“My group of friends dealt with the stress and boredom in different ways. Some of us played squash in the mildewed courts of the Grand Hotel, while others went running along the river road, where brilliant sunsets bounced off the slow current like glass and gave the ugly city an almost wholesome glow. Many lost themselves in the dark dreary bars, or took advantage of cheap dope sold in bushels by nearly every kid who hawked cigarettes on the streets. There were extravagant costume parties with James Bond themes, or where you came dressed as your favorite dictator.

Music helped as much as anything, and the Congolese embraced their music as the only national treasure that still belonged to them. We’d stay out all night at the balmy rooftop bars, dancing to live, six-piece rumba bands, or deep in the local clubs where Werrason and Papa Wemba and Koffi Olomide delivered the multitudes each week. Back at home, it was Fela Kuti’s “Coffin for Head of State,” with its spacey, resonant darkness; Iggy Pop howling, “Baby, wanna take you out with me, come along on my death trip!” or Chan Marshall in the headphones while storms ripped over the river and kicked out the lights, that straight-razor voice like a spirit in the room, “Oh come, child, in a cross-bones style…come rescue me.”

— From Chapter Two: Daily Blood

But during the maximum paranoia of June, our methods of escape began to reflect the violence pressing in. Every Saturday, often after staying out all night, we’d gather in my friend Andy’s back yard, strap on gloves and headgear, and fight until we collapsed from pain or exhaustion. It became known as Fight Club Kinshasa.”