By Mary Morgan
I couldn't batter down the door, I couldn't jump out the window, I couldn't phone anyone for help and no one was hearing my cries. There’s nothing like a real lock-in situation to put the current restrictions in perspective.
Here's the long version:
There I was, doing my weekly Spanish lesson over Skype, when the skies turned coat from blue to black and a gentle breeze became a raging storm. It happened in a second; such is the reality of rainy season here. So I asked my Spanish teacher to give me a moment, whilst I charged around closing all the windows and doors. I’ve learnt the hard way that if you leave anything open, the rain will torrent through the insect mesh – which is always filled with dust, no matter how often you clean it – and quickly create a very dirty flood. So I set my laptop on the floor near the entrance to the kitchen, headphones dangling. I’d be back in a second, I promised.
And then: whoosh! and bang! A blast of wind slams the kitchen door closed, with me on the other side of it. I never close that door, not any more – it’s become a tighter and tighter fit in its frame, as the humid air swells the wood. And, it seems, today was the day that it finally burst its shell. I yanked and pulled and twisted – I tried pushing and coaxing as well – but: nothing. I slid a knife between the door and the frame; I bent the knife but the door didn’t budge. I was trapped.
My Spanish teacher, meanwhile, watched me – helpless. She told me later that she’d wanted to call someone, but had no idea who to call. My phone, of course, was the wrong side of the door – so I couldn’t give her any numbers, or even speak to her. I yelled and gesticulated through the glass, but I knew she couldn’t hear me. The headphones were still plugged in; meaning the speakers wouldn’t pick my voice. I felt like a goldfish in a bowl or an animal in the zoo.
My keys were on the other side, too – so I couldn’t throw them out of the window to allow someone to enter the flat and force the door from the other side. Besides, there was no one who could force entry anyway. I’d tried yelling out for security, who I knew should be around, but no one came. I guess they couldn’t hear me through the howling wind.
The glass, I thought: glass is breakable. Although it turns out this kind wasn’t; two layers of something which no amount of battering with my chopping board would budge. If only I had a rolling pin… My Spanish teacher looked on all the while.
At this point, I considered jumping out of the window – I might break my legs, but… Then I remembered that they are fitted with iron bars anyway. I’d only been locked in for around 15 minutes by this point – but it’s amazing how quickly you can begin to panic if you feel like you’re trapped and there’s NO WAY OUT.
I upped my yelling game, sounding quite distressed I’m sure, and eventually security came – a new guard who I’d not met before (or didn’t think I had; my glasses were also on the wrong side of the door, meaning my vision was blurred.) We struggled to understand each other, my hysteria didn’t help, but eventually he concluded that my flat must be on fire and that I was burning inside it. Thankfully, this misunderstanding caused him to panic, too – and a few moments later my upstairs neighbour emerged beneath the window – with another man, and a ladder. I’m not sure who the man was but he scaled up to my balcony, shimmied from there to the window, and passed me a screwdriver. It took a few attempts and rather more oomph than my weedy arms can usually muster, but eventually I managed to force the frame. I was free!
The door has now been taken off its hinges and rests, harmless, against the living room wall. My Spanish teacher says she’s never had such a dramatic lesson. I am drinking a much-needed beer.
Mary Morgan is a British journalist working for BBC Media Action in Freetown.
Copyright © 22/05/20 Politico Online
