time passed. It approached nine in the evening.

Then, suddenly, I got an idea. I would take a vehicle to Odorkor and continue my journey from there. As if in response, I heard a conductor calling out the destination. I left the shelter and crossed to the opposite side of the road. I boarded the vehicle.

We had moved only a short distance when a loud explosion tore through the night. The sound was immediate and overwhelming. I turned and saw the reflection of fire behind me — such fiery brightness that consumed the darkness. Drivers accelerated, moving away from the source with urgency. In the vehicle, I repeated a single sentence, over and over, my voice rising without control. “It could have been me. It could have been me.”

What followed remains fragmented in my memory. I recall the movement of the vehicle, the blur of passing streets, the presence of other passengers. I do not remember the specific routes we took. I do not remember how I transferred between vehicles. My mother told me the next day that I arrived home around eleven at night. She said I appeared discombobulated, unable to explain what had happened in any coherent way.

There was no electricity when I arrived. When power returned, my parents turned on the television. The news reported that more than 150 people had died and were injured. The explosion had occurred at the fuel station where I had been standing. The rain had contributed to the disaster, spreading fuel across the flooded ground, creating conditions for ignition on a scale that defied comprehension.

My parents asked me to stay home the next day. They worried that the shock and stress could trigger a health crisis. I insisted on going to school. I left the house at seven in the morning. As I passed through Circle, I saw the aftermath: burnt structures, damaged vehicles, the remains of what had been a place of routine commerce. 

At school, the impact of the event became clearer. We were given two days off. A tree had fallen within the school compound, and a classroom had flooded. Furthermore, two students had lost their parents in the fire.

I listened to survivors speak on the radio: their voices on the public record, their experiences becoming part of a collective narrative, their frustrations and concerns. I understood that I was also a survivor, though my experience differed. I had been present and then absent, removed by a decision. I could not find a way to translate what had happened into appropriate phrases.

In the days that followed, I returned to the sequence of choices that had led me away from the fuel station. I thought of the week, of my decision to use the 37 route, of my anger that morning, of leaving my umbrella behind, of staying in the classroom, of choosing Circle instead of 37, of moving toward the fuel station, of leaving it when I heard the call for Odorkor. Each decision appeared small in isolation. Together, they formed a path that diverged from another path, one that ended in fire.

My fear of fire heightened after that day. It took on new dimensions, informed by experience rather than imagination alone. My mother responded in practical ways. She moved our gas cylinder outside the kitchen. She ensured that it was checked regularly so that any potential fault would be identified early. These actions provided a measure of reassurance, though they did not eliminate the underlying anxiety.

Years later, when an explosion occurred at Atomic Junction near TF Hostel during my time as an undergraduate, I experienced a return of that fear. My hostel was far from the site, but distance did not prevent the mind from returning to June 3rd. 

In reflecting on that day, I recognise the limitations of control. There is a tendency to search for meaning in the sequence, to identify a pattern that explains survival. I resist the tendency. The decisions I made were not guided by foresight. They were influenced by mood, by habit, by circumstance. The outcome cannot be attributed to intention alone.

At the same time, the experience has remained with me, influencing how I move through the world. It has informed my attentiveness to certain risks and my caution in specific situations. It has also introduced a peripatetic quality in my thoughts when I consider what might have occurred under slightly different conditions. I revisit the scene to understand its place within my life.

The memory is also superimposed upon other experiences, other fears, other moments of decision. I have learned to live with this complexity, to acknowledge it without allowing it to dominate every aspect of my thinking. I no longer imagine fire only as an abstract force. I have seen its reach. I have stood near its beginning and moved away before its full expression. This distance, however small, has become part of how I understand both the event and myself.

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Bright Aboagye counts Aja Monet and Akwaeke Emezi amongst his influences. He dreams of becoming a surrealist blues poet, writer, and restaurant entrepreneur. Bright hopes that his work inspires and gives hope to all who engage with it.

Cover credit: Victor Ola-Matthew.