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

by Caitlin Alifirenka

  “Fantastic,” I said. I held back from hugging Mr. Muzawazi. He was not a touchy-feely guy, but after five years of waiting for letters to cross the Atlantic Ocean, this meant immediate access to Caitlin and her family.

  “You can start this evening, after dinner,” Mr. Muzawazi said. “But do not let word out. No one else is to use my office computer. This is our deal, okay?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” I said. “You have my word.”

  “And you have mine,” Mr. Muzawazi said.

  I left his office elated.

  Later that evening, I returned to Mr. Muzawazi’s office. The key was left for me with a note from his secretary explaining how to open the door, and how to turn on the computer.

  I had only used a computer twice before in my lifetime, to type letters. Both times, the machine was already turned on. I walked up to the large beige box on Mr. Muzawazi’s desk. Wires sprouted out its back side. That’s where I found the power switch and watched in amazement as the screen buzzed to life. A row of numbers and letters appeared at the top corner, as if the machine was speaking its own language. Then a box appeared asking for a passcode. I typed in the secret word the secretary had supplied for me, written in neat capital letters on the school stationery. Next, I followed her specific instructions for getting online and accessing the school’s only e-mail account.

  Anne had sent me her e-mail address, and Caitlin’s as well. I decided to send each one a message as an experiment. I had never sent an e-mail before, and the concept that they would receive it moments after I hit SEND was something I couldn’t begin to grasp.

  Hi Caitlin! I typed into the green screen. It’s me! Martin! My headmaster has allowed me to use his personal computer. Isn’t that exciting? Please respond to this address so I know you received this. Your forever friend, Martin.

  I hit the SEND button and the message disappeared with a whooshing sound. I worried that it may have done just that—disappeared. I sent Anne the same e-mail. And then I started to research SATs in Harare. I finally found the website and learned that I needed a credit card in order to register. I didn’t have one nor know anyone who did. I made a note of it. Anne would know what to do. Then I started to look up other requirements for African students to go to the United States for school. Two hours later, I had two pages of notes and a heart brimming with hope.

  August 2002

  Caitlin

  I HAD JUST LOGGED ON to the family computer when I saw a strange address pop up. The subject line said CAITLIN!!! I clicked it open and almost fell off my chair. I had been wishing for easier access to him, especially now that my mother was on a crusade to get Martin a full scholarship. Being able to e-mail him made all the difference.

  “Mom, look!” I shouted.

  She needed some good news. Her quest was already off to a shaky start. She decided to start with Gwynedd Mercy, her alma mater. She thought Martin would be most comfortable at a Catholic school since Marist Brothers was one. And she also thought such a school would be open to supporting an impoverished African student.

  “Plus, I was secretary for Kappa Delta Pi, an international honor society,” she explained to me the week before. “They know me well there. This should be a breeze.”

  So she was particularly upset to learn earlier that week that Gwynedd Mercy rebuffed her request.

  “Hypocrites!” she said.

  “What happened?” I asked. I’d just finished the afternoon shift at Ray’s and smelled like a pepperoni pizza. I kicked off my sneakers, and Kava started licking their soles. She figured out quickly that mozzarella cheese was often stuck in the treads.

  “I called Sister Barbara today in the financial aid office and told her about Martin,” she explained. “And she just cut me off and said, ‘We don’t offer financial aid to international students,’ which I know isn’t true because I had several friends who were there on scholarships from different countries.”

  “How weird!” I said.

  “It gets even more weird,” she continued. “I started to tell her Martin’s story and was barely halfway through when she cut me off again and said, ‘We’re not giving this boy a scholarship.’”

  My mother’s jaw tightened and her nostrils flared as she continued her story.

  “So I said, ‘Sister Barbara, Martin is my daughter’s best friend and through no fault of his own, he can’t attend a US college on his own. So when our daughter said please help him, I immediately thought of Gwynedd Mercy’s mission—to help those who cannot help themselves.’”

  “What did she say to that?” I asked.

  “She said, and I quote, ‘We can’t help him.’ I think they wanted me to sponsor him myself. I think they thought I was wealthy because I had been so generous in the past in my giving. So I said, ‘Okay, well then, you’ll need to take my name off of the giving list. And the money I donate every year for the library? Not going to happen, because that’s now all going to Martin Ganda.’”

  “Wow,” I said. “So what’s next?”

  “That’s only one of ten Catholic schools in the area,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll hit La Salle and Saint Joseph’s in Philly, and then on Thursday I will drive over to Villanova.”

  “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to do this for me, too?” I asked. My community college program was just about to start, which meant no college applications, no tours, no essays. I was so relieved I didn’t have to jump through all those judgmental hoops. And I was so thankful my mom was willing to do it for Martin.

  By the end of the week, my mom seemed to have made up her mind.

  “Villanova is the place,” she said. “The campus is gorgeous and every student I met was friendly. One young man even asked me if Kava wanted water.”

  “You brought Kava?” I asked.

  Our giant schnauzer was now snoring on the couch in the den.

