January 2001
Martin
CHRISTMAS PASSED WITHOUT MENTION. We couldn’t even listen to music on Caitlin’s Walkman, as we wore out the batteries. While we still had money in our savings account, we knew better than to use it for batteries or even special vegetables or chicken feet. My mom wanted to guard every penny to make sure we had enough to cover our rent and school fees. She continued to look for work, as a maid or helping in someone’s garden, in exchange for food. My father kept looking for new employment as well, along with hundreds if not thousands of other men from Sakubva. It was bleak.
By then, our American friends were literally keeping us alive. We were beyond thankful. So when another box arrived on January 10, everyone was surprised. Caitlin’s family had already given us so much. This package was totally unexpected and as large as the first one. I was most excited about the large pieces of waterproof canvas that Caitlin sent to put on our roof. The rains had been so heavy and unrelenting that year that water seeped through the floor and between several spaces in the walls. George caught a nasty cold—and had a cough so deep, I worried his lungs would collapse. His little body would convulse each time he hacked, which was so often, it kept everyone up at night. My mother blamed the dampness and tried to fill the holes with sticks and straw. That did not work. So when a neighbor suggested trying paper, my mother wound up using all we had: Caitlin’s letters.
She didn’t tell me until after the fact. One evening in early January she pointed to the three spots where she used several letters to stuff between the slits. They were already mashed into a pulp.
“I chose the shortest ones,” she explained, sensing my disappointment.
“It’s fine, Mai,” I lied. I understood why she did it, but seeing Caitlin’s words used as wall putty hurt my lungs.
So when I saw that Caitlin had sent tarps, and read why, I was elated. That same day, Nation and I spread one large plastic sheet over our roof and secured it with the strong elastic cords Caitlin had packed as well. We lay another tarp on the floor of our hut, and enjoyed our first dry night’s sleep in more than two weeks. The rain boots were also a big hit. There was a pair for everyone, including George, and ponchos, too. I had seen people wearing these waterproof capes in town before and thought they looked foolish, to be honest. Skin is waterproof. Soon I understood how nice it was to walk around in the rain without getting your clothes soaked. This was a revelation.
As were the water purification tablets. So many people fell ill each year during the rainy season, as Chisamba Singles didn’t have a proper sewage system. The water overwhelmed the streams and ditches, which led to contamination and deadly cholera outbreaks. The newspapers ran weekly reports on the rising toll—thousands of people were becoming sick from unsafe drinking water. The buckets Caitlin sent meant we could collect rainwater, and the tablets ensured that it was safe to drink. That alone saved my mother hours every day and saved all of us from the threat of contaminated water.
In that same package, I received my first pair of dungarees and my first pair of shoes: real Nikes. I could hardly believe my eyes. I tried to stay calm. The last ones Caitlin had sent were too small. If these didn’t fit, I would give them to someone else. I was giving myself this internal pep talk as I removed them from the box and unlaced them. When I slipped my foot in, and then tied the first one closed, my face broke into a wide grin. They were a little big, but worked. Wearing them and my new denim pants, I felt closer to Caitlin than ever. Like a real American.
I wanted to send her something in return, but what? There was no news to report. Things in Zimbabwe were as dismal as ever and getting worse with the cholera outbreaks and increasing poverty. So I decided to wait for my O-level results to post. Hopefully, they’d offer a bit of good news and another way to thank Caitlin for all she had done for me.
The morning that the scores were due, I headed to school early. There, I saw my friend Patrick.
That was odd, I thought. Results were not usually posted for everyone to see. Your teacher gave your grades individually. I passed another student on my way to the classroom, who said, “Way to go, Martin!” Another shouted, “Number one!”
There was a line of students ahead of me when I arrived to collect my results. When my teacher saw me, he stood up and said, “Martin! We’re so proud of you!”
I felt the hair stand up all over my body.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’d like to know why!”
“Because you got nine As,” he said. “Out of nine tests.”
I was speechless.
“Your scores were not only the highest at our school, but in the entire region,” he said. “You should be so proud.”
Everyone in the class was applauding and some even started to ululate. I fought the tears that had flooded the backs of my eyes and made my mouth taste slightly salty.
“You should become a doctor!” someone said. “Or a lawyer!” another chimed in.
“Martin, this means you can be whatever you want to be,” my teacher said as he handed me the envelope with my scores. “Mr. Samupindi would like to see you before you leave.”
I could smell the smoke through the headmaster’s door when I knocked.
“Enter!” Mr. Samupindi said.
He stamped out his cigarette when he saw me and let out a deep belly laugh.
“Martin, you just set a record for our school,” he said.
I was shaking from happiness.
“You must go on for A-levels, of course,” he continued. “And I think you should consider doing them at Marist Brothers in Nyanga.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Mr. Samupindi told me it was a boarding school that was more like a college campus—students sleep, eat, and study there.
