FOUND HIM WITH MY SISTER

THE BOSS WHO CLEANED TOILETS

*CHAPTER 13: THE BOSS WHO CLEANED TOILETS*

I thought Liam was joking.

Rich men don't joke about cleaning toilets. They joke about golf, about shares, about "the economy is tough".

But at 5am the next morning, when I arrived at the hotel with my lunchbox (bread and polony, same as always), Liam was already there.

Wearing shorts. And a t-shirt that said "STAFF". And yellow gloves. The same big yellow gloves that were too big for me.

"Nandi, you are late. Room 201 is waiting," he said, like a real cleaner.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Liam! What are you doing? Your mother will kill you!"

"Let her kill me. My father did it, I can do it. Plus, you said we do it together."

And so we did.

Picture this: The owner of Umhlanga Beach Hotel - worth R50 million, drives a Range Rover, has a mansion with a pool that lights up blue - on his knees, scrubbing a toilet in Room 201, next to a girl from Umlazi Section C who earns R8,500.

The cleaning ladies, MaDlamini and MaNcube, almost fainted.

"Boss! Boss! You cannot! Leave it! We will do it!" MaDlamini shouted.

Liam looked up, sweat on his forehead. "MaDlamini, today I am not boss. Today I am trainee. Nandi is boss. Ask her."

I stood there, holding a mop, suddenly boss of my own boss.

Mrs. Khumalo-Dlamini arrived at 8am, as usual, for inspection. She expected to see me alone, tired, failing.

Instead she saw her son.

Her son - her only son, her legacy, the boy she sent to private school in Hilton, the boy she wanted to marry a doctor's daughter - with his hands in dirty water, cleaning a bathtub where a guest had left hair.

She stopped at the door of Room 203. Her mouth opened. No sound came out.

"Liam? What... what is this nonsense?" Her voice was not angry. It was broken.

Liam stood up, took off his gloves. "Mama, you said if she wants to be part of this family, she must start where Papa started. Papa started cleaning. So I'm starting with her. If she cleans, I clean."

"Liam, you are embarrassing the family name! Guests will see you!"

"Let them see me," Liam said. "Let them see that the owner of this hotel is not too good to clean his own toilets. My father would be proud."

I was holding my breath. The air was thick.

Mrs. Khumalo-Dlamini looked at me. Really looked at me. Not like a gold-digger. Not like a poor girl. Like a woman looking at another woman who made her son kneel on a bathroom floor voluntarily.

"Nandi, did you tell him to do this? Did you manipulate my son?"

"No, Ma," I said, voice shaking but clear. "I told him NOT to do it. Just like I told you I don't want your R30,000. I never asked Liam for anything. He chooses to be here."

She was quiet for a long time. Then she did something no one expected.

She took off her black blazer. Folded it. Put it on the clean bed. She looked at her red bottoms, sighed, took them off. Barefoot now, in her expensive stockings, on a bathroom floor.

"Give me gloves," she said to MaDlamini.

"MAMA?!" Liam and I said at the same time.

"You heard me. Give me gloves. If my husband started as a cleaner, and my son is cleaning, then I will clean too. One room. I want to see what is so special about this girl that makes my boys lose their minds."

MaDlamini ran and brought pink gloves - small size, for ladies.

Mrs. Khumalo-Dlamini - owner of three properties, drives a G-Wagon, has a house in Sandton and a flat in London - put on pink cleaning gloves.

She cleaned the toilet in Room 203. Slowly. Badly. She had never cleaned a toilet in 30 years. Her hands were shaking.

When she finished, she stood up, sweating. Her stockings had a small tear.

She looked at me, breathing hard.

"My husband died 5 years ago, Nandi. Do you know what he told me before he died? He said 'That girl from Umlazi you don't like - she has your hands. Hard working hands. Not soft like these Sandton girls who only know how to spend.' I didn't understand. Now I do."

She took off the gloves.

"You have 88 days left. But today... today you passed."

She put her red bottoms back on, picked up her blazer, and walked out. But before she left, she turned to MaDlamini.

"MaDlamini, from today, cleaners get a R500 increase. And lunch is on the hotel. My son reminded me we forgot to be human."

When she left, the cleaning ladies started ululating. "Ihiiih! Ihoo!"

Liam hugged me, his t-shirt wet with toilet water and sweat. I hugged him back, my uniform also wet.

We were both smelling like Jeyes Fluid. And we had never been happier.

That night, Liam drove me home again. But this time, when we reached Umlazi, Mama was waiting outside with a pot.

"My children, I made ujeqe and chicken. For the bosses who cleaned toilets today. MaDlamini called me and told me everything!"

We sat on small stools outside our small house, eating with hands, laughing - a billionaire, a domestic worker's daughter, and a gogo who braids hair for R50.

And for the first time, I thought maybe - just maybe - red bottoms and bare feet can walk the same road.

But tomorrow is Day 3. And Lindiwe is back. Standing at the hotel gate. With a baby bump and a new lie.