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264 pages, Paperback
First published March 3, 2020
The Jan Smuts International Airport central hall was full of people all colours and shapes. Except, of course, the departure queues — there were no black skins there. All the non-white skins were standing around with brooms and buckets and cleaning, or readying themselves to clean up after the white skins, who made a mess in toilets, dropped lolly wrappers, newspapers, sodden handkerchiefs and even, Muir noticed in one corner, a smelly bundle that looked like a nappy. The whites were flying out and flying in, but the others were staying put, there to tidy up and even if they wanted to fly, there were no queues for them. And air travel was for the wealthy.
Then he remembered he wasn't. Or hadn't been. The difference between him and the handsome young man standing outside the male toilets with a mop, was that all Jack Muir had to do when he ran out of money was to call his father and ask him to send more. (p.51)
Didn't say? What kind of a country is that? You have to say if you are Aboriginal? Do you have to say if you are Greek?
Yeah, because you could be Italian, or Yugoslav, maybe even Lebanese.
No, no, no, you people have it all wrong. Next you'll be telling me you only knew the Jews were Jews because they said they were Jews,
Of course.
You mean, you don't have race police coming to your house and taking hair samples and telling you who you are or what they want you to be? (p.36)