The Power Cut

At eight o'clock on a cold Tuesday evening, everybody in the old building on Hill Street in Glasgow was doing something different. Mrs. Ross on the first floor was cooking fish for her dinner. The students on the second floor were watching a football match on TV. Mr. Okafor on the third floor was taking a shower and singing very loudly.

Then, at ten past eight, the lights went out. All of them. The TV stopped, the cooker stopped and the music stopped. For a moment, the building was completely silent.

Mrs. Ross opened her door and looked into the dark hall. "Hello? Is anybody there?" The students were coming down the stairs with their phones. "Our match was just getting exciting!" one of them said. Mr. Okafor arrived last, with wet hair and a big towel. "I was washing my hair when the water turned cold," he said. Everybody laughed.

Mrs. Ross found some candles in her kitchen. While she was lighting them, the students brought biscuits, and Mr. Okafor brought a guitar. They sat on the stairs and talked for the first time. Three years in the same building, but they didn't know each other's names.

The lights came back at half past nine. Nobody moved. "Can we do this again next week?" Mr. Okafor asked. "Without the power cut," said Mrs. Ross. Now, every Friday, the neighbors meet on the stairs with candles and biscuits. And Mr. Okafor plays the guitar, but he doesn't sing.