“I am not hungry,” I said. This was not a lie. Who could eat here in these conditions? If I had not eaten in a year, I could not eat in this place. A woman brought kitfo for Solomon and a scalding chai for me. I tasted it slowly, covering the cup with my hand between sips and waving at insects with the other.
Through the open door I saw a battered pickup park beside Solomon’s car. The driver nodded a slight greeting to Solomon when he came inside, and lowered his eyes, but he did not speak. He scraped a chair over the ceramic tiles, joined a table of men and called for a berele of tej.
No one but the server otherwise acknowledged or spoke to us, which was fine with me. I liked the feeling of anonymity. Being with Solomon was so different than being in public with Gashe, who always needed the fawning attention of others.
I was glad to leave the flies, the babble of languages and the oppressive heat of the restaurant when Solomon scooped the last of the meat into his mouth. I helped him shift the suitcases from the car to the back of the pickup beside us.
“Stay with me,” he said, his voice quiet and his eyes looking into mine. “Close, always. I keep you safe. I promise.”
Half of the restaurant poured into the bed of the pickup. They shoved the luggage out of the way and crowded onto the rough wooden benches and onto the floor. Only Solomon and I sat in the cab. It was as if we were going to school, except I was in the front for a change. I always wanted to have the best seat, but it didn’t feel right to have so much room when the others had so little. I kept glancing back, thinking I should ask Solomon to stop so I could switch places, or at least tell him to slow down. He was traveling much too fast for this road and much too reckless for someone with a load of people in the back. The women and children slid to the floor and clutched the legs of the men as if they were the trunks of trees. The men leaned forward and gripped the edge of the wooden benches to keep themselves from bouncing out.
When the windshield wipers began to scrape at the afternoon rain, two men bent their heads and balanced the biggest suitcase on their shoulders. The others huddled beneath the makeshift roof that did little to protect them.
“We should stop. I can go in the back,” I said. “The women and the little children, they can come in here. It would be better.”
Solomon shook his head. “Ayi.” He tapped his watch. “No time. Soon.”
We stopped in the downpour near a neon green bus pitted with dents and missing a front fender. Solomon instructed each person to carry a suitcase or a bag that the tallest men pushed onto the top rack of the bus. The inside was already sweltering and crowded, almost every seat taken. I stood about midway down the aisle and latched onto the back of a seat, hoping I could keep my balance as the bus rattled over the rough pavement.
Children squealed when they flew into the air when we hit ruts, and more than once someone tumbled into the aisle or smashed his head against the window. The driver leaned over the steering wheel of the hurtling bus and rubbed his forearm on the cracked windshield to wipe the fog from the inside. The wipers flailed wildly but could not keep the windshield clear. It hardly made any difference when one flew off entirely. The small side windows screeched, metal on metal, when men reached up to open them and release some of the steam. It felt good to breathe fresh air, but the rain streamed in on one side, soaked those nearest the window and sloshed from side to side on the floor.
“Close the window!”
“No, keep it open!”
“We will die without air. There are too many of us.” People yelled and argued “open” or “closed,” mostly, I noticed, depending on where they were positioned. At least no one was still sitting in the back of the truck where their skin would be shriveling like that of a dried fig.
The road curved to reveal small houses of poor quality built close to the edges of the road. The chatter in the bus dulled as we drove through the village. Made mostly of rotting wooden slabs and tarpaulins propped up with sticks, the houses had sloping roofs of corrugated tin, lined along the edges with buckets to catch the rainwater. People walked all along the road in an unhurried way, oblivious, it seemed, to the downpour. Some carried jugs or baskets on their heads. One boy balanced a long tube on his shoulder. They scattered to either side when the driver leaned on the horn.
I squatted in the aisle to rest my legs, but I didn’t like the feeling of not seeing where I was going. I was glad when I stood up, that others ahead of me had sat on the floor, giving me a better view. The rain, by now, had let up.
Just ahead, the road split in two. In the center was an area with gigantic trees and a cement building with blue-painted bars on the windows. Leading up to it was a row of signs: Kenya Police, Moyale Border Control, Police Post. Department of Immigration. Moyale Station, Offices, Campsites.
Police dressed in army camouflage stood on guard, AK-47s at the ready. Closer to the building, uniformed officers tipped precariously on cheap plastic chairs, the officers’ legs propped against the trunk of a tree, their weapons nearby. They smoked their cigarettes sheltered from the accumulated rain that still dripped from the outer branches. They glanced at the bus, but they did not move.
The bus stopped. Solomon seemed to grow taller.
“Stay calm. Wait here,” he announced in Amharic and in Oromo. He brushed my arm when he reached overhead to pull down his satchel. He looked into my eyes and wordlessly told me everything would be fine, which did not explain why my mouth was dry and my heart was beating so fast.
You are one phone call away from dying, he had said.
Was it a warning? Or a threat? Was it here that he would make that call? Had he brought me to the border to show my intention to escape?
The center-hinged door of the bus sucked open. Solomon got off. He walked slowly and with confidence. Was he going, now, to accept his reward? He spoke to the men at the table, who pointed to the door of the concrete building. A baby cried. I saw the flash of a breast as a woman suckled the child. We waited, each of us seeming to hold his breath. Had he delivered all of us?
