I had saved thirty-two Zim dollars and needed sixteen for stamps, which would set me way back from returning to school. But this was important. I still had to find something to write on. My dad was lucky to still have a job. Retrenchment had begun at the factory—they were firing older employees and hiring younger ones, for less pay. I went back to the market the next day and kept my eyes open for something to write on. When I saw a young boy fling the wrapper from an ice-cream bar onto the ground, I grabbed it without anyone noticing. It was still clean, except for a chocolate smear, which I wiped off on my shorts. I ran home to write Caitlin. Since the paper was quite small, I compressed my handwriting to get as many words on the page as I could—this was a big moment in our relationship. I decided to tell Caitlin the truth about why I had not been in better touch. And I prayed that she would understand. And that she would still want to be my friend.
The following day, I took my note to the post office along with extra money my mom gave me that morning to buy an envelope. I knew Caitlin’s address by heart, and wrote it in the center of the envelope, trying to leave enough space for all the stamps it needed to make it to my best friend’s house.
May 1999
Caitlin
I CONTINUED TO CHECK THE mail every single day for weeks. And then one day, I saw an envelope so completely covered with stamps it barely had space for my name and address. Martin was alive! I ripped it open, thrilled. But when I unfolded the actual letter, I gasped. My friend was writing to me on trash.
As I read his small cramped words explaining why he had disappeared, I felt a crazy mix of relieved and confused. He wrote that he had been kicked out of school because he didn’t have enough money to pay the fees. This made no sense—couldn’t he switch to a public one? It was illegal in the United States to just not go to school—wasn’t it the same in Zimbabwe? I read the next line: I’ve been carrying luggage and pouring tea just to make money so my family can eat. The pressure that had been building in my chest left no room to breathe. He was a kid! He should be in school! Not working to feed his family. Still, I was so relieved to get his letter that I ran into the house shouting, “Mom, Martin is alive! He’s alive!”
“Thank God,” she said, rushing to my side. “Is he okay?”
I tried to answer, but the tears that started in the driveway were now washing over my words.
“What is it?” she asked, concerned.
“He’s not going to school,” I managed to say before another wave of tears took over. I sunk my head into my mother’s soft shoulder. “Mom, he’s pouring tea and carrying luggage to help feed his family.”
“Now, now,” she said rubbing my back. “Martin is a smart boy. He will find a way to get back in school, Caitlin.”
I tensed up. She had no idea what he was experiencing. I could barely grasp it. And as much as I wanted to believe her, I knew he could not do it on his own. I wanted to help, but how?
I did not tell my mom any of these thoughts racing through my head. I did not want a lecture about how I needed to concentrate on my own life first. Or about how Zimbabwe was not the United States. I knew that. I had been reading everything I could find online about the country—story after story of poverty, starvation, and disease. It seemed so illogical, so wrong. I had been so worried about Martin for the last two months that I had stopped thinking about much else. My grades started slipping as a result. I had the luxury of not being interested in school, while Martin was actually unable to go. It seemed so unfair.
“I have to study,” I lied. I just wanted to be alone.
Upstairs, in my room, I pulled all of his letters out of my desk drawer, looking for clues that might help make sense of everything. All these lines I had glossed over before jumped out: high-density suburbs, ten people per bed, greatly increased my wardrobe. There were so many clues that he was struggling, but I never paid enough attention to figure them out until now. I felt like an idiot.
Immediately I pulled out a piece of stationery. The words gushed out of me:
Dear Martin,
Thank goodness you are okay! I was so worried!! I thought something terrible happened to you. For some reason, I thought you may have drowned! I know that is crazy because Mutare is nowhere near the ocean or even a lake, but still, I had nightmares about it. I have been reading so much about what is happening in Zimbabwe and so I am especially glad you are not hurt. But I am so sorry that you are not in school. I don’t understand it. And I cannot begin to imagine what that is like. Here in the United States, we have to go to school. It is the law. Everybody goes, regardless of how much money you have. Of course, there are kids who drop out, or don’t care. But I have never heard of someone who wants to go not being able to.
I had so many questions for Martin, like How can you get to go back to school? What are your parents doing for money? How are you paying to live? And why are you working to buy food for your family? But I didn’t want to overwhelm him. What if he did not have any answers? It would just make him feel worse.
Instead, I wanted to write something that might give him hope. And I wanted to do something to help—really help. That sparked a thought: I’d just earned twenty dollars from babysitting, which I was planning to spend on silver hoop earrings. Martin needed the money way more than I needed another pair of stupid earrings. Twenty dollars couldn’t possibly get him back into school—but maybe it could buy food for his family? Or at least stamps and stationery so he didn’t have to spend his money to correspond with me? I stuffed the bill into the envelope and wrote: I am enclosing some money and hope it helps somehow. Your best friend FOREVER, Caitlin.
The next morning, I handed my letter to my mom at breakfast and asked her to mail it that same day. I didn’t tell her or my dad that I was sending Martin money. I didn’t want them to tell me not to.
