The Father’s House – Jason Dice Staggie

The children are deformed in mind and body. All the boys have wide, fat, little hips and waddle around like ducks from my village. 

I saved one of the boys from Satan. He was stuck in the school elevator, and I heard him scream. I am not allowed inside the elevator, but I managed to open the door. He was one of the bigger ones, boys who had become aware of their penises and wielded them at night, terrorising my colleagues tasked with their care. 

The boy hugged me, and I recoiled. “Voices!” he shouted. 

Satan’s voices told him he would die in the elevator. I turned and walked away; he was not my problem, not one of mine.

The children are why I am here. My kids are Mariam and Zafar, and they are not like the others. They sit attentively and share a desk as the skinny math teacher drones on in bad English. The local male teachers never acknowledge me. It’s as if my blackness is a selfie camera on a phone; it’s there, but you never notice it. It’s designed to be hidden. 

The balding, dark-suited Bodyguard has turned up the volume on his smartphone. His main phone, a relic Nokia from the 90’s, rests on his desk. The music is a ballad, some beautiful Persian or Turkish voice, which I imagine, laments the unpredictability of love and the futility of life if it is unreciprocated. Bodyguard sighs; today is one of those days. He’s likely to find fault with me, the math teacher, the students, or a myriad of other things he believes are his right to control. Which it is in this world – his charge is related to the president, legitimate bloodline, and daughter of the likely successor to the throne.

I share a sarcastic smile with the Teacher’s Assistant, Nilufar, next to me at the back of the class. She shakes her head and resumes scrolling on her phone. I look out the window towards Prez, as I call him, and shake my head, too. Prez’s image has been painted on the twenty-meter wall, a clone of many such paintings and photographs which dominate public spaces all over the city. Hamster cheeks, hair dyed pitch black. The boys resemble him, and before I understood this situation, I believed they were all his children. All fifty-four of them.

The music rises, drowning out the timid teacher. The Golden Girl turns around and says, “Akka Daler, we can’t hear.” His face jerks away from his phone but softens when he sees her. She repeats something in Persian.

“Yes, Akka Daler,” says Mariam, which prompts the golden one to look at her, nod, and acknowledge my girl for the first time since I’ve been here. 

Bodyguard kills the music and speaks to Nilufar in rapid Persian. She glows at him; big green eyes forever locked in the deception of these types of men. 

“Yes! Study. Study! Good!” He tells us all.

A bell resonates through the school – class is over, and Golden Girl screams at the math teacher, “Homework!”

I have already copied it from the whiteboard. He had capitalised on the pause to ensure he checked off the final box on his lesson plan, nervously glancing at the clock and the Big Brother classroom video camera as he did so. 

I go to my kids to help them pack up and whisper to Mariam, “Well done.” She squeezes my hand and gives me a little smile. Wise beyond her years this one.

“You too, good job today,” I tell Zafar. “This math is easy, no?” 

I tilt his head and inspect the bruise on his chin again. It’s purple now. 

They’re genuinely not like the others. 

*

There are fifteen of us Africans. We are all mostly in our twenties, except for Auntie Theresa, a Kenyan in her late forties, who has been with The Father for over ten years. She is like a stepmother to us, but like stepparents the world over, her true allegiance lies with the ones who came from her own body. This means she is tied to this paycheck. Tied to a paycheck, the situation for all of us taking care of family back home. 

Auntie Theresa leads us through the flowery courtyard to our daily early evening meeting with Ms Sonya. The compound is massive and houses three buildings – the dormitory for us and the kids, the mansion for The Father, and the dormitory for the mothers. We know the mothers are rotated in the mansion, as the kids are requested to visit only on certain days, sometimes weeks or months apart. 

The conference room is airy, a slight breeze from open windows whipping ripples in the orange, black and blue flags paraded in the corners of the room. “Hi Prez,” I say under my breath. Prez smiles back at me from the centre wall. It is the only room I ever see in this mansion, and I am grateful for that. 

