He stares at me with kind, sad eyes.
He doesn't want to leave Africa, either. We're happy here; we're content. There's everything here for us. A future. A present. Our past is forgotten. Here, we've connected with nature, with one another. We grow our own food, raise our own cows, walk long distances to get water.
But business is business. And as he tells me over and over, business is done here.
We're getting on the plane tomorrow, he repeats. Go to bed.
Go to bed. Be a good girl. Follow daddy wherever he goes and ignore your own wishes. Too many commands, too many demands.
Shut up, father, I want to say. Go yourself, I'm staying in Africa with all the people who I've grown to love. Go away, I don't want to go. Leave me here; I'm seventeen, old enough to take care of myself.
Yes father, is what I say.
He smiles, rubs the spot between his brows. Good girl, he praises, my good girl.
Your good girl, I repeat to myself in my room. Your good girl. Yes, all I am. You're good girl.
I am nothing else. Just your good girl.
Sen Sakai. No, that is not I. I am just your good girl. A name means nothing when I'm yours. A name is nothing I need; useless.
Just a good girl.
Your good girl.
That night, I don't sleep.
He does, I hear. Loud snores in our small shack of a home. Echoing, rumbling the walls, frightening me with each loud rumble it sends. Shivers down my back, thoughts in my mind. Panic building.
I'm awake when he opens the door to my shabby room, his smile sad, kind, just like those eyes. He grabs my suitcase I packed at three, drags it outside with his. We enter the cab, leave. Board the plane and don't look back to the lovely life we led for eight months, the life I had worked years to learn.
The language, the traditions, the farming and agricultural work. All the studying for naught.
A waste of time.
The clouds grow dark as we approach Japan. Monsoon season, I think. I remember reading of it; all the studying for naught.
Not any more.
He sleeps on the plane. I do not. I'm not tired, not scared, not anything.
I am nothing.
Just your good girl.
We land. I feel like crying – no turning back. No more life, no more friends. New start. Yes, a new beginning. A new life, new adventure.
A new lie.
You're such a good girl, he praises again. I want to flinch at his words. I don't.
You're a good father, I lie. He's not; he's a horrible father. Constantly I ponder if he's even fit for raising a child. All the work. Raised by nannies. Calling the mail-man 'papa' because he knew me better than he.
But I'm a good girl.
I don't say things like that.
You'll be attending Ouran, he says. I pretend to be excited; Ouran is a school for rich kids. We are rich.
I'm so excited, I say.
I am not excited.
It's raining when we enter into the cab. I watch the droplets glide down the clear window, paying little attention to the scenes blurring behind the sad drops of water. Bright signs. Intricate lines of expressions. Kanji, hirigana, katakana. English. So many things, so little time.
So confusing. So distressing.
I've bought us a large home, he explains. We're rich; we can afford it. He's a business man – multibillionaire, he calls himself.
But he's not. We only have millions. Multimillionaires.
That's great, I respond, Maybe I'll make new friends.
But I don't want new friends. I don't think it's great.
I don't want to be here.
You're such a good girl, he says for the thousandth time. It's his one line of affection: you're a good girl. The only form of love I am ever shown.
I smile to him.
It's fake.
You're such a good father, I say.
That's fake.
He nods, proud of himself. Looks out the window, points. I look. We laugh.
Everything's fake.
Even us.
Our house is huge, I notice. We arrive there; a mansion. Large, winding drive way in. Giant gates. Giant building.
So many windows, such a big double door. Too much space, all too much.
Such a lonely house, I think. Too lonely. I want to turn, to run and scream and swim across the ocean to Africa. I don't want to be here.
But I'm just a good girl.
Good girls don't do that. They don't run away.
They don't escape.
We grab our stuff, enter, place it on the ground and explore. He immediately goes to the kitchen – always a cook at heart.
I walk up the grand staircase, to the second floor and to the left. A large hallway, with paintings on the wall and decorations already in place. Another hallway branches off to the right – I turn into it.
