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The Child
After suffering a mental breakdown and losing his job at a New York advertising agency, a young man returns to Cape Town with his husband, Adrian. It's 2018 and Cape Town is about to run out of water. This isn't the homecoming they dreamed of, but the couple is determined to hold on to hope.
They are going to start a family by adopting a child. Someone to love, as the world around them falls apart. Maybe even a chance to atone for the sins of this country. But as the adoption gets underway, the narrator is forced to confront the childhood spectres he has spent a lifetime avoiding. While his marriage and sense of self begin to unravel, his life becomes increasingly enmeshed with that of their bubbly and outspoken domestic worker, Sibs, and her quiet young daughter, Buhle. And the more he tries to fix things, the worse they get.
Lies, violence and trauma endanger their hopes of a new beginning. And in the chaos of it all, he has to find his way back to Adrian, and to himself.
"Fresh, unflinching, and propulsive." - S.J. Naudé
"An important, if not essential, voice of contemporary South Africa." - C.A. Davids
They are going to start a family by adopting a child. Someone to love, as the world around them falls apart. Maybe even a chance to atone for the sins of this country. But as the adoption gets underway, the narrator is forced to confront the childhood spectres he has spent a lifetime avoiding. While his marriage and sense of self begin to unravel, his life becomes increasingly enmeshed with that of their bubbly and outspoken domestic worker, Sibs, and her quiet young daughter, Buhle. And the more he tries to fix things, the worse they get.
Lies, violence and trauma endanger their hopes of a new beginning. And in the chaos of it all, he has to find his way back to Adrian, and to himself.
"Fresh, unflinching, and propulsive." - S.J. Naudé
"An important, if not essential, voice of contemporary South Africa." - C.A. Davids
272 pages, Paperback
Published April 26, 2024
About the author
Alistair Mackay
4 books84 followersAlistair Mackay is the author of It Doesn't Have To Be This Way (2022), a story of queer love and friendship through climate breakdown, and The Child (2024), a novel about healing, resilience and love in a divided country.
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June 7, 2024
‘I can label my uncertainty about the future and my shifting sense of self as symptoms of the democratic transition, or decolonisation, but that doesn’t make it feel any less painful to let go of a dream, to think maybe all my idealism only gets in the way. Why does it matter so much to me how this country fares, how my generation contributes? I am not the story of white South Africa or childhood trauma or homophobia. I am not a symbol or a microcosm or a sociological experiment. This is my life. It is particular and individual. It’s the only one I’ll ever get.’
This is a magnificent, ‘relentlessly gay’ novel, as John Updike said of Alan Hollinghurst, a criticism which Alistair Mackay references. Updike added that Hollinghurst was ‘boring’ to boot, which is certainly not the case with ‘The Child’, a fast-paced Bildungsroman where forgotten, or hidden, childhood memories emerge in flashes during therapy sessions, while the main protagonist (first person, unnamed) watches his carefully constructed gay marriage and adult life collapse around him like a hokkie during a storm in Philippi.
Ask any two South African readers about J.M. Coetzee and you are bound to end up with an argument. So, having a Coetzee quote as your epigraph is likely to signpost this as yet another ‘depressing’ post-apartheid South African novel, akin to that other (Booker-winning) ‘depressing’ apartheid novel, ‘The Promise’ (Mackay thanks Damon Galgut in his Acknowledgements for ‘advice on the manuscript’.)
Yes, there are comparisons to be made, but I think it is much more a case of Mackay engaging in a dialogue with Galgut, especially regarding the character of the domestic servant Sibs, who is central to the unfolding narrative, yet marginal at the same time. At one point the narrator says Sibs is so intimately intertwined with their personal lives, down to knowing which underwear belongs to him and his husband Adrian, but he doesn’t even know her surname or exactly where she lives.
It is a kind of colonial myopia that makes marginal areas like Philippi invisible to white people in particular, mitigating the cognitive dissonance so they can continue with their sheltered lives, propped up by capitalism and racial privilege. I love the line where the narrator says: “I squandered the symbolism of my life by falling in love with a white guy…”
Indeed, he is still of that generation that firmly believes in the “perfect post-apartheid ideal of the rainbow-nation family.” So, when a breakdown in New York results in the couple returning to their old home in Cape Town, the narrator decides to do exactly that: start a family.
If you are wondering about the ‘relentlessly gay’ part, this is an unflinching look at a young gay couple, very different in temperament, but anchored and made whole by their differences, who grapple daily with the contradictions of being intersectional (white, gay, and privileged) in contemporary South Africa.
Even a walk to the corner shop, presided over by your friendly neighbourhood Muslim proprietor, and locking eyes with the beggars and homeless en route, poses an existential dilemma in this country that we deal with every day.
Part of the problem is “our ignored continent, where no one cares what happens, where tragedy is supposed to be part of the brand.” What is striking about ‘The Child’ is how much of a character Cape Town is, but far shabbier and divided than the Wakanda-like idyll that the ruling Democratic Alliance has always made the Mother City out to be – the kind of functional, progressive metropolis where everyone wants to live, as long as you ignore the Cape Flats and the indigent out on the streets.
There is a wonderful scene where the narrator travels to the city of gold and parties it up at Ratz (I believe) in the glory days of Melville, remarking on the startling whiteness of Cape Town compared to the inter-racial energy and vibe of Jozi. It is a startling contrast between the two cities that is certainly not conveyed in our media.