  “She’s good company,” Mom said. “Plus, she’s a good test. When I walked her across the Saint Joseph’s campus, all the kids ignored me.”

  “Maybe they were just shy?” I said. “Or busy?”

  “Caitlin, they were all too cool for school, pseudo-city sophisticates,” she responded. “Nyanga is so rural, it does not even register on the map. And don’t forget, Martin, no matter how intelligent, did not own shoes until six months ago. We have to pick carefully.”

  With that, she switched on our computer and sat down to start sending Martin her updates. Now that he was up on e-mail, she was sending him two to three messages a day. I still preferred writing him letters. I would write an occasional e-mail about college-related things, but those were always quick notes. I saved my thoughts and feelings for pen on paper. They felt more tangible and permanent, a real connection.

  August 2002

  Martin

  I SAID GOOD-BYE TO WALLACE right before our school break that August. Our school year doesn’t end until December, but he’d been accepted to an American university and was leaving school early.

  “You must reach out to my friend Caitlin,” I said, handing him a slip of paper with her e-mail address, and her mother’s as well. “They’re good people. Do not hesitate to get in touch.”

  “I promise I will,” Wallace said. He was packing his trunk up with all of his things. His uniform lay on top of his weekend clothes, books, and bed linens, likely never to be worn again.

  “And don’t forget to write me as well,” I said. “I’ll come looking for you next year.”

  “I know you will,” Wallace said. “I will do anything to help.”

  First I had to get a scholarship. Wallace’s parents were resourceful, so they had figured out a way to pay his tuition for him. I had to find another way.

  I returned to Chisamba Singles for August break more determined than ever. People often asked if I was jealous that Wallace might meet Caitlin before I did. On the contrary, the idea filled me with joy. It was another step toward my finally meeting her.

  As was collecting my passport. I had received a letter at Nyan
ga that said it was ready for pickup in Mutare. I went to get it my first day home. I had heard from friends at Nyanga that it was near impossible for most Zimbabweans to get passports. The international sanctions made the economic situation even worse; people who could afford to were fleeing the country. But Mr. Muzawazi said he’d make a call. The father of a Marist Brother student ran the passport office in Mutare, he told me.

  That morning, I woke up early and went to the market with Nation. He was still selling clothes from Mozambique with three other friends. They traveled to the border, less than thirty minutes away, to buy bales of used clothing, which they then separated into piles: Nation sold shoes, his friend Cliff took the T-shirts, another guy would hawk jackets, and the fourth gathered up whatever was left. The used clothes market is huge in Zimbabwe. When Americans donate their old clothes to Africa, they often wind up being sold in markets. Nothing in Africa is free. It was not Nation’s favorite job, but since things did not work out with his soccer career, it was better than nothing.

  I helped him carry two big bags of shoes to the market. There, he laid down a tarp and placed the shoes side by side, like soldiers: worn-out pink Skechers, tattered blue Nikes, once-white tennis shoes, work boots missing laces. All of them had seen happier days, but for poor Zimbabweans, they were better than bare feet. As my brother began bargaining with an older man who wanted the boots, I scanned the market and was struck by how much bigger it seemed from the last time I had worked there a year earlier. More and more people were out, selling, hustling, bargaining, and trading. I saw so many familiar faces—neighbors as well as kids from my old school now scrapping with one another to carry luggage or pour tea. I spotted my friend Peter, still selling cold drinks.

  “Martin!” he shouted as I waved to him. “Where have you been?”

  I told him about Nyanga, and how I was hoping to go to university in the United States.

  “I’m headed to the passport office right now, friend,” I said.

  “You’re on your way to great places,” he said.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” I said, offering him my fist, which he tapped with his.

  The passport office opened at nine o’clock and I expected a long line, so I took an 8:05 AM bus. Shockingly, I was the only one there. I entered the squat cement building that looked more like a bunker than an official government office.

  “I am here to collect my passport,” I told the receptionist.

  “Right this way,” she said.

  I followed her into another room, where a man in a navy suit asked me for my birth certificate and the letter that stated my passport was ready for pickup. I produced both, and he handed me my passport within five minutes. I stood there, holding this small green book, waiting for more instructions.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” I asked.

  “No, that is all,” he said.

  Clearly, Mr. Muzawazi’s assistance had worked.

  My travel documents were in order, my family was doing okay—thanks to Caitlin and her family—and I even had a friend going to the US, leading the way for me. The only worry I had was that I had been doing quite a lot of thinking about pursuing medicine. The images of those people waiting on line at the hospital haunted me and often kept me awake at night. I wanted to help my fellow countrymen but had grown concerned that I did not have the stomach for it. I loved numbers, and was good at them. And so I decided to pursue actuarial science. I wanted Caitlin to know this immediately, as she was putting great effort into finding me scholarships at medical schools. I knew she’d understand. She had recently written me about changing her career focus to nursing. That gave me the courage to shift my own course.

  As I walked toward the exit, I flipped through the many blank pages in this pocket-sized book waiting to be filled. I couldn’t wait to get home and write to Caitlin.

