I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives

by Caitlin Alifirenka

  Generosity

  June 1999

  Martin

  THE POSTMAN DIDN’T EVEN HAVE to call my name—I spotted the letter decorated as always with small hearts and stars, Caitlin’s trademark.

  This time she sent two twenty-dollar bills. I was blown away and still had no idea how she could afford it. But then I thought of the expensive T-shirts she had sent me, as well as the photos of her family’s cars, plural. Even her dogs had beds and blankets. In my mind, she was very rich. And so I guessed that money was not the big deal to Caitlin and her family that it was to me and mine. Meanwhile, I did not know anyone who could loan me ten Zim dollars let alone forty American dollars.

  The timing was almost spooky, as the retrenchment at my father’s work continued. Most of his friends had been replaced. These men were also fathers of families who depended on them, which was why my dad continued waking up every morning and walking the hour to his job as he had done for so many years, even though he was sure he was next to be let go. I admired his resilience then, and still do today.

  A lesser man may have been threatened by Caitlin’s generosity. Here was a fourteen-year-old girl sending us more money than my father made in several months. My father only had love and respect for Caitlin. Her letters had always been precious to me. Now they were also crucial to my whole family. We were on a ship that was sinking, huddled at the tip before it went under. Caitlin’s gift was a lifeboat.

  My mother was afraid to keep this much money in our house. It made us a target in these difficult times. That same day, we set up a bank account at the post office. After so many years of relying on my father, my mother seemed happy to have some control. That July, my father’s paycheck could not cover our rent for the first time. My mother used Caitlin’s money to make up the difference. No one ever said what we all felt: What would we have done if it weren’t for Caitlin?

  I didn’t dwell on that thought—I was too focused on catching up at school. I had nine classes: mathematics, accounts, biology, computer science, and physical science were easy. So were English and history. I continued to struggle with Shona and now English literature, but by the end of the semester, my grades were once again the best in the class. This made my father very proud. He suggested I go stay with his brother in Harare during our winter break that August. My uncle’s daughter had married a man who worked at a bank in the capital. They arranged for me to work at the bank as a tea boy.

  I had never been to Harare before, so I was extremely excited. I took the overnight bus from Mutare and wore my Reebok shirt for the trip. I wanted to look cool, not like a country boy. My uncle met me at the Harare bus station dressed in pleated pants, a button-down shirt, and sturdy leather slip-on shoes. I was so impressed. We went to his apartment, which he shared with another family. He had two wives who alternated visits but mostly stayed in the rural areas. His first wife was only able to have one child, which was why he married again. He had another three children with his second wife, one of whom was married to the man I was going to work for.

  My uncle pointed to a corner in the living room where I could sleep, and then gave me detailed instructions on how to get to the bank, to meet Alois, my cousin’s husband. That was a great adventure. My uncle told me which bus to get on, where to get off, and then what building to enter. Thank goodness—I would have gotten lost otherwise. I’d never seen so many people, or cars, or such tall buildings in my life. Everything seemed faster and louder and brighter in Harare than in Mutare. My blood seemed to pump faster, too, trying to keep up.

  Alois was even more put together than my uncle. He wore a suit and tie, like the managers at my father’s work, but he was only in his mid-twenties. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a broad smile, and then introduced me to several of his colleagues before taking me to the tea station. My job, he explained, was to make cups of tea for every bank employee at ten AM, one PM, and four PM. If anyone requested a cup in between, I was to do that as well. I liked my new job. The people at the office were very friendly. After a week, I knew everyone’s preferences—who liked it very sweet, who wanted more milk.

  That first weekend, Alois and his wife, Sekai, invited me to go with them to their favorite cafe. Sekai was very pretty, and funny as well—her name in Shona means “to laugh,” and when she did, people wanted to join her. She met Alois during her studies in Harare, and the two got married out of love for each other. I rarely heard of such a thing, but knew I wanted to be like them.

