“You’ll meet students from all around the country,” he said. “And you won’t have to worry about any issues at home. Your job is simply to study and do well.”
This sounded like a dream.
“But how?” I asked. “It must be expensive.”
“Yes, and worth it,” he explained. “Students there become doctors and politicians. There must be scholarships for bright students like you. Or perhaps your American benefactors could assist you.”
My mind was swirling. Fifteen minutes earlier, I was planning on doing my A-levels in Sakubva, with all my other friends. Now I was being encouraged to apply to a private school in some faraway place where I would have to wear a suit to class. It was chaotic, in a good way.
“Sir, A-levels start February nineteenth, less than two weeks away,” I said.
“Those test results are your ticket, Martin,” he said, slapping me on the back.
I left his office with all these exciting thoughts bouncing in my head like those small silver balls in a pinball machine. This school was my jackpot.
I saw Elias, who had heard my good news.
“You did it!” he said, slapping my back.
“How were your results?” I asked.
He got six As and three Bs and was number two in our school. I started to really understand how significant my results were.
“What have you heard of Marist Brothers?” I asked.
Elias whistled, and then said, “It’s the best school in all of Zimbabwe!”
A few other friends had gathered around. “Oh, Marist is the place!” one said. “You can become whatever you want if you go there,” another added.
My head was still swimming with these thoughts when I arrived back home. I showed my mother my grades.
“I’m so proud of you, son,” she said, her eyes growing glassy.
When my father learned the news, he started to sing “You are the champion of the world!” at the top of his lungs. This brought Nation running, who lifted me off the ground when he heard the news, and started running down the path, holding me by the waist, shouting, “Martin is going to be a doctor!”
Everyone was so happy—but none was as happy as I. My future was looking bright for the first time—and I had Caitlin to thank.
February 2001
Dear Caitlin and family
Hallo! How are you doing over there? Thanks greatly for the great and big parcel with beautiful expensive easy to use items. Thank you very very very much. I have received the nice fitting dungarees and shirts of real quality! I don’t know how to thank you for the Potable Aqua. It is of utmost usefulness here in Mutare, where some of the piped water could be unsafe for drinking especially in summer now when we are experiencing heavy downpour.…
I want to thank you for your efforts to improve our lives. I received the parcel on 10 January 2001 so sorry for a bit of delay. I wanted to include the results of the O-level exams that you paid for. I had distinctions in all nine classes/subjects, i.e., an A in every subject. I have photocopied my results for you to see. If possible I am kindly asking you to help me with my levy and fees since they are now more expensive and I need to buy some textbooks to supplement those at school. If impossible, please do not strain yourself. I’m doing advanced maths, advanced physics, and advanced chemistry. I hope to go to an overseas medical university in the US, since my ambition is to become a doctor.
I forgot to write that I have the best grades in the whole of Mutare. So I just want to give God the best of glory and you, too, for maximum support both emotional and financial.
I was very happy to hear that you (Cait) received a large gift, a nice car. I really congratulate you and another bunny. I’m not worried that you named her Lois but I think this will strengthen our friendship and families. I am happy that you liked the photos we sent.
I want to thank you for the Christmas money you gave me. That was great of you. That money has helped our declining cash reserve. Thanks very much.
We all send you great greetings and wish you the best in all you are doing over there.
Your loving and faithful,
Martin
I sent the letter off, and then continued to ask people about this amazing private school. No one knew anyone who went there, or how to apply, so I decided to find out for myself. I found a bus that left Sakubva every morning for Nyanga. It took three hours, I was told, which meant I could make the trip there and back in one day.
On the bus, I watched the industrial outskirts of Mutare give way to grasslands where an occasional scraggly tree punctuated the sunburned bush. Nyanga is northwest of Mutare, in Manicaland, home to Mount Nyangani, Zimbabwe’s tallest mountain, and Nyanga National Park. Every so often, I’d see a skinny cow or several patchy goats nibbling roadside. Less frequently, we passed a cluster of traditional mud and grass-roofed huts. It felt like I was headed to the middle of nowhere.
I finally arrived in Nyanga and was shocked at how small and slow everything seemed compared to Sakubva. The town has roughly two thousand residents, a post office, a bank, and a few small shops. Several women were selling mangoes and peanuts at the bus stop, a roadside dirt patch. One lady was selling sadza, and though I was hungry, I decided to wait to buy something for the trip back later that evening.
I asked an elderly man for directions to Marist Brothers.
He pointed down a different dirt road, that led away from the town’s small center.
“I meant the school,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Marist Brothers School is that way.”
I looked down the road, which disappeared into a forest.
“How far?” I asked.
“About thirty-five kilometers,” he said.
“Is there another bus that will take me there?” I asked.
“It left two hours ago,” he said. “Try again tomorrow.”
I was planning on taking the five PM bus back home, so I started jogging down the new dirt road, hoping to hitch a ride. An hour later, I heard a rumble behind me. I turned to see a pickup truck in the distance, kicking up dust in its wake. I planted myself in the middle of the road and started to wave my arms. This was my chance.