  September 2002

  Caitlin

  MARTIN HAD ONLY EVER MENTIONED his family in letters before, so Wallace stood out. That he was actually coming to the United States was beyond thrilling. If Wallace could do it, Martin could, too.

  The only problem was, Martin did not mention which school Wallace was going to. We’d have to wait for Wallace to get in touch. The thought made me giddy.

  It was an exciting time for me. I’d just started my dual enrollment program. That semester, I had signed up for five college classes: English 101, General Psychology, history, liberal arts, and calculus, which I dropped quickly. I still hated math, but I liked being surrounded by older students who wanted to be there. It was so different from high school.

  I’d always gravitated toward older kids. Damon was a year older than me, as was Heather, my neighbor. She had left for college, and I missed her. But Damon was still around. He wasn’t interested in college, though, and couldn’t understand why I was.

  “Why don’t you just work more shifts at the pizza joint?” he asked earlier that summer. He’d started working full-time at a factory in nearby Sellersville that made unfinished furniture. People could paint the chairs or dressers any color they wanted. He was happy doing that, but I wanted more out of my life than waitressing could afford me. I started to worry that he wanted me to be more like his mother. She married his father young and gave up any plans for college or a career to take care of her husband. Even though his father was disabled, he ruled the house. His mother jumped when his father said to. That was not the life I wanted for myself.

  I worked every Wednesday and Saturday at the pizza parlor, and spent every spare moment in between doing homework. I never cared about it in the past, but I loved college and wanted to do well. It wasn’t easy, and it left hardly any time to hang out with Damon. When I started studying with Jeremy, an older guy in my English class, Damon got jealous.

  One night, he called me four times in a two-hour period. I was studying for my very first psych exam and didn’t want to be bothered. By the fourth call, I thought it must be serious.

  “Is everything okay?” I said, instead of hello.

  “Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” he said angrily.

  “I told you I was studying,” I said, wishing I had not picked up.

  “You’re always studying,” he said. “It’s bullshit.”

  “Actually, it’s my future,” I said, incensed. “You giving me a hard time about it is bullshit.”

  I stayed on the phone listening to his rants for fifteen minutes and then simply said, “I’m not going to argue with you about this. I have a test tomorrow. If you really loved me, you would want me to do well.”

  And then I hung up.

  The next day, I aced my psychology test.

  September 2002

  Martin

  BACK AT NYANGA, TWO E-MAILS were waiting for me.

  One was from the SAT board telling me I was registered for the December 7 test date in Harare. It was happening.

  My heart was racing as I opened the second e-mail. That was from Wallace. He hadn’t been able to get in touch with Caitlin or Anne.

  As for the e-mail addresses you gave me, he wrote, it is a pity that none of them actually works. I tried them all but to no avail. Could you do me a favor by sending them to me one more time. I might have missed a spelling or phrasing.

  I e-mailed him back immediately to let him know my SAT exam date was set and to confirm Anne’s e-mail address. I wanted to write a PS, that I would see him very soon. That I would one day be an African student studying in the United States, like him. But I decided to wait. I did not want to jinx it.

  October 2002

  Caitlin

  RICHIE WENT TO VISIT TEMPLE UNIVERSITY in Philadelphia that September and decided he wanted to transfer there in January.

  “It seems like a super-fun school,” he said.

  “Fun does not necessarily mean good,” my mom said.

  “Or pay the bills,” my father added.

  “Jeez,” Richie interjected. “I was also going to say that they have all the marketing courses I ne
ed to finish my degree.”

  “That sounds more like it,” Mom said.

  Ever since Richie got pulled out of college for choosing partying over studying, my parents had been giving him a hard time. The rule in our house was that you get one opportunity to screw up. Richie was still living at home because he had not figured out his best next step, and he knew he couldn’t mess that one up.

  I kept quiet. It irked my brother that I was taking freshman classes at the same community college where he had just finished his sophomore year. Earlier that week I teased him that if he didn’t focus, I’d graduate before him.

  “That will never happen,” he said through clenched teeth. I knew better than to push any further.

  A few days later, my mom finally got an e-mail from Wallace. Neither of us could believe where he was studying: Temple University.

  “Richie was just there,” my mom said excitedly. “He could have taken him out to lunch if we had known.”

  “He may have walked right by him,” I said, getting goose bumps at the thought.

  It felt like a sign, and we needed one. Mom was still gunning for Villanova for Martin but had also sent at least a dozen requests for scholarships to nearby schools. One had offered fourteen thousand dollars, half of what Martin needed. This was promising—colleges were at least interested in sponsoring Martin—but we needed a full ride.

  “Maybe Wallace will have ideas,” I said to my mom as she was going down her list.

  “My thought exactly,” she said.

  She was planning to visit him the very next day. I was sad I couldn’t join her. My schedule was so full, I barely had time to see her, let alone drive back and forth to Philly in the middle of a school week. We already agreed that this would be the first of many visits. My best friend lived ten thousand miles away from me, and his close friend just happened to get in to a school forty-five minutes away from our house.