This makes ‘The Child’, for better or worse, a very political novel in the runup to a general election that has been touted as being as significant a turning point for our maturing multi-party democracy as 1994 was for the country’s liberation.
Certainly, we cannot consider our constitutionally enshrined gay rights as a passport to freedom and hedonism, given the outspoken anti-gay stance of cretins like Zuma, or the fact that, on our very doorstep, Ghana and Uganda have passed some of the most draconian anti-gay legislation in the world.
Then we have the far-right uprising from France to Russia and the USA. It is easy to tune this out as background geopolitical ‘white noise’ (unsure if that is a joke or not) but being white and gay in South Africa is not a walk in the park, despite what the constitution solemnly declares, and the platitudes that the politicians entice the tourists with.
And being part of a committed white male gay relationship is even more complex, as it adds so much additional baggage to the simple, undeniable problem of being white in the first place: the male gaze, the saviour complex, etc.
How on earth do you decolonise being gay, especially when you cannot separate your very ‘whiteness’ from your innate identity? These are all difficult issues to grapple with, and Mackay does so in an unsparing manner that makes parts of this very necessary book difficult to read.
I was worried in the beginning that Adrian, the supportive and rational partner of a gay man in his thirties so burdened with white guilt he is ready to disown his entire ancestry, would be so overshadowed that he remained in the background, a tiller steering the narrative.
But Adrian comes into sharp focus during one of the book’s crucial sex scenes, when he and his husband return from the fertility clinic, and that flash of horniness like helium in a star that young couples take so for granted suddenly strikes its fire.
However, it is not business as usual, as the two spontaneously engage in a daddy / bad girl roleplay that is as discomforting as it is a turn-on. Writing believable sex scenes is difficult enough, but a gay sex scene like this, balanced on a razor edge of perversion, desperation, lust, and love, with so much subtext swirling around like hormones, is breathtaking to read. I can only think of one other equally accomplished writer who does uncomfortable, vaguely transgressive, but extremely hot sex scenes, and that is Garth Greenwell.
I paused at this point, wondering how Mackay would continue the story. The next chapter begins quietly, with a description of a Cape Town winter rainstorm that is but a temporary balm in the aftermath of Day Zero. “This fragile ecosystem at the tip of Africa, the smallest and most diverse floral kingdom in the world, is drying out.” Mackay’s joy and wonder at the incredible natural heritage that enfolds Cape Town shines gloriously in such passages (heritage, both human and nature, is an important theme.)
And ultimately what sustains this couple and makes their tiny struggle in the bigger picture so significant is their love, decency, and humanity. That is what the rainbow nation means, and it is an ideal we have fallen far from, not to mention lacking the grace to achieve – certainly in my lifetime, and my generation, as a lot of readers will feel, I think.
Oh fuck, it is another Coetzee paean to the pain of South Africa, I hear you say. Definitely not. I was pleased that Mackay boasts cover blurbs from C.A. Davids and S.J. Naude (his debut novel, ‘It Doesn’t Have To Be This Way’, had Mia Ardenne and Siya Khumalo.) Along with Mackay, these represent some of the most exciting authors at work in South Africa today.
Mackay is one of these great writers who ground us in our humanity, our Yeatsian ‘tattered cloak’, and makes us feel wondrous about the gift of life, and being able to share that love. He takes a fairly prosaic idea – being a white gay couple in Cape Town – and turns our conventional thinking about cities, nature, love, sacrifice, gender, sex, our ancestors, and history, completely on its head. Oh, and pugs as well.
This is a magnificent, ‘relentlessly gay’ novel, as John Updike said of Alan Hollinghurst, a criticism which Alistair Mackay references. Updike added that Hollinghurst was ‘boring’ to boot, which is certainly not the case with ‘The Child’, a fast-paced Bildungsroman where forgotten, or hidden, childhood memories emerge in flashes during therapy sessions, while the main protagonist (first person, unnamed) watches his carefully constructed gay marriage and adult life collapse around him like a hokkie during a storm in Philippi.
Ask any two South African readers about J.M. Coetzee and you are bound to end up with an argument. So, having a Coetzee quote as your epigraph is likely to signpost this as yet another ‘depressing’ post-apartheid South African novel, akin to that other (Booker-winning) ‘depressing’ apartheid novel, ‘The Promise’ (Mackay thanks Damon Galgut in his Acknowledgements for ‘advice on the manuscript’.)
Yes, there are comparisons to be made, but I think it is much more a case of Mackay engaging in a dialogue with Galgut, especially regarding the character of the domestic servant Sibs, who is central to the unfolding narrative, yet marginal at the same time. At one point the narrator says Sibs is so intimately intertwined with their personal lives, down to knowing which underwear belongs to him and his husband Adrian, but he doesn’t even know her surname or exactly where she lives.
It is a kind of colonial myopia that makes marginal areas like Philippi invisible to white people in particular, mitigating the cognitive dissonance so they can continue with their sheltered lives, propped up by capitalism and racial privilege. I love the line where the narrator says: “I squandered the symbolism of my life by falling in love with a white guy…”
Indeed, he is still of that generation that firmly believes in the “perfect post-apartheid ideal of the rainbow-nation family.” So, when a breakdown in New York results in the couple returning to their old home in Cape Town, the narrator decides to do exactly that: start a family.
If you are wondering about the ‘relentlessly gay’ part, this is an unflinching look at a young gay couple, very different in temperament, but anchored and made whole by their differences, who grapple daily with the contradictions of being intersectional (white, gay, and privileged) in contemporary South Africa.
