After the packing was done, I wrote a letter that explained the contents of the box. I said that I hoped I got his shoe size right—and to send me the right one if not. And then I included a candy dictionary, identifying each kind in detail. Last, and most importantly, I didn’t know if he had a telephone himself but figured he could find one. So I asked if he would please let me know when he received the package—I just wanted to make sure it got there okay. I also needed to know that he was okay.
I placed the letter on top of all the clothing and toiletries and school supplies and then emptied all seven bags of candy on top, watching with delight as the rainbow assortment scattered and filled all the nooks and crannies of the package, like three-dimensional confetti.
Mom held the box flaps down as I taped up the box. That night, she called Solange to ask her advice about the best way to send something so big to Zimbabwe. Solange explained that the political situation in Zimbabwe was so volatile it made sending anything there of value a real crap shoot. There was no way to ensure it would get to Martin once it hit the Zimbabwean postal service. There were reports, Solange said, of packages being opened and items sold on the black market. She thought the safest way to send the package was to go through the American or Canadian embassy, and promised she would look into it for us.
In the meantime, I wrote Martin another letter to say that a special package was on its way to him, and that it might take a while to get there. Once again, I included twenty dollars wrapped in aluminum foil, as Solange said that helped hide the fact I was sending cash. Once again, I ended with, Please write me back and let me know you have received it. Your friend forever, Caitlin.
November 1999
Martin
I PROMISED MR. SAMUPINDI I would have the money quickly, but knew it took two weeks for mail to get to the US and another two weeks to return to Zimbabwe. I still had nothing by October. Mr. Samupindi was disappointed, but gave me another week’s reprieve. And then, like magic, a letter arrived.
This one, however, had been ripped and taped back up in a crude way. Someone had written in capital letters INSPECTED FOR CONTRABAND across Caitlin’s beautiful penmanship. It felt like a violation.
I immediately opened the letter and was so relieved to hear that her parents were willing to help. At the last line, she wrote, I hope this twenty dollars will keep you in school until we find the best way to pay for it securely.
I looked back in the envelope. Nothing. The money was gone.
All my hopeful feelings disappeared, water down a drain. As upset as I was, I also knew that the person who stole the money must have needed it as much as I did. Things in Zimbabwe were out of control: more companies closing, more people moving back to the rural areas, more food shortages, and more riots. It was also around this time when the government instigated its land reform act. People were starving—and since the government had no bread or mealie meal to give them, they offered land. A mandate was put forth that white farmers who had lived in Zimbabwe for many generations had to give their farmland back to native black Africans. There were stories of men showing up with machetes to claim what they felt was rightfully theirs. People were being killed in the process. It was chaos. Then there were other stories of Zimbabwe aiding a warlord in the Congo that led to more sanctions against our country. The international community was giving up on Zimbabwe—I hoped Caitlin would not give up on me.
When I received another letter in November, I knew she had not. By then, I was back working in the market, as Mr. Samupindi said to keep me in school would not be fair to the dozens of other kids he had expelled for nonpayment. I understood.
This letter was shorter than usual. She enclosed a photo of her and Romey, and wrote in her note, Behind every great dog is a way to stay in school! I was confused and had to read that line five or six times before its meaning dawned on me. I peeled the photo off the card, and saw two hearts overlapped.
The next day, I went directly to Mr. Samupindi’s office and laid my tuition on his desk.
“Your American friend came through,” Mr. Samupindi said, pleased.
“I knew she would, sir,” I said. “Now may I return to class?”
“What are you waiting for? Go!” he bellowed. I could hear him laughing as I ran down the hallway to my first-period class.
December 1999
Caitlin
THANKSGIVING IS USUALLY MY FAVORITE holiday, but the one that year was miserable. I appreciated all the work my mom was doing, but we still had not heard from Martin, or figured out how to send the funds securely. I felt like a hamster running in place on a spinning wheel. Solange finally got back to us with advice about sending the care package—the political situation in Zimbabwe was so dicey that the embassies were not willing to act as our go-between. She suggested sending it through the regular mail, and putting “used school supplies” on the customs forms so no one would bother opening it. That was disappointing. We had wasted so much time.
I didn’t share any more news or worries with my friends, not even Heather. No one seemed to understand. But that didn’t stop everyone coming to me with their problems. It was one after another that fall—Lauren was crushed that her boyfriend broke up with her, Lesley was upset that her parents were so strict, Jen was devastated that Tim liked Christa and not her, and Brittany was having stomach ulcers because she was failing algebra. When Laura, who had been complaining about how Lauren was ignoring her, got mad at me for not sitting with her at the cafeteria one day, I just lost it. She cornered me that afternoon right before I got on the bus, fighting back tears, wondering how I could be so cruel. “Especially since you know what I am dealing with!”