May 1999
Martin
AFTER I SENT THE LETTER TO CAITLIN, I went to the market every day that week to make as much money as possible. It was the only way I could go back to school. Even if I missed a whole year, I’d catch up. That thought kept me going.
The mailman arrived on his bicycle one Saturday as usual. When he shouted “Martin Ganda!” I ran as fast as I could.
I wanted to read Caitlin’s note in private and walked to the outskirts of Chisamba Singles. I was so worried about how she would respond to my news. Would she think differently of me? That I was not worthy of her friendship? I hoped not. But I was feeling so bad about my life at that point that I wouldn’t have blamed her if she decided to stop our correspondence. I could barely afford to write her letters—and beyond that, I had nothing else to offer.
I slid my finger beneath the envelope seal, admiring the high-quality paper she always used. It felt heavy and soft at the same time. When I pulled her letter out, I saw that she had stuck something inside.
I thought it was another dollar bill, and my lungs inflated. Then I saw it wasn’t one dollar, but a twenty-dollar bill! I felt as if I might lift off the ground, like a hot-air balloon. I examined it closely—President Jackson looked so regal. And those words “In God We Trust” that hovered over the White House made me giddy. When my mother and I had taken the dollar to the post office to exchange it, we had walked out with twenty-four Zim dollars. I did quick math. That meant twenty dollars was worth at least four hundred eighty Zim dollars—enough to get me back in school. By now I knew inflation had doubled, which meant the US dollar was even stronger. I had to hold back from shouting in pure joy and relief. Before I ran to find my mother, I read Caitlin’s letter to make sure she wasn’t upset. I tucked the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket. People were stealing the most basic things in Chisamba Singles these days. Twenty dollars could get me beaten up and robbed, if not killed.
I read Caitlin’s friendly letter three times looking for clues that she may be disappointed in me. I could not find one. On the contrary, it was clear that she only wanted to make sure I was okay. She didn’t blame or judge me for being poor—instead, she wro
te, I hope this twenty dollars helps. I knew she was kind, but this generosity was totally unexpected. Caitlin’s support felt God-sent.
I raced home and found my mother hanging clothes to dry on the wires strung between our house and our neighbors.
“Mai, I must show you something!” I said. I didn’t want to flash the cash out in the open. “Follow me.”
Once inside, I handed her the money.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“Caitlin,” I said.
She studied it closely.
“But how can such a young girl afford this?” she asked. “And why would she send it to you?”
“Mai, Caitlin has a very big heart,” I said. That was the only explanation I could come up with.
“Martin, this is enough to get you back in school!” she said.
“I know!” I said, and closed her hand around the bill. “Help me take care of it.”
She clasped her free hand around mine, sandwiching my fist between her small but strong fingers. Then she placed her forehead on mine and began to ululate, but softly. She broke free to dance in a small circle, and her joyous cries came out as throaty, high-pitched whispers. Like me, she did not want to attract anyone’s attention to our good fortune. But also like me, she couldn’t contain herself.
“The post office in Sakubva is closed, but if we go now, we can get to the city bank in time,” she said.
It usually took over an hour to walk from Chisamba Singles to the center of Mutare, where several banks were located. We made it in less than forty minutes, as we were practically skipping. Nation was in his last year, Form Four—he wanted to finish up and then focus on a soccer career instead of trying for university. Depending on the rate, the money might help him as well. In the meantime, he was selling used clothes with a friend in the market to make money while not in school. It was better than carrying luggage, but he hoped it was not forever.
We arrived at the bank and joined the queue with men in suits and women in skirts and blouses. Everyone wore shoes. My mother was barefoot and I was wearing cheap flip-flops, my only shoes, which I had repaired with plastic bags fashioned into straps. We stood out among these city sophisticates in their sturdy lace-up shoes or good-looking pumps. But we had reason to be there, too.
When my mother placed twenty US dollars in front of the teller, he looked surprised but didn’t say a word as he counted the Zimbabwean bills not once but three times before placing them into an envelope. I was speechless, too: It was seven hundred Zim dollars, as the new rate was thirty-five Zim dollars for one US dollar. My mother placed the slim brick of cash beneath her skirt, tucked tight against her belly, and I followed her out looking all around for any sign of trouble. No one ever would have guessed that the two of us would be carrying so much money. We were safe.
We decided to take the bus home, since it was already mid-afternoon and we had the money to do so. We arrived at the market, where my mother used six Zim dollars to shop for sadza, beans, and greens. When we passed a chicken stand on our way home, she stopped.
“Martin, we have not been able to eat meat on Christmas for so many years,” she said. “Let’s celebrate today, in honor of Caitlin.”
My mouth began to water as she picked a plump chicken from the stacked crates.
Everyone in our family knew the good news, but we ate silently, smiling. If a neighbor asked, we said the chicken was a gift from our uncle in Harare. We did not want word to spread through Chisamba Singles that our American friend was sending money in the mail. It would make us a target. Many people were complaining of robberies—basic necessities like sadza and cooking oil were being stolen. My mother kept the actual money hidden from my father as well. He wanted a real beer to celebrate the news. Not Chibuku, but a glass bottle of Castle. Instead, he ate sadza and chicken and beans with his family.