  When we entered the cafe, many of the waiters greeted Alois and Sekai by name, which impressed me. I had never been to a restaurant before, so this experience was a mix of intimidating and exhilarating. Most of the patrons were white, and everyone was wearing very expensive-looking clothes. With my Reebok shirt, I fit in.

  We ordered our drinks inside and then carried them to the outdoor tables. I ordered the same thing as Sekai, a very fancy coffee topped with whipped cream. It was so delicious that I had to fight an intense desire to gulp it down. Instead, I sipped very slowly. Sitting outside listening to music and surrounded by all these very sophisticated people made me think of Caitlin. I wondered if places like these existed at the American malls she wrote about.

  That afternoon, I told Alois and Sekai about Caitlin.

  “What a good friend,” Alois said.

  “Will you meet her one day?” Sekai asked.

  “That is my dream,” I answered.

  “You can, Martin!” Alois said. “You are so clever. Keep your grades up and go on to your A-levels so you can go to university like we did. Then you can do whatever you want.”

  I drained the last swirl of coffee-flavored foam from my cup and looked around. Sitting at the cafe, no one would have guessed that I was carrying luggage at the Sakubva bus station only months earlier. I can do it, I thought. I can go to university, and I will meet Caitlin one day. The potential of both was thrilling.

  I knew hard work would get me there, so I reported to work early every day. When the month was up, I was sad to leave. On my last day in Harare, I bought a special thank-you card for Caitlin that summed up everything I felt about her:

  We’ve shared the kind of friendship

  that’s grown deeper through the years.

  We’ve seen the ups, we’ve known the downs,

  we’ve shared the smiles and tears.

  And through it all, I’ve learned one thing—

  that there could never be

  a dearer friend in all the world

  than the one you are to me.

  That same afternoon, I also found a place to get my portrait taken. I wore the shirt Caitlin had sent me right before I left for Harare. It was red with blue letters. I wanted to have my picture taken in it as a way to say thank you.

  Before I boarded the bus back to Mutare, I wrote a note to Caitlin on the front of the card.

  To Caitlin:

  Thanks be unto God for making the two of us great friends. Words are not enough for me to express how you and me care for the other though I am not rich.

  Below the poem, I added:

  Your love and soothing care has changed my life. Our friendship lasts and lasts like a mother’s love.

  Lots of love from

  your caring friend,

  Martin.

  And then inside the card, I wrote, You’re the only one, Caitlin. I drew a heart instead of an apostrophe. All these gifts you have sent me are really great. I thank you very much. I wish I had the money to buy you the greatest gift you’ve ever received. I used to wear my father’s clothes but your love has made me a real teenager in modern expensive clothes. Caitlin, you’re the best. I love you!

  I also decided to finally ask her how she decorated her letters. The last one was so ornate that I brought it to school to show my friends. Patrick was certain it was a machine. Do you make these by hand? Or is it a machine or special pen that helps you?

  With that, I signed off.

  Since there was no time to find a post office b
efore the bus departed, I packed her card with my things to travel back to Sakubva. I would send it to her from home.

  The morning I returned, I sensed something was wrong. My mother barely greeted me, and though it was a Saturday, my father was gone. I asked where everyone was, and she said that Nation and Simba were at the market, working.

  “Where is Baba?” I asked. I had been gone only four weeks, so I was not expecting a celebration. But I didn’t anticipate such a gloomy reception, either.

  My mother took time to find the right words.

  “He lost his job last week, Martin,” she finally said, shaking her head as if she still could not believe this was so.

  I knew this day would come, and yet the news siphoned the oxygen from our already claustrophobic house.

  “We used Caitlin’s money again for August’s rent,” she continued, her eyes stuck to the floor. Then she looked up at me and I could see how painful it was for her to share the news. “We need it for September, too.”