I said, “I didn’t even see you!” which was better than how I really felt. I wanted to scream, “Actually, I would have avoided you if I had noticed because I cannot deal with you or any of your totally made-up problems anymore!”
I was so boiling mad when I got home that afternoon that I threw my book bag on the floor and flopped onto the couch. I felt like a pressure cooker that was about to explode—waiting to hear how we could help Martin with his very real problems, while getting barraged daily by all my friends’ petty dramas, was more than I could handle.
“What’s wrong?” my mom said when she saw me splayed out in the den.
I told her about Lesley—and Brittany and Laura and Lauren. I was detailing all of their dumb dramas when the tears came in torrents. “Who cares about stupid boys? Or dumb algebra?”
“Caitlin,” she said, rubbing my back as I vented. “You’re a really good listener. And sometimes people just need to dump.”
“All these people are dumping on me and the only person I care about has basically disappeared,” I wailed. “I can’t take it!”
A new wave of tears came. What if something terrible happened to Martin? He could be badly hurt or in danger, and how would I ever know?
“We’re doing everything we can to make sure he’s fine,” she said. “These other folks and their issues—put it this way: Unless you think someone is going to harm herself or someone else, then they really are just dumping on you. And you need to dump them as friends.”
As soon as she said that, I saw how I was making everybody else’s problems my own. From that moment on, I changed my attitude. People could still tell me stuff, but I wouldn’t take it on. Instead, I’d say, “That’s too bad.” Or, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” The only person I was willing to expend any emotional energy on was Martin.
And then one day a friend of Solange’s who worked for the Canadian embassy in South Africa sent my mother helpful news, a first.
November 22, 1999
Anne,
Thanks for the interesting message. Yes, the schools charge, even though they are government run. Usually charges are around Z$1400 per year (three terms) but they will vary from school to school. As to sending money, that is not so easy. Sending cash in that quantity (a lot in Zimbabwe) is very risky. You would have to send US dollars and he wou
ld change it there. Alternatively, does the school have a bank account you could wire the money into? That way you would be absolutely sure that the money goes to the intended place. Ask Martin for his school’s address and contact them directly. They will be happy to assist you with paying the fees.
If you need further details, please do not hesitate in contacting me!
Regards, Chris
This should have been good news, but we still had no word from Martin. Christmas was coming and I had no idea if he had received any of the money I was sending or the large package I hoped would be there in time for the holiday. The waiting was taking a toll on me. All I could do was write him again. This time, I snuck five dollars in our family Christmas card and hoped it would make it to him.
I woke up Christmas morning to carols playing on the radio and the scent of bacon and eggs wafting through the house. On my way downstairs, I peeked into the living room, where our tree looked propped up by the piles of presents that had magically appeared overnight. It would take half a day to open them all. That year, I got a 24-karat-gold necklace that said Caitlin in script and a Tommy Hilfiger denim jacket I had been coveting. Richie got a computer, and he almost fell off the couch.
“You’ll need it for college,” Mom said.
We went to my grandparents’ house for dinner and feasted on ham, turkey, and more side dishes than could fit on their table.
“Eat up,” my dad teased.
I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth removed on December 27, which meant I would be drinking a liquid diet for a few days afterward. I was dreading the surgery, but my orthodontist said if I did not do it now, then the last two years of braces would be a waste.
I was still recovering in bed when I wrote Martin yet again. Even if my letters were getting intercepted, my strategy was to keep trying. One had to get through.
12/30/99
Dear Martin:
A belated Merry Christmas and my wishes to you for a happy New Year! My holiday break has been both fun and not-so-much fun. Let me explain.
I told him about our Christmas, and how my parents took me the mall to go shopping the next day. I wrote, I picked out things I wanted. I know, I am very, very fortunate. I felt compelled to include that, as, thanks to him, I realized how true it was.
Then I told him about my wisdom teeth, summing up the procedure with, What a mess! The anesthesia made me nauseated, and my mouth throbbed for days. I knew better to complain to him, though.
I really wanted to know if he had received the care package. And I needed to let him know that my mom learned that sending tuition directly to his school was the most secure way to support him. I added:
My parents would like:
1. the name of your headmaster or principal
2. the complete mailing address of your school
So there you have it! My family and I would really like to help you continue your education and also help your family since your father is currently unemployed. So please respond as soon as possible so we can get the tuition money to your school.
My best wishes to you and your family for a healthy and happy New Year. And, if you did get that large box I sent, I hope you and your family enjoyed the stuff.
Please write soon!
Your friend, Caitlin
I showed my mom the letter before we sent it off, to make sure I got all the money instructions right. I did, but she wanted to add something: On the bottom right-hand corner, she wrote, Martin, here is another twenty dollars to pay your tuition until we hear from you. Anne, Cait’s mom.