Even a walk to the corner shop, presided over by your friendly neighbourhood Muslim proprietor, and locking eyes with the beggars and homeless en route, poses an existential dilemma in this country that we deal with every day.
Part of the problem is “our ignored continent, where no one cares what happens, where tragedy is supposed to be part of the brand.” What is striking about ‘The Child’ is how much of a character Cape Town is, but far shabbier and divided than the Wakanda-like idyll that the ruling Democratic Alliance has always made the Mother City out to be – the kind of functional, progressive metropolis where everyone wants to live, as long as you ignore the Cape Flats and the indigent out on the streets.
There is a wonderful scene where the narrator travels to the city of gold and parties it up at Ratz (I believe) in the glory days of Melville, remarking on the startling whiteness of Cape Town compared to the inter-racial energy and vibe of Jozi. It is a startling contrast between the two cities that is certainly not conveyed in our media.
This makes ‘The Child’, for better or worse, a very political novel in the runup to a general election that has been touted as being as significant a turning point for our maturing multi-party democracy as 1994 was for the country’s liberation.
Certainly, we cannot consider our constitutionally enshrined gay rights as a passport to freedom and hedonism, given the outspoken anti-gay stance of cretins like Zuma, or the fact that, on our very doorstep, Ghana and Uganda have passed some of the most draconian anti-gay legislation in the world.
Then we have the far-right uprising from France to Russia and the USA. It is easy to tune this out as background geopolitical ‘white noise’ (unsure if that is a joke or not) but being white and gay in South Africa is not a walk in the park, despite what the constitution solemnly declares, and the platitudes that the politicians entice the tourists with.
And being part of a committed white male gay relationship is even more complex, as it adds so much additional baggage to the simple, undeniable problem of being white in the first place: the male gaze, the saviour complex, etc.
How on earth do you decolonise being gay, especially when you cannot separate your very ‘whiteness’ from your innate identity? These are all difficult issues to grapple with, and Mackay does so in an unsparing manner that makes parts of this very necessary book difficult to read.
I was worried in the beginning that Adrian, the supportive and rational partner of a gay man in his thirties so burdened with white guilt he is ready to disown his entire ancestry, would be so overshadowed that he remained in the background, a tiller steering the narrative.
But Adrian comes into sharp focus during one of the book’s crucial sex scenes, when he and his husband return from the fertility clinic, and that flash of horniness like helium in a star that young couples take so for granted suddenly strikes its fire.
However, it is not business as usual, as the two spontaneously engage in a daddy / bad girl roleplay that is as discomforting as it is a turn-on. Writing believable sex scenes is difficult enough, but a gay sex scene like this, balanced on a razor edge of perversion, desperation, lust, and love, with so much subtext swirling around like hormones, is breathtaking to read. I can only think of one other equally accomplished writer who does uncomfortable, vaguely transgressive, but extremely hot sex scenes, and that is Garth Greenwell.
I paused at this point, wondering how Mackay would continue the story. The next chapter begins quietly, with a description of a Cape Town winter rainstorm that is but a temporary balm in the aftermath of Day Zero. “This fragile ecosystem at the tip of Africa, the smallest and most diverse floral kingdom in the world, is drying out.” Mackay’s joy and wonder at the incredible natural heritage that enfolds Cape Town shines gloriously in such passages (heritage, both human and nature, is an important theme.)
And ultimately what sustains this couple and makes their tiny struggle in the bigger picture so significant is their love, decency, and humanity. That is what the rainbow nation means, and it is an ideal we have fallen far from, not to mention lacking the grace to achieve – certainly in my lifetime, and my generation, as a lot of readers will feel, I think.
Oh fuck, it is another Coetzee paean to the pain of South Africa, I hear you say. Definitely not. I was pleased that Mackay boasts cover blurbs from C.A. Davids and S.J. Naude (his debut novel, ‘It Doesn’t Have To Be This Way’, had Mia Ardenne and Siya Khumalo.) Along with Mackay, these represent some of the most exciting authors at work in South Africa today.
Mackay is one of these great writers who ground us in our humanity, our Yeatsian ‘tattered cloak’, and makes us feel wondrous about the gift of life, and being able to share that love. He takes a fairly prosaic idea – being a white gay couple in Cape Town – and turns our conventional thinking about cities, nature, love, sacrifice, gender, sex, our ancestors, and history, completely on its head. Oh, and pugs as well.
April 17, 2024
Alistair Mackay's tender, beautifully-written new novel is a propulsive exploration of the frayed edges of belonging, identity and healing - not just for a young queer man, but also for a country.
A young South African man returns to Cape Town from New York with his husband, Adrian, in the hope of forging a new beginning by adopting a child. During the adoption process, he grows increasingly close with his vibrant domestic worker, Sibs, and her daughter, Buhle. But his life in Cape Town is not what he expected as reverse culture shock, a severe drought and his own unresolved childhood trauma threaten his new start. Mackay's simple prose bring his characters into sharp relief as he grapples with what it means to heal - from trauma, from toxic masculinity, and from the legacy of (what remains) a deeply divided country. Mackay treats his characters with incredible empathy and kindness, and I loved the way that the main character's search for himself is echoed in the portrait of a country that is still trying to find itself. A must read!
* I received an advanced copy of the novel from the author in exchange for an honest review.