Ms Sonya’s nails are painted red with black moon shapes today. Her brown bob jumps and quivers as she lectures us. She resembles the local women with her pale skin tone, but her hair gives her away – flecks of blonde in that brown and cut short. Most of the locals inherited the long hair gene and wear the hijab, symbols of their divine Rapunzelesque femininity.

Often, when she’s in this mood, I focus on the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. It is like watching a puppet show with Emotion the puppeteer, pulling at folds of skin to give a grand performance to those in the know. There are various complaints. Mothers have alerted her that some of the nannies are confusing the children by the way they dress. Janice from Uganda challenges her and asks what she means. She says the dress code wasn’t written in no contract of hers. Ms Sonya, in her thick Russian accent, shouts at Janice to shut up, pauses and breathes deeply, like replaying some meditation app mantra in her mind. 

“What you do by yourself is your business. But we must work together. I have no problem with you, Janice, or with what you believe and do. But you are here now, and there are rules here.”

“Still. Didn’t see that in no contract,” retorts Janice.

“Then you’ll get a new contract tomorrow! I don’t want this to lead up to The Father. You understand.”

The mention of him subdues Janice, who fidgets with her cornrows and turns away. 

We collect our phones from Ms Sonya and file out of the mansion. Eyes glued to our screens as we walk; we have missed them, but maybe we just miss home.

I notice the Sudanese girl did not collect her phone. She’s new and the youngest amongst us. Dainty and pretty with brown, almond eyes. I am sure Janice has already made a play, like she did with me when I had first arrived. But the scarf on the Sudanese girl’s head must have been a deterrent; then again, there are rumours Janice had “turned” a few of the local TAs, so hijabs can lie. So can men back home. The loneliness here can be overwhelming. It plays games with your attention and roots you in a feeling of loss. Sometimes all we need is a human body to hold us.

“They didn’t take your phone? I’m Nelago, by the way. From Namibia.”

“Oh hi, I’m Zainab from Sudan. Nice to meet you!”

She’s so bubbly, so innocent. Eyes wide to the possibilities in the new and uncharted, all hope, no disappointment yet to slice little paper cuts in dreams. But those insidious cuts, if they persist, tend to open bigger wounds. Soon you’re all bloody, and the dreams stop, at night and during the day. 

“Yes, I keep mine. I’m the new Arabic tutor.”

Arabic must be why she assumes she should receive special privileges. It’s not like we aren’t qualified to teach; we all are in our countries. Yet we’re saddled with the title: nanny. I don’t believe it has anything to do with Arabic, but those wide eyes must learn to narrow eventually in the harsh rays of this world’s sun. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

I receive a text from my mother. My father is sick, and she wants me to come home. 

*

A striking and peculiar fact about the city is that most of the streets and parks are named after poets and writers. We are ferried from compound to school; therefore, Google Street View has opened a whole new world to me. Most nights I eagerly read at least one forgotten English-translated Persian poem. While reading, I imagine the words pepper my head like the cooling morning dew from my village. The children are not allowed to learn Persian; they can barely speak it – English, Russian and Arabic are the lingua francas in the house that The Father has built. 

I’m fielding a barrage of texts from my mother when my roommate, Shireen, walks in.

“Nelago, I need to speak to you.” She closes the door behind her. 

“I’m in big trouble, girlie.”

I sit up in bed, she joins me, and in a flash, a little disk with two red vertical lines on the white background is passed my way. 

“Fuck,” is all I say, although my first thought, was how. 

“I might leave too. Some family problem at home.”

Shireen sobs, “They have the passports though. Going home is not an option for me, Nel, not like this. Who’s to even say they will allow you?”

I rub her back as tears stream down in a clumpy, snotty, spiderweb mess. “Whose is it?”

By simple math, I know it can only be one of three men. Shireen’s kids are toddlers, so she never leaves the compound, as those kids do not attend school. Those children are also rarely taken on trips.

“I need to get rid of it, Nel. There’s no other way. He, he just won’t understand. No one will understand.”

I don’t agree with her, but it’s not my body, and she’s the closest thing to a friend I have here – if friendship can be considered true if only created from snapshots you choose and not your entire camera roll. 

