EXTRA COLUMN Letter from Windhoek –

How do you make it rain? Just do your laundry, says Lloyd Zandberg.

At first I didn’t believe it, until my brother’s science teacher – a certain Miss Kwik – told her class it was a fact. As a young boy it didn’t make any sense. I mean really, what are the odds? It turns out the odds are pretty good because I recently experienced this phenomenon myself. Miss Kwik said if you really wanted it to rain, you should simply do your laundry. It’s as if the rain gods see what you’re up to and decide: “We’ll spoil your day.” The moment you press that button on the machine, they open the sluice gates of heaven. Suddenly all the rain that has been threatening for weeks comes pouring down, aimed straight at those bright whites you’re trying to hang on the line. Bam! People don’t believe me, but this actually happens. Maybe it only happens here in Windhoek where I live. (In Cape Town, I know, people don’t steal cars any more – just water.) As soon as I pile that first bundle of clothes into my washing machine, it starts: a rolling rumble above my head like a herd of elephants having a church bazaar. It’s scary! I add a scoop of washing powder and press the start button. Already, the first drops are falling. By the time the machine is on its spin cycle, it will be properly bucketing down. I resign myself to building a kind of “clothes horse” in the lounge, using chairs and couches. I’ll drape my damp underpants and work shirts over it and hope for the best.

According to my Ouma, who used to grow mielies and sunflowers on a farm called Middelpos outside Tsumeb, it happened to them all the time. Wednesday was laundry day. The women who worked on the farm would knuckle down and scrub two-tone shirts, sheets, tablecloths and towels by hand. But just before the time came to hang all that laundry, the elephant bazaar would start up, thwarting the best efforts of the people of Middelpos. In desperation, Ouma would hang the laundry in a shed. I remember, when I used to visit them, that the towels sometimes smelled like mielies. It was the easiest way to tell if they’d been having a good rainy season. The other day, my mom called me from Cape Town and we were discussing this peculiar Namibian phenomenon. I was trying to convince her that it was becoming a more regular occurrence. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “And anyway, don’t complain. Water is a blessing.” My parents would know: They live in the shadow of Table Mountain; the dry shadow. It’s drier than springbok biltong down there. I asked her about the water crisis in Cape Town. “It’s chaos!” she said. “I haven’t showered for three days.” “That’s no good,” I said. “How do you manage to do laundry?” “We don’t. We don’t have water for such luxuries. I wear my T-shirt until it starts to upset people. I throw away my underwear after two days.” “I’ve got a suggestion,” I said, and I knew she wouldn’t like it. “Why don’t you get your whole street to do their laundry on the same day? You guys need greater numbers. Volume. Stack the odds. The more people do it, the better your chances.” “Of what?” she asked sceptically. “Of rain! Do your laundry and Theewaterskloof will fill up in no time.” “This isn’t a joke!” she shouted over the line. Indeed, my mom didn’t believe me, Ouma or Miss Kwik.

A week later I called her again. The weather forecast had predicted a downpour in Cape Town and I wanted to ask her if she’d seen any promising clouds. But she didn’t answer. The phone just rang. Moments later a message came through: “Sorry, I didn’t hear my phone ring. I was outside hanging laundry when it started raining. Lots of love, talk later.” And then I realised: A blessing is always a blessing. No matter how it arrives.

Lloyd Zandberg is a journalist at Republikein in Windhoek.

I remember, when I used to visit them, that the towels sometimes smelled like mielies. It was the easiest way to tell if they’d been having a good rainy season.