A young South African man returns to Cape Town from New York with his husband, Adrian, in the hope of forging a new beginning by adopting a child. During the adoption process, he grows increasingly close with his vibrant domestic worker, Sibs, and her daughter, Buhle. But his life in Cape Town is not what he expected as reverse culture shock, a severe drought and his own unresolved childhood trauma threaten his new start. Mackay's simple prose bring his characters into sharp relief as he grapples with what it means to heal - from trauma, from toxic masculinity, and from the legacy of (what remains) a deeply divided country. Mackay treats his characters with incredible empathy and kindness, and I loved the way that the main character's search for himself is echoed in the portrait of a country that is still trying to find itself. A must read!
* I received an advanced copy of the novel from the author in exchange for an honest review.
May 9, 2024
#TheChild – Alistair Mackay
#Kwela
There is an ancient belief that you will always return to the burial spot of your umbilical cord, that you are somehow forever bound to that soil. But this was not the reason for a young South African man’s return to his country of birth after suffering a mental breakdown and losing his job in New York; he wanted him and his husband, Adrian, to adopt an African child and to bring the child up on African soil.
Their return to Cape Town coincides with Day Zero looming in 2018. Nature has evolved into an enemy and is no longer a familiar beloved. And, progressively so, it appears as if life itself is in cahoots with nature, determined to destroy the young man’s fragile sense of mental stability: “I have some sort of a hybrid mind, a Frankenstein’s monster of Western and African parts, alien to both.” (126)
The technique of not mentioning the name of the young man who is acting as first-person narrator throughout, adds to his obvious search for identity. Initially he is convinced that a child, albeit an adopted child, will fill the void, but the reliability of his narration becomes questionable quite soon when he admits, as early as on page 25, that he feels obligated to entertain children, since they “…have no filter, no manners, no conception of how much words can hurt” and that a failure to entertain them, will be met with cruelty.
The narrator’s unravelling in the present necessitates a revisitation of his childhood and his troubled relationship with his father, experienced as a psychological ball and chain holding him captive in the past: “And in these glimpses into parallel universes, I feel, briefly, freed from the one in which I grew up. The one where life is brutal and pointless…” (142) His failure to come to terms with his aloof and absent father, the complex politics of the country where his umbilical cord was laid to rest, and his inability to sustain an emotional relationship, combine to form a rollercoaster of self-destructive behaviour; something that he is acutely aware of, but unable to escape from: “Nothing poisons intimacy more than being on the outside of a secret, feeling like a fool.” (168)
The deceptive simplicity of the title evolves to reveal the hidden layers thereof like a Matryoshka doll: There is the generic future child, Khanya, the enigmatic domestic worker, Sibs’, three-year old daughter, Buhle, the narrator’s young niece, Lily, as well as the narrator himself, stuck at the age of nine.
His literal journey back to his roots is also his metaphorical journey to becoming the person that he truly is. The “horizon recedes” and the light becomes “both brighter and somehow softer” (255), and the ocean is “so much warmer” (256), leading him to the revelation that he has been “…unmoored ever since we returned to South Africa.” (257) Then, and only then, when he establishes his own identity, is his name revealed to the reader. He is no longer a peripheral character, he is seen, accepted, loved, and named.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ #Uitdieperdsebek
NB-Uitgewers/Publishers
#Kwela
There is an ancient belief that you will always return to the burial spot of your umbilical cord, that you are somehow forever bound to that soil. But this was not the reason for a young South African man’s return to his country of birth after suffering a mental breakdown and losing his job in New York; he wanted him and his husband, Adrian, to adopt an African child and to bring the child up on African soil.
Their return to Cape Town coincides with Day Zero looming in 2018. Nature has evolved into an enemy and is no longer a familiar beloved. And, progressively so, it appears as if life itself is in cahoots with nature, determined to destroy the young man’s fragile sense of mental stability: “I have some sort of a hybrid mind, a Frankenstein’s monster of Western and African parts, alien to both.” (126)
The technique of not mentioning the name of the young man who is acting as first-person narrator throughout, adds to his obvious search for identity. Initially he is convinced that a child, albeit an adopted child, will fill the void, but the reliability of his narration becomes questionable quite soon when he admits, as early as on page 25, that he feels obligated to entertain children, since they “…have no filter, no manners, no conception of how much words can hurt” and that a failure to entertain them, will be met with cruelty.
The narrator’s unravelling in the present necessitates a revisitation of his childhood and his troubled relationship with his father, experienced as a psychological ball and chain holding him captive in the past: “And in these glimpses into parallel universes, I feel, briefly, freed from the one in which I grew up. The one where life is brutal and pointless…” (142) His failure to come to terms with his aloof and absent father, the complex politics of the country where his umbilical cord was laid to rest, and his inability to sustain an emotional relationship, combine to form a rollercoaster of self-destructive behaviour; something that he is acutely aware of, but unable to escape from: “Nothing poisons intimacy more than being on the outside of a secret, feeling like a fool.” (168)
The deceptive simplicity of the title evolves to reveal the hidden layers thereof like a Matryoshka doll: There is the generic future child, Khanya, the enigmatic domestic worker, Sibs’, three-year old daughter, Buhle, the narrator’s young niece, Lily, as well as the narrator himself, stuck at the age of nine.