She’s much taller than me; slender and graceful she’s known as The Giraffe amongst the rest. I reach up and wipe the dampness from her head with my palm. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Can you get pills from that teacher? I don’t want anyone to know. I wanna stay here; I just need more time.”

“Just put it in the weekly order, rather. Can you even get that OTC?”

“I heard yes. With Ms Sonya? Are you crazy? That teacher that helped you?”

“I don’t know, Shireen. I mean, that was a once-off.”

She moves my hand from her face and skips the two meters to her bed. 

“Just leave. You can, you know, have your family around or even find better ways to do what you choose. This is no place for that.”

“I knew you wouldn’t help me! It’s okay, forget I asked!”

She spreads herself on her bed and cuddles a pink teddy bear she told me The Father gave her for Christmas last year. Moments later she’s on her phone. She’s been listening to the Charli XCX album Brat on repeat since it dropped, and its touched her soul in ways only the greatest classical compositions can. 

I want to help her. I doubt I can. She’s made a mammoth mistake, and the only viable path leads to her home. All the others are cordoned off, overrun by foliage, or are a trap, a mind lure of promises and hope ultimately ending in grief. 

She’s followed the path trodden by beautiful giraffes. 

*

Recess, and Zafar is sandwiched between two older brothers. Their hands punching and pulling. I sprint over and get in the way like a boxing referee, but the older boys attack like wild dogs and ignore my slim frame. I shelter Zafar from the blows and shout at the boys. 

Kurush, a boy with stubble on his chin and a red birthmark covering half his face, stops and laughs like a hyena, taunting and grating. “You don’t even know my father. He doesn’t care about Zafar! You know he’s the richest man in Asia! You must shut your mouth.”

Zafar cuddles his head into my thigh like a cat marking his safe zone. 

Kurush is smarter than the rest, although I’ve always attributed this to his mother’s influence, not genetics. He’s aware of the twisted game of succession and inheritance these boys will fight in the future. Daily, through punches and snide comments, he chips at the hearts of his brothers, knowing it all compounds and one day he will obliterate the meek. Rumour has it that The Father took a dining room bullet from his blood brother after the civil war, when it was discussed how to divide the spoils. Kurush is aware of this; Zafar is not – my aim is to protect, not to arm. They are so young; they do not need burdens created by previous generations. Like us, they do not deserve it.

The other brother, Suhrob, squint and mute, reaches for Zafar, but The Teacher appears and grabs Suhrob by the collar. He raises his voice, but Kurush is cool, imitating The Teacher’s usual essence. 

“No problem here, sir. Zafar is saying Messi is better than Ronaldo! And Suhrob is for Ronaldo. Messi is giving to Israel, sir!”

“We’ve been over this, Kurush. Messi is not giving to Israel. You can’t believe everything on TikTok. So stop this, now!”

“Yes sir, we’re doing nothing. But we know you love Ronaldo. Tell Zafar.”

“Ronaldo and Messi are great, but Maradona is the GOAT.” 

“Oh yes, Maradona, I know him.” Zafar nods like that lying politician we all hate. 

“Maradona, yes!” laughs the hyena.

“Go play, boys!”

Kurush hangs his arm around Suhrob, and waddles away, and I’m instantly self-conscious. The Teacher is too; his feet agitated on the dodgeball lines on the tarmac.

“I’m sorry, Zafar. Are you okay?”

“I don’t like Messi, sir. I’m also Ronaldo.”

“Do you know Ronaldo Fenômeno? The phenomenon. He was even better than Maradona. From Brazil.”

“His name is also Ronaldo? Brazil?”

“Yeah, ask Ms Nelly to show you some of his videos on YouTube, okay?”

Zafar looks up at me, and I smile, which makes him smile. He puffs his chest out and runs over to the jungle gym. Sensitive but strong, this one. 

I can feel eyes on us, but perhaps it’s just the humidity. The hottest days I have ever experienced were in this city. Still, I’m routinely asked about heat in Africa. The attempt at small talk always refers to the continent, not solely my little slice of wild animal paradise. 

“You okay, too? I’m sorry that keeps on happening to him, but you know, this country can be confusing. It’s like an episode of Black Mirror or The Twilight Zone sometimes.”

