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148 Another Day, Another Dollar Dad’s boss, Gou Sok, was a newer migrant to South Africa, arriving in the 1980s. His son had been in the country for some years already and spoke English fluently, used an English name and had married a woman who was also South African born. When Gou Sok came to South Africa, he stepped into a more properly structured life. He had more capital and more business savvy than those who entered as stowaways in the 1950s and 60s. Arriving in the 1980s meant he was able to leapfrog some of the stifling restrictions that had been in place for the Chinese – he did not have to contend with fake papers, being a paper son or living in grey suburbs and staying on the periphery in the same way as the men and women who arrived in South Africa in earlier decades. With his son already in the country, his wife and daughters would follow. Gou Sok and his wife initially lived in a flat in Doornfontein. This became my dad’s base for work where he clocked in each morning on the ninth floor to run through the numbers he would play before he and his colleagues drove out just before midday to the various banks. 12 149 Unlike the holiday shifts we accompanied my dad on, now the day was longer, with more banks and probably more betters with everyone back at work. My dad and his colleagues would only get back to the flat at around eight in the evening. The fahfee men ate their evening meal together because the work day was not quite over even as dinner time came around. Dishes would be cleared and then it was down to counting the day’s takings. The money had to be accounted for and then the banking happened in the next few days. As in our home, an old newspaper would be split along its spine and the bags of money tumbled out on to the newsprint for counting. The records for the day were put into the small, square-lined notebooks; only then, as the ashtrays filled up and the unfinished sips of tea grew cold, did the fahfee men go home. Even though Gou Sok was a decent boss, my father and his colleagues went through the grind of making someone else rich. But dad stayed with Gou Sok for many years because he knew he was appreciated and Gou Sok was, to my dad, a mostly reasonable person to clock in for. I remember Gou Sok for the chocolates he bought each of us children at Christmas. There were four layers of chocolates inside the cellophanewrapped box and we each had our own box. One year, my box of chocolates had a big-eyed kitten on it, photographed with a pinkish halo. I kept the box for many years until its sellotape-reinforced edges finally gave in. We leaned the boxes against our fireplace that did not work and where our tinsel-laden Christmas tree took pride of place over the holidays. The few small presents around the plastic, green spikes were now dwarfed by the decorated boxes. We nagged mom to let us open the chocolates ahead of Christmas day until eventually she folded under our pressure and said okay. The four of us sat down together to open the boxes. We knew they were identical but we needed to be sure. We lifted off the lids to reveal sweet nuggets that looked like delicate jewels on display. At first we chose carefully, but after a while we gorged ourselves and then we felt sick. As the days wore on, we started all over again until at last only a few overlooked dairy gems remained and we were sorry that we had not paced ourselves. With the chocolates came the present of having dad home a bit more for the holidays. We knew too well how little time we got to spend together when the school term was in full swing. Most days dawned with dad still sleeping while we got ready to catch the school bus. By the time his work PAPER SONS AND DAUGHTERS 150 day ended, we were usually tucked in for the night. Many nights I lay awake, waiting for dad to come home safely, only falling asleep when I heard the familiar squeak of the garden gate and the acceleration of the car as it thrust forward after dropping him off...

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