His literal journey back to his roots is also his metaphorical journey to becoming the person that he truly is. The “horizon recedes” and the light becomes “both brighter and somehow softer” (255), and the ocean is “so much warmer” (256), leading him to the revelation that he has been “…unmoored ever since we returned to South Africa.” (257) Then, and only then, when he establishes his own identity, is his name revealed to the reader. He is no longer a peripheral character, he is seen, accepted, loved, and named.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ #Uitdieperdsebek
NB-Uitgewers/Publishers
May 12, 2024
A potential university set work
Beautifully written, deep, and thought-provoking, too. There's so much to say about this book, so many themes and topics that are explored, that trying to list them would be impossible. So, I'll leave a quote from the book that stood out for me the most and, in some way, sums it all up:
"Back in my car, my scalp tingles. I shudder and wipe away the last of the vomit from my lips and I see it, clear as a religious epiphany: how the trauma of this country contaminates everyone."
Beautifully written, deep, and thought-provoking, too. There's so much to say about this book, so many themes and topics that are explored, that trying to list them would be impossible. So, I'll leave a quote from the book that stood out for me the most and, in some way, sums it all up:
"Back in my car, my scalp tingles. I shudder and wipe away the last of the vomit from my lips and I see it, clear as a religious epiphany: how the trauma of this country contaminates everyone."
May 12, 2024
A cleverly written exploration of what it means to be white, South African, queer, middle-aged, mentally unwell, child-free, married… what it means to BE in this increasingly unravelling world.
Every time I thought I’d seen the most genius, most beautifully written piece of prose, I’d turn the page and then there would be more, equally as brilliant.
My compassion for the narrator was searing, even as he delved into the worst sides of himself. Aren’t we all the worst, even when we mean well?
The mental health journey rang true for me, as someone who oscillates between feeling broken and angry for my illnesses and feeling like the only person having a reasonable response to a world that’s spiralled away from anything human beings were designed to cope with.
This book captivated me from the first page and has had me wondering about and missing the characters ever since I finished it. I’d love to read a follow up or see this made into a tv show.
Every time I thought I’d seen the most genius, most beautifully written piece of prose, I’d turn the page and then there would be more, equally as brilliant.
My compassion for the narrator was searing, even as he delved into the worst sides of himself. Aren’t we all the worst, even when we mean well?
The mental health journey rang true for me, as someone who oscillates between feeling broken and angry for my illnesses and feeling like the only person having a reasonable response to a world that’s spiralled away from anything human beings were designed to cope with.
This book captivated me from the first page and has had me wondering about and missing the characters ever since I finished it. I’d love to read a follow up or see this made into a tv show.
June 3, 2024
4.75/5
A young man and his partner return to South Africa from New York. In the midst of the country collapsing, the couple tries for adoption to start a family of their own but lies, violence and trauma endanger their hopes of a new beginning. An exquisite piece of writing that explores many themes but mostly mental health.
Check trigger warnings.
Alistair Mackay makes you care about the narrator and the writing is so impeccable that you have a clear picture of what's happening in the narrator's mind, be it a moment of certainty or hesitation, you always care about his next move in dealing with whatever they might be facing(while at the same time we don't feel trapped in the mind of the narrator, which tends to be a turn off when reading a book in first person, where the plot doesn't move and we stay trapped in the thoughts of the narrator). This book could make a great bookclub pick, there's a lot to unpack, the relationship of the narrator and those around him, childhood trauma, social commentaryincluding water and load shedding, yep), the challenges of adoption, there's a lot. I'm a little upset with the ending but I can see what the author was trying to achieve, and it worked well but I wanted more, and lastly the idea of not telling the narrator's name, another pivotal part on relaying the message of the book.
A young man and his partner return to South Africa from New York. In the midst of the country collapsing, the couple tries for adoption to start a family of their own but lies, violence and trauma endanger their hopes of a new beginning. An exquisite piece of writing that explores many themes but mostly mental health.
Check trigger warnings.
Alistair Mackay makes you care about the narrator and the writing is so impeccable that you have a clear picture of what's happening in the narrator's mind, be it a moment of certainty or hesitation, you always care about his next move in dealing with whatever they might be facing(while at the same time we don't feel trapped in the mind of the narrator, which tends to be a turn off when reading a book in first person, where the plot doesn't move and we stay trapped in the thoughts of the narrator). This book could make a great bookclub pick, there's a lot to unpack, the relationship of the narrator and those around him, childhood trauma, social commentaryincluding water and load shedding, yep), the challenges of adoption, there's a lot. I'm a little upset with the ending but I can see what the author was trying to achieve, and it worked well but I wanted more, and lastly the idea of not telling the narrator's name, another pivotal part on relaying the message of the book.
May 15, 2024
I have so many good things to say about this novel. It is so beautifully written and so honest in the way that only fiction can be. I cried several times - and not because I was sad, but mostly because I was so moved by the tender moments of love and hope that punctuate the novel. I hope it wins every single award it is eligible for.
As I was reading, I was struck over and over by the sense of being seen and understood. I've never felt so represented on the page before as a gay, white, middle-class, South African man. Despite how that sounds (and I KNOW how it sounds), Alistair handles it all with finesse and grace. South Africa is a complex and difficult place, but hope springs eternal - and that's at the heart of this story.
Beyond the politics and identity conversations that occupy a huge amount of the narrators thought space, the novel goes to extreme lengths to understand love (love of self; gay love; unconditional love; difficult love; love as balm) and how it motivates us - and how it persists despite and in spite of imperfect conditions.
It's really hard to say everything I want to about this, because it's such a perfect novel. So just go read it. 10/10 recommend.
As I was reading, I was struck over and over by the sense of being seen and understood. I've never felt so represented on the page before as a gay, white, middle-class, South African man. Despite how that sounds (and I KNOW how it sounds), Alistair handles it all with finesse and grace. South Africa is a complex and difficult place, but hope springs eternal - and that's at the heart of this story.
