April 1999

Martin

I WAS NOT THE ONLY student expelled from class that morning in January, but I felt the eyes of the students who stayed as I left, like wasp stings on my back. Nation was waiting for me outside.

“Martin, it’s not so bad,” he said, throwing his arm around my neck. “More time to practice football.”

It was a bright, sunny day, but I felt cold in my bones and a big emptiness in my stomach. Nation sensed this.

“You will be back soon, brother,” he said.

We walked home with a group of kids who had also been kicked out. Nation was laughing with them and dribbling the ball, which one of his friends had made out of plastic bags and string. No one else seemed too upset, but my mind was going a million miles a minute trying to figure out how I could get back to school as quickly as possible. Form Three was an important year—we had to start preparing for our O-level exams, which we took at the end of Form Four. They were your ticket to university—without those exams, you could not go anywhere or do anything. I was so worried about all those missing lessons and tests. How would I catch up?

Nation was not planning to go to university. He was a really good soccer player and wanted to try to make a career of it. I knew school was my only chance of getting a better life. I felt like I was moving backward. I knew my father wanted me to go back to school, but as inflation skyrocketed, we had less money to go around. How could I help my family, plus save up for school? It all felt so overwhelming.

And then there was Caitlin, who sent a letter every few weeks. I had no way to respond. She also kept asking for more photos. I realized she didn’t understand how impossible this was for me. It was my fault for not explaining it to her, but I didn’t want her to know of my struggles. They seemed too low for her. I liked that she thought I was a kid just like her.

I also liked living vicariously through her letters. These days it seemed ridiculous, as the life she described was becoming more and more of a fantasy—trips to the mall, family vacations, and Friday night football games. She had all these exciting things to report. What could I write? Still, her letters kept me connected to this idea that things might improve. That there was a better life awaiting me.

As we neared Chisamba Singles that morning, the empty feeling in my stomach grew. It wasn’t hunger for food, but for a better life. I had no idea how to get there. So when Peter, one of the other boys who had been kicked out as well, asked if I wanted to go to the market that same afternoon to work, I agreed. It was bad enough working weekends, but to be here on a school day felt wrong. I was competing with hundreds of people, each trying to make a buck. This type of pickup work automatically put you in the lowest class. I had no choice. If I couldn’t depend on my father, I’d have to make money myself.

As Peter and I neared the market, I could smell the roasted peanuts and hear the rumble of the buses and shouts from people selling water, mangoes, and sadza as we crested a small hill. From the top, I could see the sprawl of people selling oranges, avocados, packets of nuts on brightly colored pieces of material or small cardboard tables made from overturned boxes. Others sold live chickens, so there were crates piled as tall as a grown man filled with rustling feathers and frantic clucks. The market was encircled with idling buses and long lines of people waiting to go to Harare or Bulawayo, or to other countries like Mozambique, Botswana, or South Africa. Local routes also ran every hour to Mutare’s city center, thirty minutes away. Those buses were always jam-packed with people.

I knew from my weekend experience that the easiest way to make fast money was to carry luggage for passengers: If somebody had a heavy bag, you offered to take it to the bus. It was hard work—you had to climb on top of the bus using the open windows as footholds, and then pull the bag up with you to place on the roof rack. I was excited when a man offered me two bucks to carry his bags. After I lugged them through the market and heaved them up on the bus, he said, “Actually, I only have a dollar.” That happened a few times that day: You could either take the bags back to where you first started carrying them, or take the dollar. I figured that it was an extra dollar I didn’t have before. But I was still angry about it.

After two more jobs like this, I was exhausted. There was no shelter, and the sun was blistering hot. The worst part of the job was jostling with other kids who were desperate like me. Together we formed a competitive gang. After my third run, I was also famished. I wanted to buy something to eat, but that would take all the money I had just earned. So I kept working all day and felt let down when I came home with only four Zim dollars.

I gave the money to my mom, who shook her head. Every little bit helped, but we both knew I’d never go back to school at this rate. Still, I was determined. Every day that week, I went to the market with Peter to wash cars and carry luggage. By Friday I had earned twenty Zim dollars. Five hundred thirty to go.

My father asked about my day, and could not look me in the eye when I reported my earnings. So I was surprised when he sat next to me at breakfast midway through my second week working and said, “Martin, go to school today. Tell them I’ll pay them next week.”

I felt a throb in my temples and my throat. The thought of going back to school was exhilarating—but I also knew they wouldn’t take me without the full fee. Nevertheless, I felt a rush of excitement when I put on my uniform that morning and thought maybe, just maybe, they’d make an exception.

My chest grew tight as I rehearsed my father’s words on my way to school. Patrick spotted me and shouted, “Martin! You’re back!” I waved and kept walking. I decided to go directly to my teacher, who was preparing for class when I knocked on the door.

“Welcome back, Martin Ganda,” he said, rising to greet me with a wide smile.

I kept my eyes on the concrete floor as I relayed my father’s promise.

“Let’s see what I can do,” he responded.

I looked up, unable to contain my own enthusiasm.

“Fantastic!” I said. “I will do my best! I promise!”

