I went in search of my next flight, but did not know how to find it. My ticket had so many numbers on it, but I was not sure which ones corresponded with the flipping and flashing board. So when I saw the one black guy from my Victoria Falls flight walk by, I asked him for help. As it turned out, he was heading to Paris, as well, where his father was a diplomat. We walked to the gate together and then waited for the flight to board. When he had to use the bathroom, I followed him. I didn’t want to get lost.
That was a huge plane. I watched movies, ate food served on very fancy trays, and wished I could keep the cozy blanket and pillow they offered all the passengers.
We arrived in Paris, and once again, I didn’t want to take any chances. This time, I asked the attendant to bring me to the next gate. My flight was not for a few hours, but it did not matter. I wasn’t going to risk it. I just stayed there, not moving. Once the flight began to board, I was the first person in line. The next stop was Philadelphia.
August 15, 2003
Caitlin
I DIDN’T WAKE UP THAT morning because I never went to sleep. I stayed awake all night tracking each of Martin’s flights online.
The day before, we made a poster that said, WELCOME TO AMERICA MARTIN with bubble letters, which I colored in with red Magic Markers. I laid that in the trunk of my mom’s car that morning, and then climbed into the backseat. My grandparents Nan and Pop drove their own car, so I had the entire seat to myself. I didn’t invite Damon to come along. I had been waiting for this moment for six years, which was three times as long as I had known Damon. This meant too much to me to share with anyone but my family. Damon was pissed and I didn’t care.
We arrived an hour early and camped out as close to the international flight exit as possible, right next to the swinging doors that led down the long hallway to customs.
Every time a new wave of people arrived, I would pick up my poster.
“Who’s Martin?” an elderly man asked my mom.
“Our African son,” my mom answered, beaming.
He looked utterly confused, but we didn’t care. We had already told everyone on our street that Martin was coming. We were hosting a welcome to the neighborhood barbecue the following day. That evening, our closest relatives were coming to finally meet Martin. Everyone was excited, but no one more than I.
We’d been there for an hour when Paris flight passengers started coming through. We knew because I kept asking, “What flight were you on?”
I started counting people. When I hit one hundred twenty, I got nervous.
“What if he got stuck in France?” I asked my mom.
“He’s here,” she said. “I can feel it.”
We kept peering down the hallway until it was just a trickle. And then no one. My stomach did a somersault. Something must be wrong. I was just about to go find an airline representative to make sure he had gotten on the flight when I saw a young black man emerge.
As he got closer, his face erupted into the biggest smile ever.
“That’s him!” I cried.
I was standing on one side of the plastic barrier that corralled the arriving passengers in one direction. He didn’t even get to walk around it—I just reached over and grabbed him. We stood there hugging right over the fence.
“You made it!” I said.
“I did,” Martin answered.
The crowd of people around us waiting for their loved ones burst into applause as my mother rushed up and started snapping photos.
Martin pulled back and said, “Hi, Mom!”
My mother burst into tears. “We’re so glad you are here!”
My dad was crying, too, as he held out his hand to shake Martin’s. “Welcome home, son.”
Martin grabbed his hand and pulled him close. My grandfather was videotaping the whole thing, but that did not stop Martin from saying, “Hi, Nan. Hi, Pop.”
He knew who everybody was.
“Is that your only bag?” PopPop asked, pointing to the suitcase full of African art.
“This is for Wallace,” Martin explained.
“I told him to just come with the clothes on his back and we’d take care of the rest,” my mom said.
“I have this,” Martin said, pulling a toothbrush out of his back pocket. We all laughed.
On our way home, we took a slight detour to drive by Villanova. The stone buildings looked majestic against the green carpet-like lawn.
“That’s where you’re heading, Martin,” Mom said.
August 15, 2003
Martin
HEARING CAITLIN SAY “YOU MADE IT!” when we first embraced made me realize this was real. For so many years, I thought I had conjured her. But here she was, as beautiful as I imagined, but much taller. She towered over me. No longer the twelve-year-old girl with jewelry on her teeth that I first met six years ago. I wouldn’t wake up in Chigodora, or Chisamba Singles, or Victoria Falls in a sweat. I had made it.
As I was telling her about all my adventures, I saw that the girl who became my best friend in her letters was the woman sitting right next to me in the car. I still couldn’t believe it. But I felt immediately at ease with her. Anne and Rich were asking questions from the front seat, smiling, so loving as well. She got this demeanor from both parents, I thought.
They drove me by Villanova’s campus and it took my breath away. It was difficult to imagine I would be walking across that campus as an American student in less than two weeks. I could barely believe I was sitting there, in the back of a four-by-four Jeep, next to Caitlin.
We pulled into their driveway, which I immediately recognized from the photos Caitlin had sent me. Richie came out to embrace me.
“My African brother!” Richie said. “Very cool to meet you.”
Caitlin took me inside and showed me around. They had set up a room for me in the basement, where my dear friend Wallace had spent many nights. We called him after I showered. He was still in Colorado finishing his summer there. I would see him in a week or so. Then Caitlin said, “Let’s go.”