  Now I understood why she was so upset. Without any income, how would we pay our rent in the months to come? We had seen so many neighbors kicked out of their homes for this reason. They’d go to the rural areas to live off the land, but that was not an option for my family. Most families used money from working in the city to build a house in the rural areas to retire to. My father never got to that level, so we had nothing to go back to. If we could not pay rent, we would be homeless.

  All these thoughts collided in my head: Money was running out. Father had no job, and no prospects. And that meant there was no money for school. I was starting the last semester of my Form Three in two days.

  “It will be okay, Mai,” I lied. I had no idea how. I needed air, and room to think.

  As I walked down the path to the main road, I brainstormed ways to stay in school—every single solution ended with Caitlin.

  On Monday morning, I retrieved Caitlin’s last letter and brought it to school with me along with the money I had saved from working in Harare as a down payment. Rather than be called out in class, I went straight to see the headmaster.

  Mr. Samupindi spoke at assemblies and handed out awards, but otherwise rarely interacted with students. He was intimidating—a very large man with a gigantic silver Afro. He growled instead of talked, like a wolf. My heart was pounding when I knocked on his office door.

  “Who is it?” his gruff voice boomed through the closed door.

  “Martin Ganda, sir,” I shouted through the door. “I have a request.”

  “Come in,” he bellowed. I opened the door and saw him sitting at his desk, which was covered with piles of paperwork. I had to wave my hand in front of my eyes to clear a patch in the fog of cigarette smoke that filled the room. Mr. Samupindi took a drag from the nub in between two fingers before stamping it out in one of the several overflowing ashtrays that doubled as paperweights. Ashes scattered as he tamped, and a serpent of condensed smoke escaped into the already thick air.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” I said, approaching his desk. “My father lost his job.”

  Mr. Samupindi lit another cigarette.

  “I don’t have all my fees today,” I explained, placing Z$52 on his desk. The cost had risen due to inflation and was now $800 per semester versus $550. This was not even 10 percent. “Here’s my down payment—and I have an American friend who will cover the rest.”

  The headmaster didn’t flinch, or smile, or react in any way. It was as if I were talking to a statue.

  “I promise you, I will have the entire fee in a few weeks,” I said, next handing him Caitlin’s letter as proof.

  “She sent me forty dollars in June, sir,” I explained. “This won’t be a problem.”

  The headmaster read through Caitlin’s letter before agreeing to a month-long grace period: Things had gotten so bad that even the schools had to be lenient. They needed money.

  Emboldened by this good news, I also asked if I could use the one computer that the school possessed to write Caitlin the request that day. This was a very serious request I was about to make. I wanted to type it to reflect that. He agreed.

  After my last class, I went back to the main office and told the secretary that Mr. Samupindi had given me permission to use the computer. She was already expecting me.

  As I sat down in front of this modern-looking machine, I realized the enormity of what I was about to do: Asking my best friend to pay for my schooling seemed preposterous. With no other options, I started typing slowly, with my two pointer fingers:

  8 September 1999

  Dear CAITLIN

  Hi! I was very happy to receive a letter from you. Thanks very much. How is the “THE KEYSTONE STATE”? I am okay down here in Africa.

  We were on a school holiday from AUGUST 5 to SEPTEMBER 6. I enjoyed it a lot. I went to our capital city HARARE, where I was working as a tea boy at a certain company. FUNNY!!!

  In Zimbabwe right now we are in SUMMER and it is very hot. Sometimes we go swimming in rivers since we only have one public pool, which is very expensive to use. Caitlin, I love you very much. You have really changed my life through giving me clothes and other nice, expensive gifts. Now I stand as a counted person in my community. My parents have never supported me like that. Thanks very much.

  I wrote about Zimbabwean music and asked if she had ever heard of Thomas Mapfumo. Then I added:

  I have enclosed my new photo and a greetings friendship card which I bought especially for you when I was working as a tea boy in Harare. I HAVE TYPED THIS LETTER AT SCHOOL ON A COMPUTER.

