October 1998

Martin

I DID NOT KNOW ANYONE—besides the human resources manager at my father’s work—who had one car, let alone three. That was not the only astonishing thing: Caitlin’s house was as big as a castle, and in one photo, she was wearing jewelry on her teeth. I had never seen anything like that before. It was fascinating.

I brought the stack of photos to school to show my friends. I knew they would not believe me if I said she lived in a castle and had three cars and mouth jewelry. I needed proof.

At break that morning, Joe, Paul, and Raymond sat with me beneath the baobab tree outside our school.

“This is her house,” I said, taking out one photo at a time.

“Impossible!” Joe laughed. “It looks like the one our president lives in!”

“It’s huge,” Paul agreed.

“You could fit five families in there, at least,” Raymond chimed in.

Raymond also lived in Chisamba Singles. Paul and Joe lived in a township nearby that was a bit nicer, but nothing like this.

Then I showed them the photo of her parents on the houseboat.

“This is the floating house they stayed on this summer,” I said with mock authority. “In Canada, people live on boats.”

My friends shook their heads in disbelief.

“How is it possible?” Raymond asked.

I did not know the answer, and so quickly pulled out the next photo from the stack. It was Caitlin, wearing her mouth jewelry.

“This is very popular in America,” I explained. “Caitlin is going to send me a set so I can show you all how to wear it.”

“Wow,” Paul exclaimed. “She looks like a princess.”

“You should marry her, Martin,” Raymond said. “Then you could be a prince.”

We all laughed at that idea—and I held back what I was thinking, that my love for Caitlin was far deeper than that.

The next photo was of Caitlin in bed, with her dog Romey.

“In America, dogs are treated like family members,” I said.

This photo actually shocked me. Zimbabwean dogs were scrawny and slept outside. They ate only if there were leftover scraps, which was never the case in my house. My friends were amazed, too.

“What happens if the dog poops?” Raymond asked.

We all burst out laughing. It was a good question—and I had no idea what the answer was.

That afternoon, I gave my mother the stack of photos to store with the rest of Caitlin’s letters. As I peered into the box, I saw how many pictures she had sent. There were over a dozen. It bothered me that I had only sent her one picture. Worse, she had asked again for another photo of me. Caitlin had been so generous. I had to reciprocate.

This meant we had to hire a photographer to come to our house, take the photo, develop it, and bring it back later. That was expensive. Still, I asked my father to consider it—he knew how important this was to me, so he promised he would do his best to find the money for a photographer. Before I put all the photos away in what had now become Caitlin’s box, I selected the photo of her wearing the big straw hat. I had already started calling her “queen” and in that photo, she really looked like one. I pinned that one to our wall, next to the first one she sent.

To buy some time, I decided to send Caitlin an African bangle I bought at the market, which I imagined was the closest thing we had to the American malls that Caitlin seemed to visit every weekend with her friends. The Sakubva Market was five kilometers from my house and called “Musika We Huku,” or “the market where chickens are sold.” My mother bought our food and other life necessities there. It was adjacent to the central bus station, where I had started working every weekend carrying luggage for tips in order to make pocket money to keep up my correspondence with Caitlin.

The bus station was chaotic, but I loved wandering through the market. It was the size of three football fields and filled with vendors selling all kinds of things, like fruit, vegetables, and peanuts. You could also buy beef and live chickens there, as well as roasted mice, a popular snack in Zimbabwe. We used to hunt them in the fields around Chisamba Singles when I was younger. It was hard work to catch a small mouse.

People also sold fake sunglasses called Prada or Gucci. One guy hand-painted T-shirts with popular logos, like Puma and Nike with the swish. One said Reebock. I now knew that spelling was incorrect, thanks to Caitlin. Whenever I was wearing my shirt, I avoided going by his stand. I did not want to be bad for business.

I spotted the bracelet one weekend. It was made from wood, and had a small cheetah print pattern burnt into it. It was lovely, and reasonably priced, so I bought it hoping it would keep her happy until I could find a way to get my photo taken.

5 November 1998

Dear Caitlin,

Hello! How are you? It was so nice to hear from you. Thank you very much for the Nike shirt. I love it. Now I have two of the competitive modern fashions—Nike and Reebok. Thank you. My parents also thank you for the present.

The pictures are brilliant. I was glad to know your lovely family, nice big house, and beautiful vehicles. Caitlin, I have to tell you what I feel: You are becoming more and more beautiful and lovely! Keep it up!

I have enclosed an African bangle. You wear it on the wrist. I hope you will like it. In my next letter, I am going to give you something bigger and more beautiful.

At our school we wear uniforms so our parents do not bother buying us as many clothes as you have. You are lucky.

Did you hear the new hit from the Spice Girls? “Viva Forever”? I love it! Do you?

We are in summer and it’s very hot. We even sweat at night. Are you also in summer? Caitlin, thank you again for the nice shirt, best pencils, lovely pictures, and the nice postcard. Thank you!

Lots of love,

Martin Ganda

BF4E

A few weeks later, my father arrived home in a jovial mood.

“Martin!” His deep baritone funneled through our doorway.

I was inside, studying for my Form Two finals that would take place that December. That January I would begin Form Three, which meant I had two more years before I could go on for my A-levels, the last two years before university. My goal was to stay number one in my class, so I would be eligible for a scholarship at the University of Zimbabwe. That meant doing well in all my subjects: math, Pure Science, history, geography, and English were easy. I didn’t worry about accounting—I had a 100 average in that class. Shona and woodworking were the problem. Both were also required classes and my least favorite. That evening, I was working on Shona verb conjugations when my father arrived with news.

“What is it, Baba?” I asked, ducking out from our house into the courtyard.

“A photographer will come this weekend,” he said. “It’s all arranged.”

“But how?” I asked.

“A friend offered to help,” he explained.

I felt as if I had swallowed several frogs—they were hopping in my stomach. I was so happy, I started jumping, too. I could finally give Caitlin something she had asked for after everything she had given me.

The day my photo was taken, I wanted to look my best. I asked my father if I could wear his button-down shirt and his only jacket even though both were too big on me. He agreed and then also pulled out a tie. I’d never seen him wear it before—it was beige with a brown swirled pattern. Wearing my father’s clothes made me feel powerful and strong. We paid the photographer for two photos because you had to pay for the picture even if it came out badly. So if he chopped off your head, you still had to buy it. We took two, hoping at least one would come out okay. One was blurry, but thankfully, the other was fine.