Beyond the politics and identity conversations that occupy a huge amount of the narrators thought space, the novel goes to extreme lengths to understand love (love of self; gay love; unconditional love; difficult love; love as balm) and how it motivates us - and how it persists despite and in spite of imperfect conditions.
It's really hard to say everything I want to about this, because it's such a perfect novel. So just go read it. 10/10 recommend.
January 6, 2025
Really beautifully written moments from Cape Town and the Eastern Cape that take me back as soon as I close my eyes.
My favourite line in the book relates to Frasier, as I think of my furry baby the same way, “I am his planet and he is my moon”.
My favourite line in the book relates to Frasier, as I think of my furry baby the same way, “I am his planet and he is my moon”.
September 28, 2024
Mackay does incredibly well to pen the experiences and feelings of navigating life, relationships, and challenges of queer men. It's especially relatable from the perspective of a South African expat, whether you're home or abroad. And in general, we need more of these stories from the global South.
June 3, 2024
It pains me to give a book with such good writing a comparatively low rating, but this didn’t quite land for me. It was all a bit too much and too raw, like listening to a casual acquaintance trauma dump their entire life story onto you just because you asked how their day was going at a cocktail party. Even though it’s a short book, it took me ages to finish because I kept wanting to take a break from the main character’s relentless mess of a life (all self-inflicted, too).
Granted, I’m probably just the wrong audience for this considering how much I generally dislike the “depressed millennials not having their shit together” genre. It’s just way, way too inward looking and self-indulgent and for some reason none of these books deem it necessary to have more plot in between their stream of consciousness-style introspectiveness; The Child represents that to a T, though with unusually (for this genre) great writing.
I really wish it read less than unwittingly having to be privy to someone’s therapy sessions and more like a “real” novel with an actual plot. I don’t think it would’ve taken much to add a more outwardly interesting narrative to it without having to sacrifice the overall feel and aim of the book. I loved Mackay’s debut, It Doesn't Have To Be This Way, and I’ll read whatever he writes next, but this one, whew.
Granted, I’m probably just the wrong audience for this considering how much I generally dislike the “depressed millennials not having their shit together” genre. It’s just way, way too inward looking and self-indulgent and for some reason none of these books deem it necessary to have more plot in between their stream of consciousness-style introspectiveness; The Child represents that to a T, though with unusually (for this genre) great writing.
I really wish it read less than unwittingly having to be privy to someone’s therapy sessions and more like a “real” novel with an actual plot. I don’t think it would’ve taken much to add a more outwardly interesting narrative to it without having to sacrifice the overall feel and aim of the book. I loved Mackay’s debut, It Doesn't Have To Be This Way, and I’ll read whatever he writes next, but this one, whew.
June 19, 2024
Erudite, wise and unyielding. Alistair Mackay weaves through complex themes with great vulnerability. His characters are real and flawed and possess a humanness that makes you ache with them. A fantastic read, highly recommend!
July 30, 2024
If you are looking for fantastic character development, internal struggles and great writing, this THE CHILD is it.
Alistair had me hooked from page 1 to page 271, I even read the acknowledgements because if you want to know a person, look at who they hang out with❤️
I loved the revelation on page 269. You have to read the whole book to find out what was revealed on that page. Something totally significant because What Is In a Name!
"I never wanted to grow up to be like my dad. He was angry, and his anger ruined our lives."
Sometimes, the only change you can do is to leave - a line from WHAT IS WRONG WITH JUNE? by Qarnita Loxton.
Alistair had me hooked from page 1 to page 271, I even read the acknowledgements because if you want to know a person, look at who they hang out with❤️
I loved the revelation on page 269. You have to read the whole book to find out what was revealed on that page. Something totally significant because What Is In a Name!
"I never wanted to grow up to be like my dad. He was angry, and his anger ruined our lives."
Sometimes, the only change you can do is to leave - a line from WHAT IS WRONG WITH JUNE? by Qarnita Loxton.
June 9, 2024
A brilliant depiction of an anxious and troubled inner life fighting with the idea of longing and belonging, self-loathing and what love means when you struggle to accept it.
Alistair does a phenomenal job of plotting an internal struggle in an external world that is similarly falling apart yet grasping for hope. The Child is a masterful depiction of a narrator affected by his emotions and experiences, and how they compound like two mirrors held up to each other and ever reflecting one another.
Every reader will see some or all of themselves in these characters who capture the contemporary South African experience.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Alistair does a phenomenal job of plotting an internal struggle in an external world that is similarly falling apart yet grasping for hope. The Child is a masterful depiction of a narrator affected by his emotions and experiences, and how they compound like two mirrors held up to each other and ever reflecting one another.
Every reader will see some or all of themselves in these characters who capture the contemporary South African experience.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
June 16, 2024
16 June 2024
Not since “A Little Life” has a book catapulted me into a realm that is both familiar and distant simultaneously. This one has many personal connections – my journey from New York to South Africa to London. Alistair Mackay wrote an unflinching portrait of a modern South Africa at a crossroads. It is a portrait of homes within a country that are violent and nauseating but eventually, follow the dim light shining at the end – one of my favourite reads of all time.
Not since “A Little Life” has a book catapulted me into a realm that is both familiar and distant simultaneously. This one has many personal connections – my journey from New York to South Africa to London. Alistair Mackay wrote an unflinching portrait of a modern South Africa at a crossroads. It is a portrait of homes within a country that are violent and nauseating but eventually, follow the dim light shining at the end – one of my favourite reads of all time.
