January 1999

Martin

TOWARD THE END OF 1998, things really began to disintegrate for my family. I was just about to finish Form Two, the equivalent of eighth grade in America. Nation and I began working after school as well as weekends in order to help feed our family. My father’s paycheck was never enough. It was rough. Worse, I could see how it affected my father. He was no longer singing when he came home, if he came home at all. Some nights, he’d creep in late, well after we had all gone to sleep. I’d wake up, not from any noise but from the sweet, rancid smell of Chibuku.

“How can you drink when there is no food for your children?” my mother would hiss at him the next morning. My father moaned through his hangover, but still got dressed and went to work. It was almost pointless by then. His paycheck barely covered our rent. My mother had begun working in neighbors’ gardens and doing pickup work as a maid in town in exchange for mealie meal.

At the end of the semester, I had to take an important exam, which cost one Zimbabwean dollar. My friend Nyasha came to pick me up the morning of the test. He had just moved to Chisamba Singles a few months before and we became fast friends. He was smart and funny. We liked to study together.

The morning of the test, I asked my dad for the dollar. He turned to my mom and said, “Give Martin the money.”

She was irate. “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “I don’t have any money!”

Nyasha was waiting right outside. He could hear everything. I was crushed. Then I heard Raymond and Paul arrive as well.

“Martin, we’re going to be late,” Raymond shouted.

I stepped outside as my parents continued arguing inside.

My mind was reeling. If I didn’t take this test, I couldn’t move to the next grade.

“I can’t go,” I said. “I don’t have the fee.”

“You have to go,” Paul said. “You’re the best in class.”

I shrugged my shoulders, and felt a warm sensation rise from my belly and get stuck in my throat. I did not want to cry in front of my friends.

“I have an extra dollar,” Nyasha said. “My father gave it to me for good luck.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me the coin.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’m totally sure,” he said. “Just don’t score higher than me!”

I did not bother telling my parents I had found the money. I just left. My friends came from poor families, too, but they all had their dollars. Their parents knew it was important.

The scores came back a few weeks later and I once again received the highest grade in our school. I couldn’t wait to tell Caitlin my news—but how? Postage to America now cost fourteen Zim dollars—two weekends’ worth of tips. And my father could not afford one dollar for a test.

Around this same time, my parents learned that my younger brother Simba had started to beat up other kids to give him money or to bring extra food for him to school. He was only seven years old, but that’s how he dealt with his hunger: He was a bully. One day, all of the parents came to school for a meeting. Many asked, “Who is this Simba Ganda?” That was because their kids would go home and complain about him. One girl begged her mom for two cookies every day. Her mother wanted to know why and eventually she told the truth: She needed one for her and one for Simba.

My parents were so upset—it was shameful not to be able to feed your kids. Plus, they did not expect Simba to go that far. We were getting sadza for breakfast, but it wasn’t enough. And now the whole school knew, which was humiliating for my parents. Simba got a beating at home, which was rare. And then the teachers told my parents they had to feed him more, so my mom started giving him extra sadza every morning from the night before. But the problem was, other kids would have a piece of chicken or a muffin or peas—really sexy stuff. And Simba had sadza. So while he was no longer hungry, he still wasn’t happy.

I didn’t mind the hunger as long as I could stay in school. In the past, if my father didn’t have enough money to cover the fees, he’d borrow from neighbors or people at work and pay them back. He often used our boom box as collateral. We kept it on the same shelf with Caitlin’s letters and used it to listen to music on holidays and weekends. I learned my father used it to get the money for the photographer when the man he borrowed it from came to collect his debt the day before Christmas. Since my father could not repay him, he took our stereo. That was a very sad day at our house. That boom box was a lifeline to a world beyond Chisamba Singles. It was also my connection to Caitlin. When we played the radio, I’d hear songs that Caitlin wrote about in her letters. I felt like we were listening to them together. As the country became more troubled, my father stopped listening to music, and singing. He was slowly just giving up.

It was early January 1999 when I heard my parents fighting again right outside the house. It was in the middle of the night and I was lying on the floor, beneath the thin blanket I shared with my brothers, pretending to sleep. Nation was on one side, Simba on the other, and though no one said a word, I knew they were both awake as well. I could feel the tension in their bodies, their hearts beating a bit more quickly than usual, but not as fast as mine. Baby George and Lois were fast asleep beneath my parents’ bed—I was glad that they were too young to understand what was happening.

My father shouted, “I don’t have the money!” And my mom responded, just as angrily, “Find it!”

School fees were due at the start of every semester—my Form Three began the following day. They argued until my dad stormed off into the night. I heard my mom enter the room. She stepped over us, her three eldest sons, and sat on her bed, which squeaked as she lay down. And then, in the darkness, I heard what sounded like a gasp. I had never heard my mom cry before—the sound punctured my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and stayed very still, trying to keep back my own tears. It was impossible. They started to leak from the corner of my eyes and I prayed silently that my brothers would not notice. If they did, they never said a word.

The following morning, my father was still gone. I got up, built the fire, and ate the leftover sadza my mother had saved from the night before. And then I went to school, as if it were any other day. I walked into my classroom and took my seat at the desk in the front row with the others in my group. I didn’t chat with my friends, like I did most days. I quietly prayed that my teacher would overlook the fact my parents had not paid the fees. Instead, the headmaster arrived at the start of class and called out all the names of those students who had to leave. When he called my name, I felt a sharp stab in my throat.

I wasn’t embarrassed—many names were called that morning. It was Z$550 per student, roughly twenty American dollars, a fortune for many. Still, most of those kids didn’t care about school—for me, it was painful to leave.

As I gathered my things, my mind was racing: I had to get back to school as quickly as possible. I did not want to fall too far behind, as being the first in the class was my only way to go to university. Then another thought struck me: What would I tell Caitlin? And when would I be able to write her again?