“How will I ever repay you?” I asked.
“Knowing that you and your family are okay is the only payment we need,” Caitlin said.
I don’t remember much else of the conversation. I do remember hanging up the phone and knowing, deep in my bones, that my life would never be the same.
I ran straight to Mr. Samupindi to tell him I had heard the good news.
“Martin, these people care about you,” he said. “You must not take that lightly.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“If you study hard, you can go to any university,” he continued. “These people will help you. You must make the most of this opportunity.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “And I will.”
The O-levels were only a few months away. If I aced them, then I really could do anything. This was my chance.
I started sneaking into the teachers’ college library again that August and September to prepare. In between, I got another note from Western Union that more funds had arrived. My mother and I went to collect them on August 31. The note said:
TO: MARTIN GANDA
FROM: ANNE NEVILLE
AMOUNT: US$100
Caitlin was not the only angel in my life.
This money was in addition to the first wire we received in June and the check she had already sent Mr. Samupindi for my schooling as well as Simba’s, and Lois’s, too, as she had just started school.
When I handed my mother the Western Union receipt, I saw something in her face that was new to me. The deep lines carved into her face between her brows and around her eyes softened. This money gave her relief.
12 September 2000
Dear Cait and family,
Hallo! First I would like to apologize for a late reply. I first wanted to make sure that the large sum of money you sent had arrived. Thank you very much. May the Lord bless you. You are the greatest. I have enclosed the receipt/invoice. We used some of the money to pay some bills, and food, and saved the rest.
Right now we are on a holiday. I will begin our General Certificate of Education public examination on 13 October 2000. I am working hard and hope to pass. I thank you for your efforts you are taking in order to help me and my family.
Life in the community as you know is deplorable but your efforts are reducing the problems. Thank you for that. Sometimes it’s difficult to believe how we live because in the US there is nothing like that. The families sharing a room, unemployment, poverty. I wish you could one day visit us and see how many Zimbabweans in Chisamba Singles are living. For food, Mom and Dad sometimes go help clean the churches and the houses of the rich, though this is very infrequent. Here they are given a few coins from which they buy food (very little) and keep a few dollars for rent. This is a very difficult task, as the money we are paid cannot even buy a loaf of bread costing Z$20. Imagine how much money we need for bread only! The government is doing nothing to help us.
They say if you cannot afford to live in town or city, then go die in the rural areas and give chance to those who can afford to live in the city.
Thank you again for your love. My family feel great about your unconditional love.
From that moment on, I spent all my spare time cramming for the O-level exams. Elias started joining me at the library as well. He, too, wanted to go to university. We took mock tests and grilled each other on the more difficult questions. We studied problems that we thought might show up and asked our teachers to borrow textbooks that we studied all night and returned the following morning. This meant spending two to three nights every week studying until three AM and then falling asleep beneath the desks in that quiet space lined with books. The sun streaming through the big windows acted as our alarm clock, waking us each morning in time to get home for breakfast before heading back to school.
The day of the exam, I felt well prepared. And a little bit excited, too.
September 2000
Caitlin
I COULDN’T WAIT TO START tenth grade. I was finally going to North Penn High. All of the kids from my middle school plus kids from two other middle schools meant there would be one thousand students in my grade alone. I’d been to the campus before, when Richie went there, but showing up for my first day of class felt different. I was no longer the little sister, but an actual student. And I was taking a lot of classes—English, World Culture, geometry, biology, German, Mechanical Drawing, health, Study Skills, and Aquatics, which was basically an excuse to swim in the school’s Olympic-size pool. The campus was so huge, it took thirty minutes to walk from one end to the other. I liked all of my classes except geometry—I still hated math. This year, there was not one cute boy in my class to sway me. My favorite class, though, was World Culture. Ever since I had met Martin, I became interested in how people lived in other countries—their customs and traditions.
We had to choose a region to focus on, and I picked Southern Africa. For an early assignment, I researched the climate. That was how I learned about monsoons, where it rained hard for days. Martin had described this in his letters as their “rainy season.” I did more research and learned that neighboring Mozambique flooded almost annually. Did Sakubva flood as well? I wondered. If so, what did Martin and his family do? Did they collect the water to drink so they did not have to rely on the county taps? I had so many questions—and another idea for a care package.
I started making a list: tarps, buckets, rain boots, ponchos. Water purification tablets.
I didn’t want to ask my parents to spend any more on Martin’s family. They were already covering the basics. I wanted to do this on my own—and that meant getting a real job.
Ray’s Pizzeria was down the road from my high school. The owner was married to the lady who ran the summer camp program where I had worked the last two summers. I knew they needed a waitress, so I applied. In addition to making nine dollars an hour, I got tips: On busy days, it could be as much as three hundred dollars.
Making this much money gave me even more independence, something I was craving now that I had started high school. I sent some cash to Martin and saved most of it to buy him things on my growing list. I didn’t need to spend it on clothes—my mom bought me whatever I needed. Though I did make sure I always had money in my wallet, just in case. Fun money.