I laugh and stifle it with my palm. This man is like my kids, different. All the single and divorced women are staring at us. I know because I know this place. They didn’t care for my child when he was being assaulted, but they have all raised their gaze from the playground games they’re forced to play with the progeny of the elite.

“I need to speak to you about something.”

“We can meet at that classroom on the fifth floor during homework time?”

“Yes.”

The Teacher picks at his big mop of afro curls. I can’t help but smile around this man. 

And it scares me, but beyond all that, it feels good. But doesn’t it always at the onset? 

The flamboyant teacher from Mumbai marches towards us, and we both spot him. 

“Okay.”

*

Zafar tells me his mother is getting married in their hometown and will travel there this weekend. I don’t understand, but I don’t inquire. He clams up if you press about family matters. All the kids do; it doesn’t matter how lacking they are in IQ. The Father has imprinted a world onto their brains as you would onto a birthday cake or clay toy figure.

We are alone in the compound dining hall. Mariam finished on time with the rest and has gone to her evening Arabic lesson. Zafar chases chicken morsels on his plate. Dinner tonight is of Turkish origin, which he usually loves but I despise. 

Driver One struts in, ignores me, and shouts at Zafar to finish. I rise from my seat and get in his face. 

“What are you doing? He’s nearly finished.”

Red eyes bulge. Bits of saliva leak from his mouth; he’s likely been taking that green powder that makes the men here spit. He wants to hit me; his inner algorithm knows it’s the right result. In a rapid bout of violence, he smashes his fist on the table and grins at the female kitchen workers who flinch and hunch over as they clear the crockery.

“Boy must come to the Arabic class now!” 

“Go to speak to Ms Sonya, go speak to her. He is staying here until he finishes his dinner!”

Knives in his eyes, he tries to cut at me, but I match his blows and hold his stare. He grunts at Zafar in Russian and walks out. This piece of shit is one of the men I suspect will be a father soon.

Zafar grips his fork tighter and dives into his food. I touch his arm and sing my mother’s favourite song.

“And mama used to say. Take your time, young man. And mama used to say, do not you rush to get old. Take your time, young man.” 

“Ms Nelly, my mama cries a lot,” he says, staring at his plate. “But then she always hugs me.”

“She loves you. Just like me.” I stroke his shoulder from across the table.

“Yes.”

“Mmm…will The Father go to your mama’s wedding?”

“I dunno, but he will buy us all iPhones in Dubai! Ms Nelly, he has many weddings!”

“Will your mama stay here after the wedding?”

“I dunno, but I will stay.”

He twirls his fork in the rice, and we hear doors slam. Driver One has returned and stands at the exit and glares at us. 

I take Zafar’s fork and eat the piles of rice he’s sectioned into camps.

“It’s fine. Everything will be fine, Zafar.”

*

Mariam is all giggles in her Princess Elsa dress. We have been invited to a Disney Princess-themed birthday party. Miraculously, Ms Sonya approved our request to attend. I am anxious about leaving Zafar, as Saturdays are generally free days for the children. Usually, they ambush each other around the compound and have supervised television time in the TV room. 

I am excited for the excursion and wear a dress, which reaches a few inches above my knee. Mariam tells me I look pretty, just like her mother, and although we cannot trust their ability to discern good and bad in the heart of men, we can, especially at these young ages, trust in their ability to say things as they honestly see them. 

Driver Two drops us off in front of the Play Centre. He’s one of the men I assume could have slept with Shireen. The Play Centre is one large, open-plan space. Trampolines in one corner, dance floor in the other. Dining area, PlayStations and arcade cabinets in the centre. Only three girls from class have been invited, and I’m surprised they’re in jeans and t-shirts. 

The Golden Girl is in a flowing, modified Princess Jasmine gown. She clocks us at the entrance and runs over, Bodyguard in her slipstream. The other parents and kids watch. Bar for the workers, we’re the only people in the entire building. 

“You can’t come in,” she hisses at Mariam. 