The truck slowed down and a man my father’s age peered out the window.
“Marist Brothers?” he said.
I took it as a good sign that he thought I was a student already. I nodded.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’m making a delivery.”
The back of his truck was filled with onions, potatoes, carrots, and kovo—food for the dining hall, he explained. My mouth started watering.
I was so relieved to be moving quickly again.
Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the forest and a lush green lawn unfurled before my eyes. We parked in front of a freshly painted building where dozens of guys in navy-blue blazers, white shirts, and gray flannel pants were milling about. A few wore the cricket hats. I had made it.
I hopped out of the truck, proud to be wearing a Caitlin shirt and my Nikes. I wasn’t wearing a suit, but I fit in.
I quickly found the headmaster’s office and asked the secretary for a meeting.
“Mr. Muzawazi will be back late tonight,” she said. “You can see him tomorrow morning.”
“I’m due to head back to Mutare this evening,” I explained.
She suggested I speak with the deputy headmaster, Mr. Nyamandwe, right down the hall. I told him I wanted to do my A-levels at Marist Brothers.
“You and every other bright boy in Zimbabwe,” he said, barely looking up from the papers on his desk. “School starts next week, and we’re full. It’s impossible.”
“There must be a way,” I countered.
We went back and forth. When he saw that I wouldn’t take no for an answer, he said, “Well then, I suggest you see the headmaster tomorrow. He’s the only one who can find room for you.”
“I wasn’t planning to spend the night,” I replied.
“Go introduce yourself to some of the st
udents,” he said. “Someone will surely find you a bed.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I promise you will see me studying here this year.”
“I don’t see how,” he said, shaking his head.
Outside, I scanned the courtyard. All the students looked the same in their pristine uniforms, but then I noticed one kid was wearing cheap sandals sold at the Sakubva market we called Rafters. All the others were wearing leather shoes or sneakers. As I made my way closer to this one guy, I overheard his accent and knew he was from the rural areas. He spoke as if he were singing, more lyrically than the tight and clipped way of city people. When someone called him Rabbit, my hunch was confirmed: He was from the countryside, even worse than Chisamba Singles. He probably didn’t even have electricity where he came from. He would understand my dilemma.
I introduced myself, and then told Rabbit my story. His eyes lit up. “You must see the headmaster tomorrow,” he said. “He will listen.”
Rabbit told me that he also came from a very poor family but was the top student at his school.
“I’m here on full scholarship,” Rabbit said. “The headmaster set the whole thing up.”
This made me hopeful.
Rabbit gave me a campus tour. Each classroom had individual desks, and the library was bigger than the one I had snuck into all those months, lined with books floor to ceiling.
“Twenty-four-hour access,” Rabbit explained when he saw my eyes pop out from my head.
The dorms were large rectangular rooms with six beds lining either side, a locker in between each. Rabbit took me to his.
“This is where you sleep?” I asked.
“You can get used to a mattress, Martin,” he said with a wink.
“I would like to,” I replied, laughing.
“Last year, I was eating one meal a day in Marange, sleeping on dirt,” he said. “Next year I will go to medical school in Harare.”
That afternoon, Rabbit introduced me to many students. He was very popular—all the guys respected him. Every time, he said, “Meet my new friend Martin! He’s coming to school here!”
I started to believe him.
The dinner bell rang at five PM. My stomach rumbled in response. I hadn’t eaten since seven AM. I followed Rabbit and two friends to the huge dining hall, which had twelve long tables, one per dorm. Rabbit found an extra plate for me, and grabbed two forks and knives. This made me nervous. I had never used silverware before—we ate with our hands at home. I kept my cool as we found our seats with ten other guys. I could tell by their haircuts and shoes that they came from wealthy families. They appeared blasé about this place, like they expected life to be this way. Rabbit, however, remained amazed and amused. He knew poverty—and privilege.
A platter of steaming sadza came out first, followed by several heaping bowls of beans. My mouth was watering, but I waited for Rabbit to make the first move. He kept talking with friends. Then the rice and kovo arrived. I’d never seen so much food on one table. One kid asked, “Any meat tonight?” The server replied, “Not tonight, but definitely tomorrow.” The kid who asked looked disappointed. I was speechless.
Rabbit helped himself to everything and told me to do the same. I waited for Rabbit to start eating, to watch how to hold a fork. Mine felt clumsy in my hand. Rabbit must have sensed my discomfort, because he said, “You can eat with your hands. No one will judge you.” I looked around and saw every single kid was using a fork. I tightened my grip and dug into the steaming pile of beans on my plate. Some fell onto my lap, but thankfully no one seemed to notice. I quickly picked them up and popped them into my mouth. The second try was more successful and before long I had finished everything on my plate. Rabbit encouraged me to have more. After my third helping, I was so full, my stomach ached. One guy noticed how much I ate and called me the bean eater. As we walked back to the dorm, two other guys said, “Oh, you’re the kid who ate all the food!” Everyone laughed, including me.
I didn’t mind. I still couldn’t believe that much food was possible. We couldn’t finish it all. I asked Rabbit what they did with the leftovers.