Now that I was fifteen, I started meeting friends at the mall on Friday and Saturday evenings instead of the afternoons. It was a good place to find out where the closest party was, whether a keg party in Lansdale or a dance party in North Wales. Our high school served five different towns, which meant there were at least three or four parties to choose from every weekend.
Lisa and I met on the tennis team and became fast friends. She was a year older than me, which meant she could drive. I told my mom I was spending the night at Lisa’s one Friday, which was the plan. But then we went to the mall looking for fun, and met Johnny and Jim. They were older than us, and wore leather jackets and their baseball hats so low, I couldn’t see their eyes. When Johnny asked me how old I was, I said seventeen.
“Want to go to South Street?” he asked.
It was only eight PM. South Street was in Philly, which was forty-five minutes away. I’d never been there at night. Lisa looked at me and shrugged.
“Sure,” I said.
We followed them outside to Johnny’s Cutlass Supreme. It was as wide as my mom’s Jeep, but much lower to the ground. I got in the backseat and slammed the heavy door shut. It didn’t latch. I tried again, pulling even harder. This time it stayed in place, but was still ajar.
“Fasten your seat belts, ladies,” Johnny said before he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving tire marks behind on the pavement.
I tried—but they didn’t work, either. I pushed my body close to Lisa’s in the center of the backseat and grabbed her hand. I could tell she was the same mix of excited with a sprinkle of scared. Still, I swatted away the small thought that this might be a mistake and decided to just go with this exhilarating feeling, like I was nearing th
e top of a roller coaster.
Our first stop was a liquor store, where Jim popped out to buy beer for the boys and fruity wine spritzers for us. I cracked one open and clinked my bottle to Lisa’s before we guzzled the neon-pink watermelon-flavored liquid down. It was cold, but my stomach and face felt warm by the time it was empty.
I opened another, and then looked out the window as the trees whirred by in the dark night. This was turning into the most fun night ever.
When we arrived at South Street, Johnny shoved two more beers into his leather jacket pockets before hopping out of the car.
He opened my door and said, “Ladies…”
Lisa and I stumbled out of the car. I felt this fun mix of woozy and warm. Heavy metal music streamed out of one bar window clashing with the reggae sounds that escaped another. Neon lights blinked and glistened in the dark night as people spilled onto the streets, tipsy. I followed Johnny past several bars wondering how we would get past any of the burly bouncers that flanked each doorway. We’d been wandering for ten minutes when a cop tapped Johnny on the shoulder.
“You know you can’t have an open container on the street,” he said. Johnny shrugged his shoulders and tossed his open beer into the trash. “This one, Officer, hasn’t been opened yet,” he said, holding the other Coors can in his hand, in a mock salute.
“Make sure it stays that way, Johnny,” the officer said, and walked on.
“Why does he know your name?” I asked as Lisa and I followed Johnny and Jim back to the car. Instead of answering, Johnny revved the engine and drove to another place called Club Malibu ten minutes away. There, the bouncer unclipped the velvet rope as soon as we walked up and gave Johnny a fist bump as we walked in.
Inside, the music pulsated through the floors and the soles of my shoes. My whole body was vibrating. Johnny shouted, “You girls want a cocktail?” We both nodded.
As the guys went to get drinks, I soaked it all in: Everyone was drinking, dancing, laughing, and having a great time. I was just about to ask Lisa if she wanted to dance when I felt my back pocket vibrate. I pulled out my phone and saw “Mom” flash across my screen. I hit IGNORE. The boys returned with drinks when I felt my phone buzz again.
“I’ll be right back!” I shouted, and then looked for an exit. I knew I couldn’t ignore her all night, so I decided to do a preemptive strike.
“Finally!” she answered the phone in one ring.
“Sorry, Mom!” I said. “Lisa and I are at a party. I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“Oh really,” Mom said. “Where?”
“Warrington,” I said. It was about thirty minutes away from Hatfield, so it wasn’t a huge lie.
“Well, I need you to come home now,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’m your mother, and I said so,” she said.
“I can’t,” I said, thinking fast. “There’s no one to drive me.”
“How did you get there in the first place?” Mom asked.
“Johnny,” I said.
“Who’s Johnny?” she replied.
“A new friend,” I said. My wine cooler buzz was quickly being overtaken by pure panic.
“Well, tell your new friend Johnny he has thirty minutes to get you home,” she replied. “Or give me the address and I’ll come get you.”
I hung up and ran back inside.
“We have to go,” I said to Johnny.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
“Now,” I said.
I told him I was actually only fifteen, and that my mom wanted me home in thirty minutes, or else she was going to come looking for me. I was kind of amazed that he agreed to drive us home. As he was going ninety miles an hour down the turnpike, I started to worry. Was he really going to take us home? What if he slipped something into our cocktails? Why did he wear his baseball cap so low? I could never pick him out of a lineup. And why did that policeman know him by name?