I wish her a happy birthday and ask why. She wails and tugs at Bodyguard’s pants, who stares at my bare legs as if in a TikTok trance. I squat down to Mariam. I know my girl is on the verge of tears. I see and feel the wicked smiles from the rest of the little girls. They crave a humiliation. They have sacrificed and listened to their parents; they understand the way things work here. 

Driver Two is a sloppy bag of stoicism and tells us that what stands in the way becomes the way. This cryptic comment surprises me, and I rule him out as Shireen’s impregnator. 

Mariam does not cry until we get home and we are alone. I brush her long locks to calm her. Later, when I look for Zafar, I find him in the playground for the little kids. 

He’s been buried in the sandpit.

They are forced on the path of ostriches, and it breaks my heart. 

*

The Teacher is broken. He’s like me, he’s truly alone here. I see it sometimes when he receives a text or call from his LDR girlfriend, or soulmate as he refers to her. It gives him this pep; his shoulders and eyes brim with such fire. It’s intoxicating, that flame; it devours all logic. Once you witness it, everything else seems insufficient; it’s like a half-full nightclub or the melodic singing of birds you never get to see. 

The other women don’t view him as broken; they only see that half-baked charm. Instead, they blame her for not physically being with him and view it as carte blanche to flirt in their archaic, conservative ways. They subscribe to the simple mantra that marriage is everything, and in that sense, he’s fair game. And it’s all her fault, as it would be theirs, if ever they faced a similar predicament. 

“You know what I heard about those kids,” says The Teacher. “This guy who fought in the war told me that it is the way of God. He grants you certain things but then takes away in other ways.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. We’re alone in one of the unused classrooms on the top floor of the building.

“Well, The Father has obviously been blessed with wealth, but when it comes to offspring, he’s basically just chasing what every parent wants. A healthy child.”

“Could it be more logical? That maybe it’s because he’s a very old man? I just don’t think you understand the bigger picture here.”

Sometimes I think The Teacher uses me for information. He embodies that scene in some American family movies from the 80’s and 90’s, where a suburban family are at the dinner table, and parents ask their kids how their day was and what they learned at school. I remember watching those films and thinking American kids drink a lot of cow’s milk. Also, that those questions were pointless.

It is a raging civil war. Everyone is suspect in the Kafkaesque Republic of Overthinkingstan. There are fleeting ceasefires, and they keep me sane. The Teacher is just trying to help. 

He grins at my comment. “Perhaps. Anyway, about your passport and your friend…”

“Not my friend.”

“Well, I can’t get those pills for her. She’s gonna have to find another way. My suggestion is for her to go home. My advice to you is to get your passport back at all costs, though. 

It’s the most basic thing one needs to feel okay about everything here.”

“I spoke to our manager, and she said it’s in our contracts.”

The Teacher sighs. “That’s illegal.”

“Not in this place.”

“The trick is to give them something in return. That’s how it works here. But it doesn’t matter. We’re just passing through, right? Leave no trace. But yeah, please, get your passport back.”

*

– he’s asking for you dear

God, these texts gnaw at my spine. I leave her on read.

– it’s your duty as a daughter remember that

Pitching for guilt as always. Can’t deal with this.

– Mommy, it’s your man. Your choice. I had no say!

I text back after defusing another Kurush assault on Zafar.

– I don’t know what you mean dear – remember I love you

Sigh. Why do we allow guilt when it was not our fault? To quote Madame Pelicot, “It’s not for us to have shame, it’s for them!” I leave her on read and reply the next day once I have digested the guilt, and it has wormed its way into finding a grand solution for all.

-I’ll try my best – I’m not coming home for him – but I will if you need me

 I toss my phone to the foot of the bed. 

*

The Father has organised a trip to a famous lake. It is my first proper outing with everyone. I have heard that if you and your kids are good, you might also tag along to Germany or Dubai or even the Maldives. There are rumours The Father has purchased a new private plane from the Mexican government, although some say from the Cartel.

We are in special minibuses, windows tinted black. The drive is over three hours. I watch the non-city people at the sides of the road and the beautiful stretches of white-capped mountains. This area is one of the most mountainous in the world, and the white peaks play games with my eyes. Games I had played as a child but had forgotten about. Games which sparked joy without intention; not the games fathers lie about, games that felt right.