“Martin,” my teacher interrupted. “I already know what a dedicated student you are—I will try, but I cannot make any promises.”

The bell rang and kids started arriving in the classroom. I placed my hands together in a prayer position and bowed at him, our way of saying thanks in Shona. And then I took my seat, front row center.

I spent that first class trying to concentrate on the lessons, wondering whom I should ask for the best notes to catch up for all the lectures I had missed. But then, toward the end of that period, I saw the school’s financial manager standing at the doorway. The teacher invited him in. I held my breath.

The manager asked which students had returned to class. I was the only one that day, and so my teacher asked him to step outside for a moment. I said a silent prayer.

The teacher returned with tight lips and a grim expression, followed by the financial manager, who came up to my desk and asked, “Did you pay your fees?”

“No, sir,” I started. “My father said—”

Before I could finish, he said, “Martin, I must see the paid receipts before you can enroll in class again. These are the school rules.”

The entire class remained quiet as I gathered my things to leave. No one was surprised my father could not pay. This was the story of too many people in Zimbabwe. Why did I think I was I any different?

As I left the room, I caught my teacher’s eyes and bowed my head again. He nodded back and I knew he was disappointed, though not nearly as disappointed as I.

I returned to an empty home. My mother had gone to fetch water. That morning a slow trickle of rusty red liquid came out of the communal faucet—it smelled of mud and left a residue on your skin rather than cleaned it. No one could bathe in it, let alone cook with or drink it. This happened frequently in Chisamba Singles. The nearest river was a kilometer away, but if the bed was dry, or the water polluted, my mother might walk three—or ten kilometers to a place she heard from neighbors had a working well. It was still early in the day, so I changed from my uniform into my T-shirt and shorts and headed back to the market.

There, a man asked me to help him pour tea, a new task. I did that for a few days, and while it was a nice change from carrying luggage, I made even less money. So I was intrigued when Peter asked me to help him sell cold drinks.

It was a particularly hot day and he had frozen these small packets of juice. He offered to split any profits we made after he was reimbursed for the cost of the drinks. I was excited, especially since by the day’s end I had sold two boxes’ worth and had only a few juices left. The sun was casting an orange glow over the market as I headed toward a bus leaving for Harare. There were three and four people to each two-person seat. I boarded holding the box over my head, shouting, “Cold drinks! Cold drinks!”

As I squeezed my way toward the back, I saw William, a friend from school, sitting with his brother, laughing. William was in Group One with me. He was clever, and cared about school as much as I did. But he lived in a house, and both of his parents worked. He never had to worry about school fees or textbooks or money for exams. He had more than one uniform, and several pairs of shoes. I suddenly felt hot not from the crush of people, but from shame. I began walking backward, quickly. I didn’t want him to see me doing this work, or knowing that I had gone that low.

Even he knew that Zimbabwe was in terrible shape, but the people who lived in Chisamba Singles witnessed it every day. Food shortages had become a real problem. Fights broke out daily, haggling over prices, or bartering gone bad. This was becoming common. As was domestic violence—I had always heard men beat their wives, since we lived in such close quarters, but now I would see it out in the streets as well. Nothing was being hidden anymore. AIDS, too, had become rampant. The man we split our room with had blisters all over his face as if someone had splashed him with acid. Another neighbor died from it that year. She got so skinny and weak that her family had to carry her outside on sunny days for fresh air. She looked like a skeleton draped with papery skin and scared me so much that I was relieved to hear she had died.

I was only fifteen, but I knew Chisamba Singles was considered one of the worst slums not only in Mutare but also in all of Zimbabwe. We were famous for our poverty. If I had bumped into someone from Chisamba Singles on that bus, he would have understood why I was selling those drinks. William would, too, but not in the same way.

I gave Peter the remaining packets and walked home feeling more down than ever, even though I had made eight dollars that day, a record. I still had such a long way to go. I felt doomed.

That weekend, I got another letter from Caitlin. She had sent three in a row and was disappointed that I had not responded. I understood her frustration. Then I got to the part where she asked if I was mad at her. Mad? At her? This was impossible. I could never be mad at her. That she thought this made me so upset. I had to write her immediately.

I had saved thirty-two Zim dollars and needed sixteen for stamps, which would set me way back from returning to school. But this was important. I still had to find something to write on. My dad was lucky to still have a job. Retrenchment had begun at the factory—they were firing older employees and hiring younger ones, for less pay. I went back to the market the next day and kept my eyes open for something to write on. When I saw a young boy fling the wrapper from an ice-cream bar onto the ground, I grabbed it without anyone noticing. It was still clean, except for a chocolate smear, which I wiped off on my shorts. I ran home to write Caitlin. Since the paper was quite small, I compressed my handwriting to get as many words on the page as I could—this was a big moment in our relationship. I decided to tell Caitlin the truth about why I had not been in better touch. And I prayed that she would understand. And that she would still want to be my friend.

The following day, I took my note to the post office along with extra money my mom gave me that morning to buy an envelope. I knew Caitlin’s address by heart, and wrote it in the center of the envelope, trying to leave enough space for all the stamps it needed to make it to my best friend’s house.