Horrible thoughts raced through my head as we sped down the turnpike. When I saw familiar town signs flash by, I started to relax. When Johnny took the exit for Hatfield, I finally exhaled. I gave him directions to my house and he pulled into the driveway. We made it back in thirty-eight minutes. Close enough.
I swung open the door, but Johnny popped out of the driver’s seat just as quickly.
“Don’t I even get a kiss?” he said.
I did not want to kiss him, but I also didn’t want to be rude. And I certainly did not want my mom to come out in her terry-cloth robe to start questioning him. I closed my eyes and leaned in for a quick peck. His breath smelled like dirty feet.
“Thanks for a great time!” I said, pulling back quickly.
Lisa, meanwhile, clearly did not want to kiss Jim, either: She was already speed-walking toward the house. I ran to catch up with her, waving at the guys before we slipped into the house, knowing we would never see them again. My parents were waiting for us in the den.
“How was the party?” my mom asked in a deadpan voice. She knew something was up.
“Really fun,” I said.
“Glad you made it home safely, sweetheart,” my dad said as we bolted up the stairs.
“Lisa,” my mom called after us, “Does your mom know you are here?”
“Yes!” I shouted down. “Good night! Love you!”
Once in my room, we both collapsed on my lower bunk bed. Lisa called her mom to say she was spending the night, and then borrowed some PJs.
That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was.
November 2000
Martin
THE O-LEVEL EXAMS STARTED IN mid-October. Each test lasted three hours, and I signed up for nine. They were scheduled every few days and I felt like a marathon runner. I was careful to rest up in between, and stay focused. The last one took place at the end of November. I had to do well. Not just for me and my family, but also for Caitlin and hers. I wouldn’t have been able to even take the exams without their support. I wanted to prove to them that I was worthy. My future depended on them in more ways than I could fathom. I wanted to do something to repay them this enormous kindness and decided to send them more photos—not just of me but of my whole family.
We used some money that Caitlin’s mom had sent to hire Mr. Masamba, the same photographer who had taken the other two shots of me. We weren’t yet dressed for the occasion when he arrived with his camera, as everyone wanted to wear something that Caitlin had sent. While my parents changed inside our house, I stood outside with Simba and Lois, waiting to do the same.
“Say cheese!” Mr. Masamba said. I thought he was joking, until I heard the click.
My father had paid for four photos. Mr. Masamba knew we were sending these photos to America and promised to make sure they were extra professional. Still, I asked him to wait before he took any more—Simba was wearing the track pants Caitlin had sent, but with his own worn-out vest and nothing else underneath. I wanted him in a proper polo shirt. And Lois was wearing an old shirt that had been passed on from me to Simba to her. It was so thin in places, you could see her skin. We saved Caitlin’s clothes for special occasions, like this.
“Hurry, go change,” I told them after that first shot was taken.
They went inside, and I followed. Soon, we were all outfitted in our American clothes: My father and I wore white matching polo shirts. Nation chose a bright yellow parka, and my mother put on a bright red skirt and a navy-blue rugby shirt. She dressed George in the smallest T-shirt sent, and Lois in another white polo shirt that fit more like a dress. Mr. Masamba asked us all to gather together on the bed so we could fit in one frame.
I sat between my mother and father, and Nation stood off to the left. George sat in my mother’s lap, and Lois and Simba leaned up against my legs.
“Say hallo!” Mr. Masamba said as he snapped a photo. I smiled wide and hoped everyone else remembered to as well.
I suggested the third shot be of me and Nation, since they often
asked about him.
“Baba, Mai,” I said. “Let’s have the last one be your portrait.”
My father eagerly hopped on the bed, and my mother sat next to him. George climbed in the spot between them just as Mr. Masamba started counting, “One, two, three…” My father smiled broadly while Mother remained very still and serious. George started to cry—and I hoped that wasn’t captured on film.
Mr. Masamba returned with the photos a few days later. As I flipped through each, I thought, No more hiding. Caitlin would now really see in these shots how we truly lived. I could soften our poverty with my words, and dress it up in her clothes, but these images told the truth. I prayed that she could handle it.
November 2000
Dear Caitlin.
Hallo. How is everybody over there? How is school? We are all fine here in Zimbabwe.
We finally managed to get ourselves photographed. The photos were taken in our one-room house. I hope you are going to like the photos. This is my whole family including my big brother Nation, whom you were fond of!
I am still writing my O-level exams and am going to finish on the 21st of November. From there I will be on a school holiday till early February 2001. And then I will proceed to advanced level education. If I pass, I will go to university maybe in the US!
I would like to thank you very much for the ample support you have and you are supplying to me and my family.
God bless you.
Yours,
Martin Ganda.
I looked at the photos again and felt compelled to explain them, so I added a PS:
Do not get confused by our house. The photos were taken when we were sitting on the bed where my mom and dad sleep. This can confuse you while comparing it with how you live in the US. Below the bed are some of the utensils we use. At night, we remove these and squeeze ourselves under the bed and sleep. I know this can make you doubt, but now you understand how we live. I love that, your understanding.
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 14