The bearded men who roam the streets resemble weather-beaten farmers, old before their time, as if they begrudgingly worship their sun. I wonder if they know of The Father or what is happening in the city. The Internet is rigged when it comes to him. Wiped and cleaned, it’s as if the true reality of this experience can only be lived and not consumed. 

The lake is a shimmering mass of turquoise cushioned by cliffs. Driver Two opens his window and waves at a group of uniformed police officers stationed at the entrance. We’re the first of the fleet of minibuses to arrive.

“Iskander’s horse, or how you say, Alexander! The horse fell into this lake and drowned when they were fighting. The villagers say that full moon nights, the horse comes out of the lake to eat grass. In the winter, the horse, they say, runs on the ice!” 

Driver Two turns to us, “You don’t know this story? It’s one of our most famous; everyone knows it. You must learn about our country. It’s very, very interesting!”

We’re sectioned off on the bank of the lake. The Father and the mothers are at the foot on the green grass; nannies, kids and the Arabic Tutor on the other side, out of their earshot. 

Ms Sonya traipses around the edges on wedge sandals and barks orders at us, the kids and the catering crew, who prepare huge, fragrant pots of rice, lamb and carrots over smouldering coals.

*

Excitement and deformity of mind are an unpredictable cocktail, and chaos can ensue. A herd are soon in the water and marches inward like suicidal penguins drawn by tongues only they understand. Their nannies rush in and get their hair wet, spoiling their plans of looking pristine for the photos they will ask Ms Sonya to take for their social media feeds.

Mine are next to me on a blanket and wait for lunch. They are different, not like the others. They follow me and gaze out towards the majestic lake and mountains. We recite poems I taught them and play a pebble-catching game I used to love as a child. Sporadically, their heads turn and bow to The Father. They yearn to be the ones summoned.

After lunch, Mariam wants to pee, so we venture to find the toilets. All the bungalows on the path are empty. It’s a family resort, but today is all about The Father.

We play Eye Spy as we walk, which quickly turns competitive and makes us take a detour to the bathrooms on the other side of the site. 

“Hurry,” I tell them once we get there.

They trot off to relieve themselves, and I hear distinctive laughter from a bungalow nearby. The curtains are only partially drawn. The laughter is too much, and I peek in.

Bizarre and horrific. A giraffe and a hyena cuddling in bed.

*

Ms Sonya enters my room for the first time. She closes the door and hands me my passport. 

“I appreciate how you went about this. You keep it now. If there’s anything else, I’m here.”

“Does he know?”

Ms Sonya turns around and walks out.

*

I find Shireen’s pink teddy bear in her empty brown wardrobe. She left without saying goodbye. Kurush also just disappeared. The official story is that she went home because of a sick father, but the nannies have tried her on her socials and no activity. Kurush? It’s like he never existed. 

Galling gossip swells in the compound like a blinding grey mist. I cup my ears and focus on the future through the fog. 

My kids sit at my feet as I brush Mari’s hair. She’s growing older, and I approve of her new name. The Teacher has organised a spelling bee next week, and we are ready to beat that golden girl. 

I raise Zafar’s chin; his bruises have finally healed. He’ll make a fine father one day. 

My little cubs need me here. 

They’re genuinely not like the others. 

Jason Dice Staggie is a South African author, filmmaker, and educator whose work inhabits the borderlands of transgressive and literary fiction. His debut novel Risk (Penguin Random House, 2013) was nominated for a South African Literary Award for Best Young Writer and is in development as a television series. His writing has been supported by the South African National Arts Council and residencies including 55th Bridgeguard (Slovakia/Hungary), Film Independent Global Media Makers (Los Angeles), and the Realness Institute Episodic Lab. In addition to his novel, his short fiction has appeared in the Sunday Times and Iskanchi Magazine. He now teaches at Nanjing Agricultural University and is the co-founder and chairperson of Voice of the Voiceless, a Cape Town-based nonprofit focused on township youth education and feeding programmes.

*Image by Danylo Harmatiy on Unsplash