She wanted to take me shopping at the legendary mall to get some things for my new American life.
Walking into the glimmering palace with its magic sliding glass doors and gusts of cool air was everything I had imagined and more. The smells of sweet cinnamon and fried food overwhelmed me as we walked through what Caitlin called “the food court.” We shared something called a Cinnabon, and to this day, I have never eaten anything that delicious. Then she took me shopping. That I found overwhelming.
To start, her father gave her his credit card. This was a new concept, that a small piece of plastic could purchase so many things. Caitlin bought me pants and shorts, T-shirts and long-sleeved shirts, flip-flops, sunglasses, and more. I kept saying it was unnecessary, but soon just gave up. When she picked out not one but three belts, I had to say something.
“I only have one waist,” I said.
I had never witnessed such excess, not even at Marist Brothers. Eventually I just went along with it, like I was in a dream. Or an American movie, like the ones I’d watch sitting on my brother’s shoulders and peering through a window all those years before in Chisamba Singles.
Back home, Caitlin insisted I put on a new outfit for dinner, my first with my American family. When I came downstairs in my chinos and button-down shirt, everyone erupted in applause. The feeling reminded me of my first day slipping into my uniform at Marist Brothers: But this was even bigger. I was dressed now as an American student. My dream had been realized.
I sat down at the table, which my American mother had covered in food: a meat dish she called pot roast with potatoes and carrots that made my mouth water with its rich smell. The bowl of salad was so large I could wrap both my arms around it, and there was a small spinning device next to it with an assortment of bottles that Caitlin called dressing. I had never heard of that word, nor was I the slightest bit hungry. I was still full from the Cinnabon—and too ecstatic to eat. But I helped myself to a bit of everything. I wa
nted to taste it all; each bite was further proof that this was real. I was in Hatfield with my American family wearing my new clothes and about to go to university.
The next day, Anne and Rich hosted a party for me and invited all of Caitlin’s relatives and neighbors. I met aunts and uncles and cousins who greeted me as if I were a long-lost relative who had finally come home.
After we ate, Anne stood up to make a speech. She introduced me to the family formally, and as she did, her voice grew wobbly, shaking with emotion. This stirred something in me. It brought me back from the high-in-the-sky feeling I had had ever since I boarded the plane in Paris. It reconnected me to the ground, and to the fact that I was standing next to my best friend in her backyard, in Hatfield, Pennsylvania. Anne paused mid-sentence to collect herself and I began to speak. It was not rehearsed, or even intended. These words came from deep inside me, waiting to emerge.
“I just want to thank you. You really don’t understand what part you have played in my life, and in the lives of people who are dependent on me. This is going to bring a great change to my family. It has always been my dream to go to college. It will give me a platform to exploit my potential and get some help to my family and friends in Zimbabwe. I just want to hope that God will give you maximum blessings.”
I felt Caitlin squeeze my hand, and I squeezed back. After six years of imagining what it would be like to see her, to hug her, to hear her laugh, to hold her hand, here she was, my best friend from afar, now standing right next to me.
EPILOGUE
March 5, 2008
Martin
I CLINKED A CHAMPAGNE GLASS to get everyone’s attention.
“I would like to say a few words,” I said, rising from the table to face Caitlin, who looked more radiant than ever before. “I’m so happy that you have met Dima. Not only do you have a wonderful new husband, but I now have another brother.”
Her face, already set in a smile, went a slight pinkish color as she raised her glass toward me and then turned to kiss the man she had just married.
“Here, here!” Wallace shouted. He was sitting across the table from me, next to Richie, our other brother from another mother. This is what we call each other still to this day.
A few weeks earlier, Caitlin had phoned me in Manhattan, where I was living and working, to say she was going to marry Dzmitry, a guy she had met on a cruise with her parents the year before. It was a quick engagement, but I knew this was a relationship that would last. Dima was different from Caitlin’s previous boyfriends. He and I shared a similar worldview, perhaps because he came from a faraway place, like me; he was from Belarus, a country in Eastern Europe. We both saw that Caitlin’s beauty was way more than skin deep. He saw her generosity and kindness and was not threatened by it. He is a good man.
Watching him exchange vows with Caitlin earlier that day, I got a bit choked up. Caitlin and I had already shared so many milestones—and still have many ahead. I did not know then that I would go on to do my MBA at Duke, or that Caitlin would finish her nursing degree, as she had planned since she was sixteen, or give birth to a beautiful baby girl. All I knew was that we both had witnessed so many of each other’s dreams come true.
This day was another in a long list of special moments I got to share with her, starting with the very first letter she had sent eleven years earlier.
I sat back down and looked around the table. Anne had happy tears streaming down her face, and Rich was so proud I thought his head would pop off. Nan and Pop were beaming, as was Grandpa Stoicsitz. Richie was there with his wife, Jenilee, as was Wallace with his, Doreen. There was so much happiness at that one table.
I only wished that my family back in Zimbabwe could be there as well.
