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      Oh God, oh God, oh God. Why did I listen to Natalie? I should have just stayed in the house and taken a nap, not wandered into the nearest coffee shop and ordered a hash brownie to calm my nerves. It seemed so innocent, so harmless. And it was, until it kicked in half an hour ago, just as I was waiting for Dania to collect me to take me to the club. I only ate a bit of it at first, but nothing happened, so I thought maybe it wasn’t working, so I had a bit more, and then a bit more, and then the whole thing was gone, and then … oh God. My tongue feels swollen, the cobbled pavement like chewing gum under my wedge heels. And I’m sweating, despite the icy air. Cold sweat. Cold, greasy sweat. Saliva floods into my mouth – I can’t be sick. Not here on the street. Not in front of Dania. No … don’t think like that. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.

      ‘You okay, kära?’ Dania’s voice is too loud. In fact, everything is too loud and too bright. It’s winter, there’s no sun, why is everything so bright?

      ‘Yes,’ I think I say.

      She says something else, but it’s all I can do to keep up with her as she shepherds me along the street. A part of me is vaguely aware that I should be paying attention to my surroundings, because at some point later, if I don’t die from dagga poisoning or get arrested for impersonating an impersonator, I’ll have to make my way back to the house. This horrible feeling has to pass soon, surely? I fight my way through another wave of nausea and now I feel … floaty. Yes. Floaty is the best way to put it. Like I’m here, but I’m not really quite here, like my body is a shadow or a hologram, fluid, but not liquid. But the floaty feeling doesn’t entirely numb the thrumming in my stomach, especially when I think about where we’re going. I feel like I’m on the way to my own funeral.

      ‘Whoa,’ Dania says, lashing an arm out and pulling me back as I’m about to step off the pavement. ‘Dahlink, you must look the other way, ja?’ she says as a cyclist flies past in a blur. I was almost toast, which wouldn’t have been so great in the long term, but at least it would have solved my immediate problems.

      I look right, and see that she’s not lying; things here go in a different direction to what I’m used to back home. A girl like me could lose her head in a city like this if she doesn’t pay attention. Breathe. Concentrate on breathing. I drag cold air into my lungs, exhaling giant plumes of air like I’m smoking one of my sister’s Rothmans. The fug in my head clears a little, and the nausea is definitely lessening. Good. We stride past a canal with fairy lights that give the stone bridge a surreal jigsaw-puzzle vibe. Somewhere off in the distance, Dania is telling me about the area. Historical significance, something about the red-light district, blah blah blah. I nod and uh huh her onwards.

      There are houseboats parked along our path, or moored, that’s right, you moor a boat, you don’t park it. Mr Mason, my high-school English teacher would be proud. At least the education Natalie sacrificed so much to get me through was worth something. I suck in more air, desperate to sharpen my brain.

      I should never have eaten that whole brownie. Surely I’ve learnt by now that listening to Natalie leads to trouble nine times out of ten? Like the time she shoplifted a lipstick when I was ten and she was fourteen and she put it in my bag, saying they’d never search a little kid. But this is way more serious than a phone call to your parents and being grounded for a few months. It’s immigration fraud! If I get caught, I’m in as much trouble as if I’d stepped off that kerb straight into that five-speed bike. I’m definitely going straight to hell, via jail. Or this could just be the dope-induced paranoia I’ve heard about. I need to pull myself together.

      We pass a houseboat and inside a cat is curled up on the kitchen windowsill. I wish I were that cat, with no responsibilities for the night other than licking myself. Dania’s still talking to me, but her words float in one ear and out the other. I try to respond as generically as possible so my answers cater to the widest range of possible questions. Uhmmmm works, so does a vigorous nod, delivered with an intense and interested look on my face.

      We cross the street and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window. It makes me want to giggle. Underneath my open coat (Why is it open? It’s freezing out here), I’m squeezed into Natalie’s Rihanna dress, my hair styled in a mirror-image of Rihanna’s do. For a second, I’m almost grateful to be stoned: I look like sausage meat stuffed into a too-small casing. My hair and make-up are passable, I suppose: I haven’t forgotten all of Natalie’s and my secrets from back when dressing up like Rihanna was our party trick.

      I get the overwhelming urge to tell Dania that looking like a celebrity is like being very tall. People constantly make a point of telling you how tall you are. Like they’re letting you in on a secret they’ve been the first to uncover.

      It’s just karaoke, it’s just karaoke, I repeat to myself as paranoia makes my nerves swell again. Sing ‘Umbrella’ and jump around a bit, it will be fine. But another voice in my head has something else to say: You know what ‘fine’ stands for don’t you? Effed up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional. Shut up, I tell myself. Turns out my paranoid stoner inner voice is really annoying.

      I almost walk into