I watched the door where Solomon had vanished, and I watched the rain drip, drip, drip, drip from the widespread canopy of the trees. The soldier with the AK-47 sauntered to the side of the bus, as if the combat boots he wore were filled with lead. He craned his neck and examined the bus.
If he entered, should I duck? Hide beneath a seat? He lifted the automatic gun to his shoulder. Angled it up toward the roof.
What if he started shooting? What if he riddled the side of the bus with his bullets? Glass would spray everywhere, everyone would scream, there would be blood, people would die. How would I help them? What would I do?
The soldier walked a slow circuit around the bus, studying the roof. Inside, no one moved. Even the children seemed to know not to speak or whine. Behind me an old man wheezed, his breath coming in short labored breaths. The driver scraped a match. The fleeting scent of sulfur. The smoke from a lit cigarette drifted lazily down the aisle like the seep of poison gas.
The soldier left my line of vision. Where was he now? Directly behind the bus?
If he found someone, would he open fire? Just on the roof? Or inside the bus, too? Would he kill us all if he found one illegal migrant?
What if he found me? I had no papers, no identity card. Would he drag me from the bus? Or shoot me where I stood? Would he gore me first with his bayonet?
Do not worry, Solomon said. I take care of all the things.
But I did worry. Solomon could barely speak Amharic. How could he explain?
The weight of the soldier landed on the back bumper. A strangled scream, from me. He rattled and yanked the handle of the emergency exit. Watching the handle twist, I stepped back and toppled over the people cringing on the floor. The women shrieked, too, and some began to cry.
The soldier appeared on the other side. I could no longer breathe. Would he come through the front? Where was Solom
on? What was taking him so long? Could this soldier read the list of names on the television broadcast? Did he know I was on the bus? What if he killed everyone because of me?
The soldier relaxed his weapon. He returned to stand beneath the shelter of the trees, but that did not lessen my fear. How would I escape? The back door was locked. Through the front? I kept my eyes fixed on the soldier and on the men in the background, ready if anyone moved. But what would I do? What could I do?
Solomon emerged from the building. He nodded and gave a small wave of the hand to the men at the table. He came on board, looking pleased. He held his finger to his lips for silence. The driver turned the key. Ra-ra-ra-ra. Ra-ra-ra-ra.
The engine was without life. The driver puffed smoke from his cigarette and tried again. Ra-ra-ra-ra. Ra-ra-ra-ra.
Nothing.
Not a breath exhaled. Ra-ra-ra-ra. The emptiness of metal on metal. The mean-faced soldier gripped his weapon at waist level and eyed the driver. Ra-ra-ra-ra.
The engine ground to life. It sputtered and shot a stream of black smoke. We chugged across the border. Into Kenya. We exhaled as one.
19
I did not ask how I had crossed into Kenya without identity papers. Kofi must have paid well, enough for a generous bribe.
We left the others behind with the bus and switched vehicles again. This time just the two of us in a low Toyota pickup, the heavy suitcases laid flat in the back.
How far would Solomon take me? I hoped Gashe’s brother had paid well so this quiet man would stay with me. My biggest worry was the refugee camp. Is that where I would be purchased to live the life of a slave?
Solomon was calm and his movements unhurried, as if the job of sneaking people into Kenya was routine. How, I wondered, did a person get the job of a smuggler? How many people had he taken? I assumed he was good at his job and that he had never been caught. I could trust him? He was a good man, wasn’t he? A Catholic priest, yes, but one, I noticed, who did not pray with the sign of the cross before he ate.
The bumpy road riddled with potholes smoothed. Solomon broke the silence that so often fell between us.
“Tell me,” he said, “some thing, about your school.”
“I am a student at the Cathedral School,” I said. I heard the pride of Gashe in my voice. “It is an excellent school. Very expensive.”
“I know this one. How you like it to learn from the Catholics?”
Was this a test? It was better than some schools. The teachers were well trained but believed too much in discipline.
“The teachers at my school have knowledge and wisdom,” I said. A diplomatic answer, and one that was true.
“Your best subject?”
“Football!” I said.
Solomon nodded. He seemed pleased. “A defender? Or one who attacks?”
“Defense.” We fell into silence, both of us watching the road. “My brother? Ishi? He is the best forward. One day, he says he will go to the World Cup.”
“And you? You think this is so?”
“It is a possibility,” I said. “His aim is always true.” Solomon nodded briefly, as if considering.
“It is, some of the times, better to do the work and not to draw attention,” he said. “You understand? The background, going without notice?”
Solomon was the opposite of Gashe, who believed in adulation and power and influence. If Gashe was more like Solomon, perhaps I would be at home now, kicking a knot of rags in a game of football with my brothers, and not in Kenya, barreling down the road with a stranger dressed as a Catholic priest.
“Yes, I understand this,” I said. I agreed with Solomon. Although I did well in school, I liked to stand out only to please Gashe. If I did well enough, if I brought him enough recognition, he was happy and calm.