That Sunday was one of the longest days ever. I couldn’t wait for Monday morning, to march back to school and hand the money directly to the school bursar. When I did, he smiled and said, “Welcome back, Martin.”
I had missed several months of school, and exams were coming up, so I stayed after school for weeks to copy notes directly from the teachers’ textbooks. And then one afternoon, instead of going home, I headed over to the Mutare Teachers’ College not far from my school. I knew there was a library on campus that had electricity, which meant I had light as well as tables to study at. The library closed at seven PM, but I quickly discovered a way to sneak back in after the guard made his last rounds. There was a large unlocked window at the back of the building that I could easily slip through. One night, I waited for the guard to leave—and then I found a rock to use as a step to hoist my body up and through the window’s narrow opening. I landed, hands first, on the cool linoleum floor. Surrounded by the quiet of books, I felt at peace for the first time in forever. Rather than let myself get lost in that feeling, I cracked open my mathematics textbook, which was like a jolt of caffeine—seeing the numbers and problems dance before me was like greeting old friends. I was giddy as I dove into my work that night and many more that followed. Within a month, I was back on track.
June 1999
Caitlin
AFTER HE SENT THE LETTER on the ice-cream wrapper, Martin started to open up to me in a way that made me realize how different our lives were. Until that moment, I did not understand how truly privileged I was. And that was only the beginning. In the next letter, Martin wrote that the money I sent got him back into school, and fed his entire family a dinner he described as a feast. He said, We ate chicken for the first time in many years. It felt like Christmas. I was stunned. We always had roast beef or turkey and ham for Christmas. In fact, there was such an abundance of food, we’d have leftovers for days. Chicken was a regular weekday night meal. If twenty dollars could do so much, I wondered, what could forty do?
I was working as a camp counselor that summer, and my dad gave me twenty dollars a week for chores I did around the house. They included picking up dog poop in the backyard—and cleaning Louis’s cage. I also had to dust the living room baseboards and empty the dishwasher. I had also started babysitting every Wednesday afternoon for the woman who ran the summer day camp. She had three kids. From then on, whenever she asked me to work on weekends, I said yes.
I slipped two twenty-dollar bills in my next letter, and asked him to use some of it on postage. I had never worried about the price of stamps—I just handed my mom the letters I’d written and knew she’d take care of it. I didn’t want Martin to worry about the cost of school, let alone buying stamps to write to me. It felt good sending him money to help with these things. He was the first person I had ever known who really needed my help. I wasn’t going to let him down. Besides, I got to go to school for free and my parents kept our refrigerator full. I certainly didn’t need another piece of costume jewelry, or a candy-flavored lip gloss, or a new CD at the mall.
I couldn’t share any of these thoughts with my friends, though. They didn’t, or couldn’t, understand. I learned this the day after I got the ice-cream wrapper note. I found Lauren and a few other friends hanging in front of our lockers before homeroom and blurted, “Guess what? Martin is alive!”
Lauren did an exaggerated eye roll before saying, “Jesus, Caitlin, enough about you and your African boyfriend!” All the other girls giggled.
“God, Lauren, how many times have I told you: He’s not my boyfriend,” I said. My blood felt like boiling lava coursing throughout my body.
“Yeah, right,” Lauren said to more laughter. “It’s so obvious you’re in love with him! Why don’t you just fly to Zim-wherever he lives to marry him and get it over with?”
“That’s gross!” I spat.
But Lauren had already started walking to her next class, gossiping with two other girls who followed her like panting puppy dogs, leaving me smoldering. One girl, Tina, stayed by my side.
“Why are you so offended?” she asked tentatively, trying to be nice.
“That’s like telling me to go marry my own brother!” I said.
Tina looked at me like I was crazy, and then ran to catch up with Lauren and the others. Screw them, I thought as I threw my book bag in my locker. Nobody would ever understand my relationship with Martin, except for Martin. So I kept it to myself. It was easy to do. Martin had started sharing what his life was really like with me—which made all my friends’ high dramas seem trivial. Strict parents, bad grades, or stupid boyfriends—my friends’ complaints seemed so unimportant and meaningless compared to what Martin was experiencing. Mine did, too. I started to look at my own life in a new way. I saw all the things I took for granted—which cereal to eat for breakfast, or whether or not I wanted ice cream or cookies for dessert. These decisions were total luxuries. I got to choose. Even going to school felt different—not so much this thing I had to do, something I was lucky to get to do.
For almost two years now, I’d been so naïve. I had assumed that Martin’s life was like mine. I stopped writing to him about going to the mall with my friends or about my dumb friend dramas and instead started pushing him for more details: I’d ask outright, What do you need? What does your family need? I also wrote, I’m so glad you’re back into school, but what about your siblings?
In my early correspondence, I was timid about asking such forthright questions because I didn’t want him to think I was stupid for not already knowing. Now I saw that it was my responsibility, as his friend—because his answers would help me make sure that he was going to be okay, no matter what.
PART 3
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 8