  Just after I finished that line, the secretary tapped me on the shoulder to say she had to lock up the office. I was running out of time and quickly finished with:

  Thanks for your love. Say hi to Richie, Romeo, your kind mom and dad.

  Your Loving Pal,

  Martin Ganda

  I retrieved my printed letter and then went outside to consider how best to ask for such a big favor. I couldn’t get the machine to say what I needed to, which was: “I need help. Please send money so I can stay in school!” It was a tremendous request, but I couldn’t bear going back to the market. I decided to be entirely honest with her about my situation.

  I continued writing on the back of the typed note:

  Sorry for the late replying. Guess what? I used about three-quarters of my pay as a tea boy to buy you the friendship card!! I adore you!

  I am back at school now from the holiday. I have bad news that my dad is no longer working, so I am doing all that I can to get money for school fees, food, for clothes I am okay for those shirts you gave me. If you could please help me with school fees if possible…

  Mid-sentence it dawned on me. Sure, she had money, but it was her parents who each had a car and bought the castle that Caitlin lived in. Maybe they could help?… or your kind and loving mom and dad could please help me if possible please, I wrote to finish the sentence and hopefully take the pressure off my dear friend.

  It costs about Z$800 per term (4 months), or about US$20. If it is not possible, don’t worry. I will just do after school jobs to get the money but it’s very tiring. I clean rich people’s cars, carry luggage for people, and get a few coins which I keep until they reach Z$800.

  I hope your lovely parents may help me if it’s possible for them. Don’t worry too much if it’s not possible. But please show them my photo! I love your family! Also please show my photo to Richie.

  After I finished the letter to Caitlin, I decided to be even bolder, and write directly to her parents. I told them I had one week to find the fees, figuring that by the time my letter made it to America, and they responded, it would be even less time than that. I decided to tell them my situation, and then pray that they would understand and help me.

  October 1999

  Caitlin

  THAT SUMMER, I’D GROWN SIX inches. It was like the scene from Alice in Wonderland where she drinks the tea and then grows so qu
ickly, she busts out of the house. I was five foot three in June, and five foot nine by August, which meant none of the clothes I wore in the beginning of the summer fit by the end. It also meant I needed an entire new wardrobe for the start of ninth grade. I was thrilled.

  I was also happy that I finally got boobs! The summer before, we spent many weekends at my grandparents’ lake house in the Poconos. My aunt Kim was usually there—she’s married to my mom’s younger brother, Jim. Since we lived in our bathing suits on the weekend, I noticed that my aunt Kim’s boobs were big but not jiggly. I wanted mine to be like hers, and asked her directly one day, “How did you get those?” Her response was, “Go row the boat for a few hours every day.” I followed her instructions religiously—rowing every day until my arms ached. And then the following summer, my boobs popped out! I went from a training bra to a D cup, but could still wear tube tops without a bra.

  I loved it—people assumed I was much older than fourteen. I noticed this when I started ninth grade. Guys had always been nice to me, but suddenly, they were really nice to me. I loved the attention, but that feeling was soon overcome by pain.

  My back started bothering me in eighth grade but really began to hurt earlier that summer. Any time I bent over—to put on my shoes or pick up my bunny—it felt like I was being stabbed at the base of my spine. This made emptying the dishwasher excruciating. It got so bad that by September, I would have to lie down on the floor and breathe through the pain after I was done putting away the glasses and cutlery. My mom thought I was just trying to get out of housework, but then I stopped playing field hockey because bending over the stick became impossible. Red-hot pain radiated down both legs.

  My mom finally took me to a doctor, who thought it was scoliosis. Those tests came back negative, thankfully, but the pain never subsided. Next, I was sent for an MRI. That was how we discovered that the corners of my growth plates had broken off. I grew so quickly that my bones broke. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to do about it. I went to physical therapy twice a week for a few months, and did some basic stretching and core exercises, which was a total drag. The only upside was that my mom stopped making me empty the dishwasher and dust the baseboards.