June 1998

Martin

THE POSTMAN DELIVERED MAIL to Chisamba Singles every Saturday. I would wait for him to arrive on his bicycle, hoping there might be something from Caitlin. He would always ring his bell and then call out the names of people who had letters and packages. Whenever I heard his husky voice shout “Martin Ganda,” I would sprint as fast as I could, knowing it had to be from Caitlin. I’d then spend the next hour reading and rereading whatever she had written. Her stories let me imagine what it was like to be an American teenager. We were growing up together, ten thousand miles apart, as she once wrote in a letter. I’d always share her news and photos with my family and friends, who by now considered her their friend as well. Her letters lifted everyone’s spirits. After I had practically memorized every detail, I would give them to my mother, who kept them in the biscuit tin.

One June morning, the postman handed me a large envelope. It was bigger than a textbook and squishy. I knew it was from Caitlin by the small hearts, smiley faces, and stars that decorated the package. Next to my name, she wrote BFF in purple glitter ink. I knew, thanks to her, this meant Best Friends Forever.

I fought the urge to open the package right there, in front of everyone else waiting for mail. Back home, I decided to go inside our hut. I wanted privacy. Since we shared a common outdoor area with four families, someone was always hanging around. The joke was, if you wanted privacy, you just had to close your eyes. But during the day, our home was usually empty. With no electricity or windows, it was always dark. It was just a place to get dressed in the morning or to sleep at night. I slipped inside, thankful for the cool quiet.

I saw the letter first, taped to a package on which Caitlin wrote HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, MARTIN! also in purple glitter ink. I was very touched. I had heard that rich people in Zimbabwe have parties and get presents on their birthdays, but mine always passed like any other day.

The only gift I ever received was when I turned ten.

That evening, my father asked, “Martin, what’s today?”

“March ninth,” I replied.

And he said, “You know you’re ten today, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, smiling. “I almost forgot.”

He grabbed my hand and led me to the woman who sold soft drinks down the road. He told me to choose my favorite.

“Fanta,” I said.

We usually got one every Christmas. My father would buy one for each kid, and we would each sip ours slowly, savoring every drop, hoping to make it last as long as possible. That was how we celebrated. The last Fanta I had was two Christmases ago—at the beginning of the economic troubled time. My father could only afford one that year, so we passed it around, taking small sips, holding the sunshine-sweet liquid in our mouths for as long as possible before giving in to a swallow.

I carefully peeled back the tape on Caitlin’s gift and could not believe what was beneath the festive paper: an authentic, genuine Reebok T-shirt! Even the wealthy kids who went to my school and lived in houses and ate three meals a day could not afford such a precious thing. Their shirts were knockoffs from South Africa or Mozambique. This one had a tag that said Made in America! Proof it was the real deal.

I changed into it immediately. The material felt so good against my skin. I had never owned anything new in my life. Even our school uniforms, which we had to buy each year, were secondhand, and often thin or torn in spots. This shirt was thick and smelled sweet, like ripe fruit. I wondered if Caitlin had sprayed it with perfume, or if this was just how a new thing smelled. Either way, it made me feel powerful, like Superman putting on his cape.

Before I walked back outside, I pulled the Made in America tag out of the collar, so people could see this was not some cheap knockoff from Mozambique. And then, smiling wide with lungs so full of air, my chest puffed out, I walked outside.

“Where did you get that?” Nation asked, amazed.

“From Caitlin,” I said, beaming.

He grabbed the hem and rubbed it between his fingers.

“Wow!”

“It’s the real deal!” I said, and pointed to the tag.

Nation whistled and slapped my back. “Now you look like a professional movie star, Martin!” he said.

I felt like one, too. At least a dozen people commented on my new shirt and many asked to touch it.

I wore it to greet my father that evening, but he barely seemed to notice. Usually, he would parade around bragging to all the neighbors that I got another gift from my American friend. Tonight, he simply said, “I’m happy for you, son.”

I knew he was preoccupied; there were talks of layoffs at his work. A week before, he came home to say that the company had offered employees to be paid either in Zim dollars or in cups of mealie meal. Many chose food, but my father had to cover school fees as well as rent and food. I could see the concern all over his face; his eyes were always distant, his mouth downturned. He had been working at the mill more than eighteen years—it was all he knew how to do. But if the rumors disturbed him, he did not say. Then one night he came home drunk. That caused a big fight. My mother started screaming, “How can you spend money on beer when your children go to bed hungry?”