June 6, 2024
"The Child" by Alistair Mackay is a memorable read that took me on a resonant journey, evoking many familiar feelings. It transported me back to my own childhood, teen years, and adult life living abroad and coming back home to South Africa. While the events in the book were different from my own experiences, the emotions were incredibly relatable—fear, anxiety, longing, and feeling unheard. These emotions made me feel connected and less alone. The story's purity and realism allowed me to feel the emotions as if they were my own.
It was an excellent read, and I felt sad when it came to an end.
It was an excellent read, and I felt sad when it came to an end.
November 12, 2024
Exquisitely written, thoroughly researched, incredible insights on South African society, hot AF at times, makes you think and reflect. Read it.
September 12, 2024
4.5! <3
It is always a bit difficult reading works by people you know, love, and admire in real life. You are sat there thinking, "in this auto-fiction, how do I (should I?) divorce my love for Alistair and understanding of his life from the stories and people who live their lives through his words?" and the answer is this - many opposing things can exist and be true at the same time.
We can be sides of white and anti-racist and non-racist and privileged and problematic all on one coin. We can be getting older, while still children struggling to figure out how to re-parent ourselves through the increasingly collective trauma of our lives, and thinking about perhaps parenting an entirely new creature at the very same time (I choose to stick with cats). We can be engulfed by anxiety attacks and the conspiracy theories of our own brains all while high-flying, thriving, deserving an existence where we love and achieve and earn our brave, beautiful scars. We can be South Africans who love our country and are deeply infuriated by it, with hope and despair and joy and immense fucking anger.
We can be mirrors, creators, artists, writers, mouthpieces and create multifaceted, shimmering worlds and worlds-adjacent, while also being merely the hands that hold the pen. We can see aspects of ourselves and others in characters, while acknowledging the fiction.
Al has created a novel that cuts to the heart of what it means to be someone somewhere on the ever-changing personal metronome of identity (which is all of us, really). An expat, an immigrant, a returnee, a "who am I and what do I want to be and who do I want holding my hand through it all and how do I hold my own hand through it all". A novel about sexuality, legacy, race, and the search for belonging. A novel about every elder millennial in 2024.
Apart from being extremely talented, Alistair is also very hot and nice. But that has not influenced my review.
It is always a bit difficult reading works by people you know, love, and admire in real life. You are sat there thinking, "in this auto-fiction, how do I (should I?) divorce my love for Alistair and understanding of his life from the stories and people who live their lives through his words?" and the answer is this - many opposing things can exist and be true at the same time.
We can be sides of white and anti-racist and non-racist and privileged and problematic all on one coin. We can be getting older, while still children struggling to figure out how to re-parent ourselves through the increasingly collective trauma of our lives, and thinking about perhaps parenting an entirely new creature at the very same time (I choose to stick with cats). We can be engulfed by anxiety attacks and the conspiracy theories of our own brains all while high-flying, thriving, deserving an existence where we love and achieve and earn our brave, beautiful scars. We can be South Africans who love our country and are deeply infuriated by it, with hope and despair and joy and immense fucking anger.
We can be mirrors, creators, artists, writers, mouthpieces and create multifaceted, shimmering worlds and worlds-adjacent, while also being merely the hands that hold the pen. We can see aspects of ourselves and others in characters, while acknowledging the fiction.
Al has created a novel that cuts to the heart of what it means to be someone somewhere on the ever-changing personal metronome of identity (which is all of us, really). An expat, an immigrant, a returnee, a "who am I and what do I want to be and who do I want holding my hand through it all and how do I hold my own hand through it all". A novel about sexuality, legacy, race, and the search for belonging. A novel about every elder millennial in 2024.
Apart from being extremely talented, Alistair is also very hot and nice. But that has not influenced my review.
June 9, 2024
Dear Alistair Mackay (@almackaywrites, @almackay) this book broke me, hit waaay too close to home on a number of fronts, and it is incredible.
I love it, but am also sending you my imaginary therapy bill, k thanks.
The Child follows our narrator, a young man who is returning to Cape Town after suffering a break down in New York with his husband Adrian. The year is 2018, the year of the drought, and the two are determined to adopt a child. Our narrator also becomes quite close with their domestic worker, Sibs, and her daughter, Buhle.
There is a lot of hope for the future, but also alot of unexplored fears that start to creep to the surface and threaten this future he wants so badly, but maybe doesn't believe he deserves. This leads to a path of self destruction that he must fight against if he wants to find his way back to himself.
This is a book that forces the narrator (and you) to confront your childhood, your view of the world, the role you play in it however passively. The feeling of the more you try to fix the worse it becomes is one that hits quite close to home.
I really really loved this book. It was a tough read in its confrontation of White South African mentality as well as the conversations around whether or not to have children. To say more would possibly ruin this experience and I highly encourage you to check it out!
I also need to say I loved the device of the narrator not having a name until the very end, I found it was a great display of his struggle with himself and his identity.
If you are looking for a book that will confront and inspire you and entertain you with fantastic characters, themes and ideas, then this is the book for you!
I love it, but am also sending you my imaginary therapy bill, k thanks.
The Child follows our narrator, a young man who is returning to Cape Town after suffering a break down in New York with his husband Adrian. The year is 2018, the year of the drought, and the two are determined to adopt a child. Our narrator also becomes quite close with their domestic worker, Sibs, and her daughter, Buhle.