Solomon was more cautious on this side of the border. He kept both hands on the wheel and watched the road — always, it seemed, scanning ahead. The road became even worse than it had been on the Ethiopian side. It deteriorated into a slimy soup that washed the hood with muck, and that the wipers smeared across the windshield. I pressed my face nearly against the glass to peer through the sludge, ready to call out if I saw an obstacle.
We skidded and my head walloped backwards. Solomon braked suddenly. My forehead smashed on the dash just as we rammed into a deep hole filled with water. Waves splashed from the wheels of the vehicle, and my teeth banged together so hard I thought they must all be broken.
“Hold on!” He yanked the wheel to the left and sped up to pass the craters, pulling back to the right just as a truck coated with mud and loaded with cattle blasted toward us.
“Look out!” I screamed.
Driving on this road was terrifying, but I worried even more about where the road led, and what would happen when we stopped.
“Will you stay with me? At the refugee camp?” I asked. He couldn’t leave me, could he?
“No,” he said. He stood on the brake and veered right, taking us off the road. An oil tanker was in our lane, bearing down on us. It breezed past, horn blaring. It gave us a flood of muck as thanks. Solomon stopped to allow the wipers to catch up.
“I will be on my own?” I hated the smallness and the high pitch of my voice.
“No, no, no,” he said. He waved his hand from side to side, then turned to me and laid his hand on mine. “I promise to keep you safe. No camp. You stay with me.”
“Where will we go?”
“To a place safe. Soon.”
Another vehicle came at us. Head on.
“Solomon!” I screamed. He pulled from the road to let it pass. Both of us panted with fear. “What is wrong? Why are the trucks trying to kill us?”
“I forget this,” he said. He went back on the road, now in the left lane.
“What are you doing?” Surely, I would die this day.
“Kenya. Drive left,” he said.
Long after we left Moyale, we saw a man standing beside a truck with a heavy metal frame on the back. One tire was off. The driver waved and waved, signaling with both arms for us to stop. Solomon sped past.
“That man? He needs help. Why didn’t you stop?” A Catholic priest — Do unto others as you would have others do unto you — and he didn’t stop?
“Shiftas,” he said.
“Shiftas? He wasn’t a bandit. His truck was broken.”
“An old trick,” said Solomon. “Very old. They make you sad. You stop. They rob you, maybe beating you up, steal your car.”
“Truthfully? They would do that?”
Solomon nodded. “Yes,” he said. “They do that. Trust no one.”
* * *
◆
I memorized the name. Francis Marin. Place of birth: Kampala, Uganda. Date of birth: March 9, 1986. The photograph on the passport was mine, a picture without expression, taken in the house where Solomon had brought me.
The house was empty except for a woman of Etheye’s age, and a girl dressed in the style of India, who looked a bit younger than me. Inside the suitcases were all the things we needed — blankets, pots, dishes and soap.
“We travel as family,” Solomon explained. “Mother, father, son, daughter. I be with you always. I no leave you.”
“Where will we go?” asked the woman.
“It is better — more safer — if you not know,” he said.
“When?” she asked.
“I tell you when the time comes to leaving this place. I make arrangements, and then we go.”
My brain was trying to catch up. “We’re not staying here?”
“No,” he said. “It is safe here, but not safe more enough.”
The cellular telephone on his belt trilled. He flipped it open, walked from the room and spoke rapidly in a language I did not recognize.
The woman, the girl and I sat in silence, looked down at the floor and wai
ted for him to return.
“You must practice these informations I gives it to you. The names, the birthdates and birthplaces. Be ready. You must be ready, when you asked. You understand?”
Francis Marin. March 9, 1986. Kampala, Uganda.
“Forget real names. Do not even tell each other. Be these persons I give you. Understand?” He pointed at each of us in turn. “Namuddu. Francis. Maria.”
Francis Marin. March 9, 1986. Kampala, Uganda. Mother is Namuddu, sister is Maria, father is Solomon.
“I speak for you. I tell the authorities we have a trip to make holiday with family. Understand?” We nodded.
“What if we make a mistake?” the woman asked.
“You not make the mistake. You cannot make the mistake. You be arrested in jail. They send you back. Make mistake and you kill all the ones of us.”
Francis Marin. March 9, 1986. Kampala, Uganda. Mother is Namuddu, sister is Maria, father is Solomon.
“Understand?” We all nodded. “Also, do not make the noise. Do not open curtains or go away from house for any kind of reason. Never. Dangerous. Very dangerous. I bring it all the things you need. Food. Clothing. You need it some things, you tell me.”
“What will we do while we wait?” the woman asked.
“You practice your identifications. You must know the other people’s ones like you know your own. You must answer to these names … ah … when … an authority say it to call you, when you not expecting to hear these names.
“They play the tricks. We must be ready. We be a family. We must know it each other. It is the only way.” The smuggler pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. “Tomorrow I return, give it to you the test.” He locked the door when he left.
Could I forget who I was? And where I came from? To forget your life, was that possible? Who could do that?
20
It was time to leave. The tension of hiding had passed into boredom, repeating names, ages, birthplaces, family history and reason for travel. Solomon came each day — always, it seemed, with the cellular phone pressed against his ear.
Cold White Sun Page 11
