The Debt - By Wendy Greeff

Written By: Wendy Greeff

Category: Short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the evocative short story "The Debt" by Wendy Greeff, we are invited into a deeply personal narrative set against the backdrop of the 2010 Soccer World Cup. This poignant tale explores the complex relationship between a father and son, delving into themes of indebtedness, familial expectations, and the journey toward self-discovery. Wendy Greeff's work is part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, a platform that celebrates the art of storytelling and the diverse voices that contribute to the global literary tapestry.

About the Work

"The Debt" immerses readers in a narrative rich with emotional depth and introspection. Through a young boy's perspective, Wendy Greeff paints a vivid picture of the pressures of familial expectations and the struggle for personal identity. The story's mood oscillates between the celebratory atmosphere of the World Cup and the protagonist's internal conflict, offering a reflective commentary on love, acceptance, and the search for one's true self amidst external pressures.

The Debt

Original Submission by Wendy Greeff

THE DEBT

The 2010 Soccer World Cup was where it all began, wasn’t it, Dad? The start of my lifetime of indebtedness. You never forgot, and you never let me forget either. You did the thing that every father should have done for his son, and since then I’ve owed you big time.

Like thousands of South African fathers, sometime in late 2009 you forwarded my name to a selection committee which was looking for South African children to escort the various team members onto the playing fields. The idea was that every single player in the tournament was to walk onto the field at his first match with a proud little South African at his side. Most of the boys in our street and in my class at school were eligible for this privilege, if privilege it was, because their fathers had sent in their names as well.

The difference was that my name was drawn.

I remember the day the results were announced. I’m sure you do, too. You were elated, you were screaming with excitement. I stood by watching you, aware for the first time of my utter indifference to the World Cup and all it represented. You shouted that it called for a celebration, and of course you did that in the only way you knew, by going to the shebeen and getting drunk. You came home that night, knocked Mom about, and in the morning, hung over but still delirious, you started telling me about the debt I owed you.

That was about three months before the event was due to start. Every day you reminded me in ways that were subtle and not so subtle of my need to show you gratitude, and when I failed to share your delight, you tried to beat me into appreciating the great privilege I had been afforded. You told me I was an ungrateful little bastard, and that I had been given something precious which every little boy in South Africa wanted, and that I would someday look back with the deepest regret on the fact I had not made the most of what you liked to refer to as ‘the greatest event in South African history.’ On one occasion I was ill advised enough to suggest that Nelson Mandela’s release from prison and the first democratic elections which ended the apartheid era three years later were both far more important historically speaking, and for my trouble you struck me across the head and just said I was ‘so fucking clever.’

It might have been more bearable if I hadn’t been so envied. Or if I’d been one of the popular guys at school, one of those perfect, promising little footballers who sat in every classroom at Tafelsig Senior Primary. Then my so-called luck would at least have been my due, and I would have had their grudging respect. But I wasn’t one of them. Even then I knew I was different, and while the other boys were out playing soccer in the streets of Mitchell’s Plain and collecting World Cup paraphernalia, I was reading, drawing, and dreaming. It put their backs up, and there were repeated beatings in the school toilets, and the incident when they threw clods of mud and stones at me. And when I came home, bruised and bleeding, you gave me a hiding for damaging my school shirt, told me I should learn to stick up for myself, and again reminded me what a great thing you’d done for me in sending my name to that selection committee.

At last June arrived. Every chosen child’s name went into one drum, every player from every participating nation went into another, and the paired names were drawn at random. I was allocated to one of the players from Cameroon, and although I knew his name back then, I don’t remember it now. About a week before the soccer started the teams arrived, and all the chosen kids went to meet their players. The Cameroon side were based in Durban, and you and I flew there, and received VIP treatment. I recall very little about my player now, except that he was very dark skinned, and always seemed to have a fine beading of sweat on his face, and though he tried to be affable, we soon ran out of things to say to each other. Maybe he too could see I was different, and how.