I kept in touch with everyone back home through letters and phone calls. In fact, as soon as I was settled at Villanova, I got a job in the admissions office and told Anne that I wanted to take over sending money to my parents. She had done enough. But she insisted on sending money to them the first year so that I could focus on my studies. I began saving, and got a second part-time job at Taco Bell to earn more. That summer, I got a full-time job working for an insurance company, then continued to work and study during the following school year as well.
It took some time, but finally I was able to save enough to buy my parents a new house in Mutare. They moved out of Chisamba Singles the same year I graduated from Villanova. Knowing that my mother has a water faucet in her own home, and a bathroom with a toilet, and her very own bed brings me peace. It makes the richness of my new American life all that more enjoyable. To this day, I continue to send money home to my parents, and I made sure that my siblings stayed in school, no matter what. I kept my promise to my mother, the one I made right before I left for Victoria Falls and Villanova, that even though I was leaving her, it was only to be a better son to her and my father, and the best brother to my siblings. My dream to come to America was never for me alone.
Lois remained number one in her class and is planning to come to college in the United States. I promised her she would, just as Caitlin had promised me that I would. Soon my sisters will meet for the first time.
My family and Caitlin’s stopped being two separate families a long time ago. It started with a letter—and then all of our lives were changed forever.
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These were among the first pictures we sent each other.
This photo was taken in Harare, where I worked as a tea boy. I am wearing a shirt Caitlin sent me.
Around the same time, I attended my school’s Winter Ball.
Nation, my mother, and me. (The tins under the bed were used to fetch water for drinking and cooking.)
My family saying thank you to Caitlin and her family for all the wonderful gifts (like the rain boots!). Seated (left to right): my mother, my father, Simba; standing (left to right): Lois, George Jr.
At Marist Brothers Nyanga High School, 2001.
In June 2001, I was a camp counselor. Here I am with Louis the rabbit.
Relieving some exam stress and anxiety with classmates outside the classrooms at Marist Brothers Nyanga High School.
Relaxing with friends. Left to right: Bonaventure, Cornelius, me, Kennedy.
Waiting for Martin at the airport in Philadelphia, 2003.
We greet each other for the first time in person with a big hug (over the barrier wall!).
I risk introducing Martin to Louis the rabbit, even though he once mentioned eating rabbit for dinner.
The 2003 Stoicsitz family Christmas card, including Martin and Wallace.
Together at Caitlin’s wedding (that’s her husband, Dzmitry, on the left), 2008.
Another wedding photo, this one with Rich (left) and Wallace and Richie (right).
Acknowledgments
Martin Ganda would like to thank:
Caitlin for changing my life.
My Zimbabwean family: Nation, Simba, Lois, George, and my parents, George and Chioniso; Alois and Sekai Munyaradazi; Peter Muzawazi; Brother Brito; and Phanuel and Tecla Mugomba. In memory of Grandma Majokwiro.
My American family: Anne Neville, Richard Stoicsitz, Dzmitry Alifirenka, Richie and Jenilee Stoicsitz, Bill and Joanne Neville, Jim and Kim Neville, and both of their families. Nan and Pop Neville, Grandpa Stoicsitz, and in memory of Grandma Stoicsitz.
My Villanova family: Michael Gaynor, the admissions director; Candice Keith; Valerie Furman; and Father Edmund Dobbin—I never would have made it to the US without your help. And Derik Rosa, Chris Hill, Jack Zawora, and Joseph Pantini, my first friends at Villanova who introduced me to America!
Mentors: Amy and Jeff Towers for believing in me. Tom Wilcok and Ken Farhman for friendship and unwavering career support and mentoring. Ali Naqvi and Linda Holliday for molding me
into who I am today. Thanks to the following mentors for hand-holding and guiding me in my business career: Alex Dibelius, Keith Ferrazzi, Dr. Mthuli Ncube, Noah and Florence Ziumbe, Advocate Brenda Madumise, James Makamba, Mutumwa Mawere, Gerald Rem, Luke Ngwerume, Phil Heilberg, and Maureen Erasmus. Ben and Claire Spillard for their friendship and continued guidance. Thanks to Mark, Lesley, and Dirk Goldwasser, Jonathan Plutzik, Kenneth Allen, Michael Civitella, Bret and Marissa Rosen, Ashley Bendell, Cass Almendral, and Clive Ginsberg, for their friendship. And to the very many others who have played a pivotal role in my journey from Sakubva Mutare to where I am today!
Friends: Elias Mutambikwa, Karen Nyawera, Simba Mhungu, Simba Marekera, Edwin Mushambi, Kevin Portmann, Sam Njanike, Stephen Mutsongodza, Ronnie Rukambe, Tinashe Machaka, and Tapiwa Gurupira for their friendship. Shikshya Khatiwada for being an amazing sister from another mother.
I thank Peter Godwin, Sarah Burnes, Judy Clain, and Farrin Jacobs for their encouragement and guidance with the book. And lastly, Liz Welch for helping Caitlin and me tell our story.
Caitlin Alifirenka would like to thank:
I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Page 25