“They throw it out,” he said. “You and I know how crazy that is. But these guys have no clue.”
Most of the students were the sons of judges, politicians, businessmen, and soccer stars. Their families lived in houses in Harare with maids and had not one but several cars. None of them had ever known hunger.
I continued asking Rabbit all the questions bombarding my brain: I’d found the perfect guide.
That night, Rabbit secured a bed for me in his dorm room. Another bell sounded, which meant it was time for quiet hours. Rabbit informed me that everyone got up at six AM. Breakfast was at seven, followed by an eight o’clock church service on the lower campus.
“The headmaster will be there,” Rabbit said. “That’s your chance.”
I thanked Rabbit for all his great help and said good night. As I lay down and pulled the covers up to my chin, I thought, This can’t be happening. I had never slept on a mattress, let alone had my own linens. At home, I shared one thin blanket between two brothers. These sheets felt crisp and cool on my skin, and the blanket was heavy yet soft. It warmed me immediately as I pulled it up, all the way to my chin. I closed my eyes and listened to the faint breathing of my roommates as I drifted into one of the deepest sleeps ever.
A siren startled me awake. I hopped out of bed and followed Rabbit to the showers. I turned on the spigot and laughed out loud when warm water came rushing out. I had only ever bathed with cold water before. Rabbit laughed as well—the only person in the room who understood what was so funny.
Breakfast was eggs, toast, and porridge. Beans were one thing, but eggs were even a bigger luxury and unheard of where I came from. And yet there I was helping myself to not one but two. I turned to Rabbit before I began to eat and said, “I love this place!”
Mass took place in an old stone church with all the students on both the lower and upper campuses. Following the sermon, a large man with a big bushy beard and matching Afro that floated on top of his head like a crown approached the podium.
Rabbit elbowed me. “That’s him,” he whispered.
As soon as everyone was dismissed, I went looking for this formidable man. He was outside the church chatting with students. Everyone else was in a suit and tie, so I stood out in my Nike shirt and shoes. When Mr. Muzawazi spotted me, he said, “You must be Martin Ganda. Follow me.”
We walked to his office, where several people were already waiting to see him. I took a seat and waited until his secretary called my name.
As I walked into his office, he asked, “I hear you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, sir. I want to do my A-levels here,” I started to explain, but he cut me off.
“You’re too late! We’re already filled up,” he said. “Besides, there are many qualified students here who need to get in; we don’t even have space for them.”
“I’ve come all the way from Chisamba Singles to speak to you,” I countered. “Please give me a chance.”
That quieted him.
“I have an uncle that lives near there,” he said. “That’s a tough place.”
I saw that he was impressed and I just kept building up on that—I told him that I had been kicked out of school time and time again for lack of fees, and still managed to graduate number one in my class.
“Okay, let’s look at your grades,” he said.
As I handed him the envelope, I said, “I got the highest grade in my school—and in all of Mutare, too.”
“How did you do this from Sakubva?” he asked.
“Hard work and study, sir,” I explained.
“What does your father do?” he asked.
I think he expected me to say “teacher,” so when I said that my father lost his factory job after sixteen years of dedicated work, Mr. Muzawazi was even more surprised. I explained that my parents didn’t even finish their O-levels, and that they were barely literate. And I ad
ded what I knew was the urgent truth: that I was their only hope. As I spoke, I felt a big ball of emotion forming in my chest.
“Sir,” I said finally, “this is my only chance. If you don’t allow me this opportunity, I’ll die a poor man.”
“And if you do come here, what next?” he asked, his tone softening.
“I want to go to university,” I explained. “I have young siblings. We’re sharing one room; there’s barely enough space for us to sleep, let alone for me to study.”
“Okay,” he said. “Get me a deposit by tomorrow at five PM and I will find room for you.”
My mind started reeling.
“How much?” I asked.
“One thousand Zimbabwe dollars will secure you a spot,” he said. “The rest will be payable by the middle of March.”
The deposit alone was four months’ rent, impossible to access in twenty-four hours. We didn’t even have that in our savings, which was already earmarked for living expenses. I thought of asking Caitlin, but she was too far to get the money so quickly. Then I thought of Alois. He worked in a bank. He may be willing to help—and was my only chance.
“I can do that,” I said, reaching out my hand to shake on it.
“Then you will be a student here,” he said.
He knew he was asking me to do the impossible, but he also believed in me.
I thanked the headmaster and ran out of his office. It was eleven AM, and I was in the middle of nowhere. There was a lot to accomplish in thirty hours. I quickly caught a ride to Nyanga and hopped a bus back to Mutare. When I arrived home, I told my parents everything and then went to call Alois from the post office. I tried him at home first. No answer. Then I tried his cell. No answer. I tried him at home again, and was thrilled when I heard, “Hallo?”
“Alois, it’s Martin,” I said—and then breathlessly recounted the entire situation, from getting the highest O-level scores to the headmaster’s offer. “I promise to repay you, cousin.”
“Let me see what I can do,” he said.
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 16