At last, the day of Cameroon’s first match arrived. It was in Bloemfontein, and you and I went up the day before, once more flown there, and again treated as celebrities. I enjoyed the plane trip, if nothing else, but it hurt me when I overheard you telling the father of a boy from Worcester how this was a dream come true for me, and how crazy I was about soccer, and how I played it so well. Every word you said was a lie, and for the first time it dawned on me that I was a disappointment to you. I was eleven years old, and I suddenly knew I had let you down in some profound way, and I felt hurt and disillusioned in a manner I’d never felt before. Later, much later, I understood it was the first time I’d looked at bitter reality with adult eyes, but then it was just a frightening realisation that maybe you didn’t love me as unconditionally as I’d always assumed you did, and that was why you found me crying in the bathroom of our hotel suite that night and gave me yet another hiding.

The match itself was okay. It was boring, but then I’d expected it to be. I strode out onto the field alongside my player, deafened by the vuvuzelas which buzzed like a swarm of demented bees throughout the stadium, and I tried to make you proud, and maybe you were. It was all over very quickly, and then you and I were on our way back to Cape Town, a sadness in your eyes I had sometimes seen before, and at last understood.

Mercifully, Cameroon didn’t get anywhere near the finals, and that trip to Bloemfontein to their first match was our last. The kids who had drawn players from the two teams which made the final – the Netherlands and Spain if I remember right – had to go to that last match as well. You almost made me feel like it was my fault my name hadn’t been drawn alongside that of a Spanish or Dutch team member.

You were morose in the weeks that followed the end of the 2010 Soccer World Cup, but then so was everyone else. South Africans had invested far too much emotionally in it, and once those weeks of insane, hysterical revelry were over, there was nothing but a void. Someone in the neighbourhood committed suicide in the months that followed, and his wife said he could not handle the emptiness which had replaced the feverish gaiety of ‘the build-up to 2010’. And I knew what she meant, because I was watching you, and though you didn’t do anything so rash, I knew you felt much the same.

In those months you still reminded me frequently of the debt. I had to sweep the yard because I owed you, I had to wash the car because I owed you, I even had to clean up your puke when you came home drunk on payday and spewed all over the kitchen floor. Gradually the months changed into years, and though there were still reminders of what a wonderful thing you had done for me, they became less frequent, and when I grew taller than you, the beatings finally stopped. The verbal abuse didn’t though, because with every passing year it became more obvious how different I was, who and what I really am, and you couldn’t handle it. Those were the times when you liked to throw reminders of the debt back in my face, sneering that despite your efforts you hadn’t succeeded in making a man of me, and how you wished you’d saved yourself the cost of the postage stamp when you posted off the entry form for the Soccer Kids competition. And when I could take your scorn no more, I ran away from home and never went back.

It was yesterday that Mom called me and told me you’re sick. It’s lung cancer, caused no doubt by the endless packets of Lucky Strike you smoked on those nights when you sat drinking in the shebeen, or as you sat in front of the TV, watching soccer matches. She cried last night on the phone, and said I really need to see you, and that she wants us to make our peace, and when I said I didn’t think that was possible, as you will never accept who and what I am, she just said I don’t understand, and that you’ve always loved me, but the only way you knew how to show it was by sending my name to that stupid selection committee.

I wanted to hang up. I wanted to say I believe I’ve paid my debt; I’ve been paying it for far too long. But something is changing in me. Since I’ve met Jerome, there has been a new awakening within me, a new sense of understanding, and the knowledge of what it is to love and to be loved tenderly and unconditionally. And that’s why I told her I’ll come to see you tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll be able to take your hand, and say thank you that you loved me in your futile way. I may even admit that in my own hopeless way, I have always loved you, too.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that showcases the talents of writers and poets worldwide. It provides a platform for creative expression, inviting participants to share their unique stories and voices. This competition celebrates the power of words in connecting people across cultures and continents, fostering a global community of literary enthusiasts.

We extend our gratitude to Wendy Greeff for sharing "The Debt" with us. Her story, part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, offers a touching exploration of family and self-discovery. Wendy's ability to weave such a powerful narrative is a testament to her talent and insight, and we look forward to seeing more of her work in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.