He was too drunk to answer.

I knew he was happy for Caitlin’s kindness—he just had bigger things on his mind.

I wore my new shirt to school that Monday beneath my uniform, with the tag sticking up out of my collar. When I finally took it off to wash it a week later, I stood guard as it dried to make sure no one stole it. My father wore it that weekend, and then some days I’d come home from school to see it on my mother or on Nation. I realized that ever since it arrived, it was always on someone’s body.

I wanted Caitlin to know how much I appreciated her generosity, but once again was not sure how to do it. That same month, our Post and Telecommunications Corporation, or PTC, fired more than six hundred people, causing the other workers to go on strike. Zimbabwe was in a full-fledged economic crisis: There were riots in Harare and Bulawayo—the government called in the army after people started smashing windows at grocery stores. Their reasoning was “since we cannot afford to buy bread, then we must just take it.” People were arrested or beaten as a result. A few even died, trampled or shot by police. Chisamba Singles was already rough—people always fought there. Sometimes it was a domestic dispute that spilled into the street. Other times, it was one man fighting another over an unpaid debt. These days, it was more often about food. Hunger makes people act crazy. I even witnessed one man knifing another for cutting the line to buy bread.

I originally wanted to make Caitlin earrings, but then I spotted a pair of black-and-white speckled ones at the market and thought they would be the perfect gift. I started working on weekends, carrying luggage for people at the nearby bus depot. Now that money was so tight at home, it was the only way to buy postage. And now that the post office was on strike, I had more time to save up.

The earrings cost twenty Zim dollars. After one day of carrying luggage, I had made four dollars in tips. So I went to the market every weekend for two months to save up for Caitlin’s gift. By the end of August I had enough for the earrings and stamps. I wanted real stationery—not the back of used homework, which was all I had to write on. My father used to bring scraps from work, but now that the factory was doing so poorly, that luxury ended. I asked him for help anyway, hoping for a miracle. The very next day, at dinner, he handed me two pieces of notepaper with the name and address of the Mutare Paper Mill. “Official stationery,” he said, explaining that his manager gave it to me as a gift.

“He often asks about you, Martin,” my father said, smiling. I think my father felt good that he could provide something special for me. That same night, after everyone else went to bed, I wrote Caitlin using the fire embers for light:

September 1998

Beloved queen Caitlin:

Hi. How are you. I did not reply quickly because the Zimbabwean PTC where we buy stamps was on strike. I am very sorry. But never worry, Martin is always there for his best, Caitlin. I will always reply no wonder what happens, I swear.

Thank you very much for the best present, the lovely beautiful high quality shirt I have ever received. Whenever I walk everyone stops me, touches the best quality, asks me where I got the wonderful shirt and I feel special because of you. Oh you are the greatest. I have really a loving AMERICAN friend.

Guess what? I bought some beautiful earrings at a traditional shop for my best friend Cait. I hope you will like them.

Please keep up your excellent art of markers. I really love it. How do you do it?

I added a three-toed lion’s paw, a heart, and a star, trying to mimic her handiwork, and added, I can do it with my pen. You see!

While there was so much more I could have said—about the crisis, about how hard it was to save money for the stamps, about how hard life was becoming in my country—I decided to keep it light on purpose. I didn’t want to trouble Caitlin with my life worries or scare her off. Plus, I didn’t think a girl who could send me a dollar bill or a Reebok shirt could ever understand. So instead, I simply wrote:

As I have told you before I am not a son of a wealthy dad, your gift increased my clothes. Before I had been left with only an old shirt of my dad but your gift made me very happy.

Lots of love, Martin.

After I signed the letter, I placed the earrings in the middle of the page and then drew the image of two hands clasped in a handshake beneath them and wrote in all caps, NEVER LOSE HOPE. I will always reply. I underlined “will” and “reply” with three squiggly lines to make this point clear.

I folded the letter around the earrings, and then placed both in the envelope, which my father had also secured for me.

On that, I wrote: Thanks again for the most beautiful shirt I have ever had. I love you!