Umbilicus: An autobiographical novel

DIRTY LAUNDRY

IT'S A BRIGHT NOVEMBER morning, and hellishly hot. You have a cool bath and wash your hair, but the cloying humidity makes you break out in an instant sweat as soon as you've finished towelling off. There's no point in blow drying your hair because it'll just be scraped up into a messy top-knot straight afterwards, to get the lengths off your face and neck.

As much as you despise the subtropical climate and the restrictions it places on your hair and wardrobe choices, your trusty fourteen-hole Docs are the one thing you steadfastly refuse to compromise on. The resulting clash of babydoll dresses, underwear-as-outerwear, and fetish fashion paired with masculine calf-length boots may seem jarring to an outsider's eye. But within your alternative tribe, it's a key identifier and unifier, the ultimate statement of your misfit pride, a declaration of who you are and what you stand for, a guarantor of much-needed street cred. Your beloved go-anywhere, do-anything romper stomper footwear give you the confidence you need to take on the world. No-one fucks with a girl in a frock and Docs.

You stuff your dirty laundry into the battered leather wheelie suitcase you store under your bed, catch the lift which stinks of piss eight floors down, and step out onto the pavement, where you are assaulted by the acrid stench of exhaust fumes. Crossing the street, you pop into Leyden's, the little Indian takeaway joint, to buy a Coke and a fresh pack of cigarettes, before making your way up the hill, dragging the bulging suitcase behind you.

The laundromat is just off the underground parking lot beneath Berea Centre. Once the load is in, you head over to the public phone booths, scratch around for some small change, and dial Dad's work, a number you know off by heart.

'Dr van Katwijk's rooms,' Mom answers in her curt, clipped 'professional' voice.

'Hi Ma, it's me.'

'Oh hi, my darling,' her tone softens.

'Mom, sorry to bug you at work, but I need some help. Things have become a bit complicated with the OVC. Gretchen and Gray and I need to book and pay for our flights now, like in the next week or so. And straight after that, they say we need to apply for our visas, but only when we can provide bank statements proving we each have R5,750, the equivalent of £1,000, to take over with us. I've obviously got the money you guys gave me for my twenty-first to pay for the plane tickets, and I thought I had until January to save the last bit of money I need to take over, but now this has thrown a real spanner in the works. Gray and Gretchen have already saved up the full amount, and are good to go, and I really don't want to hold up the whole process because I'm the only one who's short. Please, please, please can you lend me some money? I know I'll be able to earn it between now and the end of January, and promise I'll pay you back every cent.'

'How much do you need?'

'Um, R1,000 should cover it.'

'I'll write you a cheque. Can you come fetch it from Dad's rooms, or do you want me to drop it off at your flat?'

'Um, if you could drop it off at the flat, that'd be great, thanks. I'm working night shift at the moment, so any afternoon this week is good.'

'How about today? I can swing by when I finish up here at lunchtime.'

'Perfect, thanks. I'm just busy doing my laundry. I'll be home from about noon onwards.'

'See you later then.'

'Okay. Oh, and Ma, thank you so much. I really appreciate it.'