There is a lot of hope for the future, but also alot of unexplored fears that start to creep to the surface and threaten this future he wants so badly, but maybe doesn't believe he deserves. This leads to a path of self destruction that he must fight against if he wants to find his way back to himself.
This is a book that forces the narrator (and you) to confront your childhood, your view of the world, the role you play in it however passively. The feeling of the more you try to fix the worse it becomes is one that hits quite close to home.
I really really loved this book. It was a tough read in its confrontation of White South African mentality as well as the conversations around whether or not to have children. To say more would possibly ruin this experience and I highly encourage you to check it out!
I also need to say I loved the device of the narrator not having a name until the very end, I found it was a great display of his struggle with himself and his identity.
If you are looking for a book that will confront and inspire you and entertain you with fantastic characters, themes and ideas, then this is the book for you!
October 23, 2024
This novel had me feeling all sorts of emotions. Mackay’s main characters are so relatable that I had a personal investment in each of them, while his beautiful writing forced me to keep reading to find out what was coming next. The protagonist’s struggles with mental health and anxiety were particularly jarring, especially his descriptions of mental breakdowns and panic attacks (at times I felt my very own building up as I read!)
The novel also brought back some thoughts I had during my visit to South Africa a decade ago: specifically the race-based socioeconomic dichotomy in the country, and how some cities (like Cape Town, where the story is based) continue to feel significantly segregated, now 30+ years post-apartheid.
Mackay dives into the wonderfully complex world of gay relationships in a very human way, and touches on sensitive topics such as domestic abuse, gender-based violence, poverty-based crime, cross-cultural adoption, white privilege, and our desire to make reparations without quite knowing how to do it right... all in all, a VERY full on, but immensely eye-opening book. Highly recommended.
The novel also brought back some thoughts I had during my visit to South Africa a decade ago: specifically the race-based socioeconomic dichotomy in the country, and how some cities (like Cape Town, where the story is based) continue to feel significantly segregated, now 30+ years post-apartheid.
Mackay dives into the wonderfully complex world of gay relationships in a very human way, and touches on sensitive topics such as domestic abuse, gender-based violence, poverty-based crime, cross-cultural adoption, white privilege, and our desire to make reparations without quite knowing how to do it right... all in all, a VERY full on, but immensely eye-opening book. Highly recommended.
June 3, 2024
Now that we’ve had the Sexual Revolution, and people are claiming their sexual and gender identities, we’re forced to face complex childhood trauma and its impact on our attachment styles as well as our sensitivity and aliveness to social justice issues. It’s as though there’s a connection between the two — between our ability to be authentically ourselves and our capacity for truly experiencing the world as it is, and thriving anyway. The Child is a queer story that happens just beyond one layer of authenticity (the world is now embracing same-sex couples, letting them adopt, etc.) and at the threshold of another (what have you done with the daddy issues you inherited from a generation that wasn’t ready for the gay crazy you turned out to be?). It’s at the crossroads of the psychological and the sociological. It could be prescribed for a thousand disciplines, and it’s a damn good read.
June 4, 2024
It is refreshing to read a novel that sits so close to home and so close to the heart. Mackay has an uncanny ability to articulate the discomfort of existence in South Africa. This comes through especially in the narrator's observations of Sibs and their beautiful, honest, yet deeply complex relationship, that is so typical in this country. At one point, the narrator realises that he knows nothing about Sibs, he does not know her surname, her ID number or husband's name, despite the fact that she knows the most personal and intimate of details about his life - his future child's name, his underwear. Mackay nails the conscientious white liberal tendency to over- compensate, over analyse, and inadvertently patronise. The novel is compelling yet unsettling, and exquisitely captures the fragility of our relationship with this deeply complicated homeland.
June 6, 2024
So many times while reading this I thought “wow, this is beautiful” and I kept wanting to talk to people in the real world about these fictional people who stole a part of my heart. Might not be the happiest of stories, and definitely shines a lens back at the reader in parts, but an all-round great reading experience and escape into someone else’s problems 😅 At times I felt like I did when I read Queenie, why was I rooting for a protagonist insistent on causing their own downfall 🫣
June 20, 2024
With The Child, Alistair Mackay manages to achieve something that is notoriously difficult in fiction – he is honest, painfully so at times. Even more impressive, The Child is both honest and handled with considerable style. I’ve confidently recommended this book to a lot of my friends, and a few strangers I’ve met browsing through bookstores. I will tell you what I told them - It’s really good. Read it.
June 3, 2024
I was so excited to pick up a copy and powered through this book in no time (for me). It's packed full of emotion, passion, and real raw humanity. I related to the main character in a lot of ways and could feel him going through a range of different paths. It's really great to see the flawed nature of humans with good intention outlined so well. Excellent book which I will read again.
July 8, 2024
Alistair Mackay writes with brutal, but beautiful, honesty and sensitivity about the complexities of South Africa and being South African. Relatable and important. I’m looking forward to his next book already.
September 26, 2024
Excellent excellent excellent excellent. This is essential-reading-worthy.
(also love how the main character is unnamed until like the last chapter of the book lol. I was like "wait, I didn't know your name this entire time ho?")
(also love how the main character is unnamed until like the last chapter of the book lol. I was like "wait, I didn't know your name this entire time ho?")
June 12, 2024
I identify very much with the narrator’s thoughts about being white in South Africa. Hoping for a sequel to find out what happens next! 😅
December 3, 2024
The writing wasn’t bad but the protagonist is self-indulgent which made the whole book feel like a complete drag!
December 30, 2024
The Child by Alistair Mackay is easily the best book of the year for me!
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