It's empty here, just two doors and a few lonely paintings. Secluded.
There's a study room, I notice as I open a door. Across from it – a bathroom. My study area.
I turn around, back to the stairs. To the right this time, wandering down the hall. Four doors along the main hall, another two on the secluded one similar to that of the left side. Two guest bedrooms, one main bedroom. A bathroom. Then the study room and other bathroom. Back to the staircase, but straight this times.
It's a huge hallway, with doors spanning across it on either side. I count six, each spread so far apart from one another.
All rooms. But for who?
Dust, I know. They are meant for the dust and empty memories. Things we don't want to see. Things we don't want.
At the end of the hall is a grand french door. I open it, walk out.
A balcony, overlooking the city full of lights. Rain falls, I watch.
It's cold; I don't shiver. I don't mind.
I am nothing.
Sen, he calls my name. I turn back into the house and shut the door, lock it, go to him.
Down the stairs, to the kitchen, past the large kitchen and into a dining room, already set up with plush furniture and decorations. Just like the rest of the home.
He smiles to me, sits on the couch, turns on the TV to the news channel and listens to the two people speaking quickly in Japanese.
I understand. I hear them, process it, get it.
I speak it. I know. I studied.
A car crash, they say, somewhere downtown. How unfortunate.
Isn't this lovely, he asks me, it's the place for us.
It's too big, is what I want to say. Let's go back to Africa, with our run down house we built together, with the roof that leaked when it rained, with the walls that let in a nice draft.
Of course, is what I say.
He turns off the TV, yawns, stretches.
Go to bed, he commands, You start school tomorrow.
I don't question how I get there or of my supplies. I don't ask what classes I'm in or if he knows that I take Advanced Math and Science classes. I don't ponder if he knows me.
I walk upstairs, down the main hallway and into the room closest to the balcony.
I lay in a plush bed, not caring that this room is smaller than the others, that it's an unideal guest room, with cold walls facing the outside and the echo of rain being heard clearly.
It sings me to sleep easily.
I dream of nothing.
There's a knock, hours later. My eyes open; a bright light. I flinch, cover my eyes with my hands as I sit up. Someone's here. I put my feet on the ground, get out of bed, grasps something to keep myself steady.
Good morning, a voice calls out. It's happy, too energetic for this time of day. It's your first day of school, the female voice continues.
I say nothing, just complacently get dressed into the yellow dress that is thrown my way. Pull on white stockings, slip on brown shoes. Tie back long black hair, wash a pale face.
You're so beautiful, the woman coos to me as she watches me brush my teeth in the bathroom across from my room. I say nothing, only continue brushing.
She is the beautiful one. Long blond hair, stunning green eyes, a slim body. She is everything, I am nothing.
I am plain, I am too skinny, too pale, too ugly. I don't like myself. But she does.
Why, I want to ask, why do you think of me so. But I don't. No, I can't be so bold. I can't speak my mind.
I'm just a good girl.
She grabs my bag. We leave.
Into the car; black, sleek, elegant. My father is already gone.
She talks to me on the drive. I listen, look out the window, watch the rain fall still. It hasn't let up and I'm glad. The wetness on my skin when I exit the car reminds me of Africa, of the glorious rain blessed to us after the long droughts.
She walks me inside the school, guides me to my class and hands me my bag, my books. A gentle hand on my shoulder, a reassuring squeeze.
You'll do great, she says, just keep your head up.
I nod; I will.
She smiles and leaves. I turn and enter into the classroom. People stare at me when I do, eyes wide and jaws dropped.
Why, I want to ask.
I don't.
Ah, the teacher at the front says. It's a female – short black hair in bun, gray eyes staring at me, a smile on pink lips. Tiny Japanese body.
You are Sakai Sen, aren't you, she questions.
I smile, grip my books to my chest, take a deep breath.
No turning back.