Cold White Sun by Sue Farrell Holler

Author:Sue Farrell Holler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Groundwood Books Ltd
Published: 2019-01-11T18:16:39+00:00

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We smoothed through the security checkpoints. Solomon smiled, motioned with his hand to indicate his family and gave the forged passports and travel visas to the agent. Francis Marin was too excited to be nervous. He grinned like an imbecile. He had been on an airplane!

“First time,” Solomon nodded with his head to me and chuckled.

The agent did not smile. He slammed a heavy stamp on each document and passed them back to Solomon.

The air outside was moist on my face, even though it was not raining. A private car picked us up, Solomon in the front with the driver, the rest of us in the back. It was a big city with signs in Arabic and English. The driver left us at another empty house. Solomon had a key.

“Where are we?” asked the girl.

“It is better that you do not know,” said Solomon. His voice was gentle. Did he know the girl had cried each night we stayed in Kenya?

“That was very well,” he said. He passed us each a paper with a new name, new birthdate and birthplace. “We repeat it the process with this new informations. Forgetting the old ones, as if you never heard them. Yes? You understand?”

“We’re not going to stay here?” I asked.

“No, we must continue going in this way. The bigger the distance, the more safe for everyone.”

How much farther could I go than days of driving and an airplane ride? The farther we went from home, the longer and harder it would be to get back.

“Okay?” asked Solomon, but he did not expect an answer. “It will be as before. You stay here. No going to the outside. I bring everything. No one to know you are being here. Practice it your new names, over and over, until you are forgetting the other names. Understand? All of our histories must match.”

It was the same as before. The woman cooked eggs and bread and made tea for everyone. I was careful to keep my jeans clean, and alternately wore the Quiksilver shirt and the monkey shirt. Solomon took new pictures, came with new passports and birth certificates, and we practiced. It was like being a prisoner. No books, no pencils, no paper, no television, no talking to each other, except to practice each other’s names. I began to like washing my shirt in the basin. At least it was something to do.

Solomon came every day to bring things, usually food. He put on a stern face and pretended he was an immigration official, testing our knowledge.

“Good. We do it same as before. A Muslim family this time. I speak. You do nothing. Be ready for the trick.” He gave scarves to the woman and the girl and taught them how to drape them over their hair, forehead and neck.

I put up my hand as if I was in school.

“Will not the authorities notice our different tribes, our different nationalities?” I asked.

“No be to worry,” he said. “We go to a place of white peoples.

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