January 2000
Martin
THANKS TO CAITLIN, WE ATE chicken for Christmas that year, a miracle considering what our friends and neighbors were experiencing. In Zimbabwe, if you have food, you share it, so our neighbors ate chicken with us. Once again, we said it was a gift from the uncle I had visited in Harare. Everyone knew I had spent the past August there. It was an easy ruse. Now that Caitlin was concealing cash in her letters, we had to be extra careful.
In every letter, Caitlin asked me to respond. I hesitated. Things were so difficult, and as much as I appreciated her family’s efforts to get me back in school, I was starting to lose hope. It also dawned on me that I had never been 100 percent honest with Caitlin about my life. I kept so many things hidden from her because I was ashamed. I didn’t want our relationship to be in any way impacted by my family’s poverty. With every new card or photo or dollar bill she sent, I saw that she truly loved me for who I was, not for where I came from.
I decided to write her a letter that told the truth about my life. The whole truth.
January 13, 2000
Dear Caitlin,
Hello! I am very glad about the way your loving family and you are helping our poor family. Words cannot express how deep your love is for me and my family’s life. Caitlin, your mom, dad, and Richie, you are really larger than life as Backstreet said. May the Lord bless your unconditional love. If I had money I would buy something expensive for you. When I sit and think about what you have done, I start to cry because no one has ever helped me like that. My poor parents are really happy of you.
I told about our life in Chisamba Singles in full detail:
Because of poverty and too many poor people, the one-room houses are shared by two families.… There is no constant supply of electricity and therefore we use wood as a source of fuel to cook and sometimes homemade paraffin lamps. The life we live here is tough but it has been reduced because of your love and help.
I reiterated that without her, we would be homeless: If we don’t pay rent on time, we are chased out and another family enters. There was so much else to say—including thanking her for the Christmas money. I also wanted to respond to her concerns about sending money:
I too was worried about people stealing the money you sent here but I have been inquiring about how to get money safely and was told that THE WESTERN MONEY TRANSFER would help by making the money travel safely and quickly. How about that?
Caitlin and her mom were so focused on my schooling fees, which were critical. But with so much time passing, I also had another concern: the registration for O-level exams was fast approaching, so I decided to be bold once again.
This is my last year at school, as I am doing the ordinary level (SCE). If I pass, I will proceed to advanced level education. I must pay for these tests, which cost roughly $585. If you could help me please. The headmaster of our school is Mr. George Samupindi. I am very sorry for troubling or annoying you with “large” figures. The deadline for the payments has not been announced yet but I think it is mid-February.
You can contact our headmaster, Mr. George Samupindi, at the same mailing address where you sent the very first letter:
Sakubva High School
PO Box 3059
Mutare
Zimbabwe
I am very sorry for making the letter so long! I hope your sore mouth has healed and you are back at school.
I was also curious what Caitlin’s plans were after high school. We had not talked much about that, and I was interested if she felt the same way I did about university. What are your plans for college—what do you hope to do there? I asked.
There was no room left on the page, so I signed off: See you my “sister” Caitlin. Your “brother” Martin.
January 2000
Caitlin
I WAS BACK IN SCHOOL when I finally heard from Martin in late January. All the stress and worry that had built up inside me dissipated. I could breathe again.
I gave my mom the letter, with Martin’s headmaster’s name and address.
“Terrific,” Mom said. “I’ll start making calls tonight.”
We both knew that Zimbabwe was seven hours ahead of Pennsylvania, which meant three AM our time was ten AM theirs.
I had a hard time falling asleep knowing we were getting closer to being able to help Martin. I finally drifted off and then awoke to a voice downstairs.
“Sa-KUB-va.”
> My mom was speaking loudly into the phone, pronouncing Martin’s hometown as if it were several words. I looked at my clock: It was 4:11 AM. I fell back asleep.
Two hours later, I woke to a voice again.
I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs.
“Okay, thank you!” she shouted into the phone before hanging up.
“This has not been easy, Caitlin,” she said with a sad smile. There was a notepad on the kitchen counter with a string of long numbers on it, each starting with 011-263 and then several combinations of numbers, each scratched out.
“I started with the American embassy in Harare, and they suggested I try calling the British council,” she said. “This was at three AM. I wanted a head start. A lovely lady with a British accent said she would see if she could help me, and gave me the number to someone in Mutare who might know this school.”
My head was spinning.
“Who were you just talking to?” I asked.
“I am not even sure!” my mother said. “The connection was so bad, I could barely hear a word.”
My heart sank a bit. “What next?” I asked.
“Caitlin, don’t you worry,” Mom said. “I’m going to find that school.”
I saw how hard she was working to make this happen. But I began to worry. What if she couldn’t?
The following day, I could barely concentrate in my classes. I kept thinking about my mom, and Martin, and wondering if she got through. I also worried that the money we’d been sending had been intercepted. I couldn’t stand the thought of him back at that market.
That afternoon at lunch, Lauren asked, “Caitlin, what’s up with you lately?”
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 11