I immediately thought of the kids I sometimes saw boarding a bus at Sakubva station when I worked at the market. They stood out in their matching navy-blue blazers with a golden crest on the front pocket. Some even wore cricket hats. I asked Nation why they were dressed like that, and he said they were students at a prestigious school—that must be Marist.
“You’ll meet students from all around the country,” he said. “And you won’t have to worry about any issues at home. Your job is simply to study and do well.”
This sounded like a dream.
“But how?” I asked. “It must be expensive.”
“Yes, and worth it,” he explained. “Students there become doctors and politicians. There must be scholarships for bright students like you. Or perhaps your American benefactors could assist you.”
My mind was swirling. Fifteen minutes earlier, I was planning on doing my A-levels in Sakubva, with all my other friends. Now I was being encouraged to apply to a private school in some faraway place where I would have to wear a suit to class. It was chaotic, in a good way.
“Sir, A-levels start February nineteenth, less than two weeks away,” I said.
“Those test results are your ticket, Martin,” he said, slapping me on the back.
I left his office with all these exciting thoughts bouncing in my head like those small silver balls in a pinball machine. This school was my jackpot.
I saw Elias, who had heard my good news.
“You did it!” he said, slapping my back.
“How were your results?” I asked.
He got six As and three Bs and was number two in our school. I started to really understand how significant my results were.
“What have you heard of Marist Brothers?” I asked.
Elias whistled, and then said, “It’s the best school in all of Zimbabwe!”
A few other friends had gathered around. “Oh, Marist is the place!” one said. “You can become whatever you want if you go there,” another added.
My head was still swimming with these thoughts when I arrived back home. I showed my mother my grades.
“I’m so proud of you, son,” she said, her eyes growing glassy.
When my father learned the news, he started to sing “You are the champion of the world!” at the top of his lungs. This brought Nation running, who lifted me off the ground when he heard the news, and started running down the path, holding me by the waist, shouting, “Martin is going to be a doctor!”
Everyone was so happy—but none was as happy as I. My future was looking bright for the first time—and I had Caitlin to thank.
February 2001
Dear Caitlin and family
Hallo! How are you doing over there? Thanks greatly for the great and big parcel with beautiful expensive easy to use items. Thank you very very very much. I have received the nice fitting dungarees and shirts of real quality! I don’t know how to thank you for the Potable Aqua. It is of utmost usefulness here in Mutare, where some of the piped water could be unsafe for drinking especially in summer now when we are experiencing heavy downpour.…
I want to thank you for your efforts to improve our lives. I received the parcel on 10 January 2001 so sorry for a bit of delay. I wanted to include the results of the O-level exams that you paid for. I had distinctions in all nine classes/subjects, i.e., an A in every subject. I have photocopied my results for you to see. If possible I am kindly asking you to help me with my levy and fees since they are now more expensive and I need to buy some textbooks to supplement those at school. If impossible, please do not strain yourself. I’m doing advanced maths, advanced physics, and advanced chemistry. I hope to go to an overseas medical university in the US, since my ambition is to become a doctor.
I forgot to write that I have the best grades in the whole of Mutare. So I just want to give God the best of glory and you, too, for maximum support both emotional and financial.
I was very happy to hear that you (Cait) received a large gift, a nice car. I really congratulate you and another bunny. I’m not worried that you named her Lois but I think this will strengthen our friendship and families. I am happy that you liked the photos we sent.
I want to thank you for the Christmas money you gave me. That was great of you. That money has helped our declining cash reserve. Thanks very much.
We all send you great greetings and wish you the best in all you are doing over there.
Your loving and faithful,
Martin
I sent the letter off, and then continued to ask people about this amazing private school. No one knew anyone who went there, or how to apply, so I decided to find out for myself. I found a bus that left Sakubva every morning for Nyanga. It took three hours, I was told, which meant I could make the trip there and back in one day.
On the bus, I watched the industrial outskirts of Mutare give way to grasslands where an occasional scraggly tree punctuated the sunburned bush. Nyanga is northwest of Mutare, in Manicaland, home to Mount Nyangani, Zimbabwe’s tallest mountain, and Nyanga National Park. Every so often, I’d see a skinny cow or several patchy goats nibbling roadside. Less frequently, we passed a cluster of traditional mud and grass-roofed huts. It felt like I was headed to the middle of nowhere.
I finally arrived in Nyanga and was shocked at how small and slow everything seemed compared to Sakubva. The town has roughly two thousand residents, a post office, a bank, and a few small shops. Several women were selling mangoes and peanuts at the bus stop, a roadside dirt patch. One lady was selling sadza, and though I was hungry, I decided to wait to buy something for the trip back later that evening.
I asked an elderly man for directions to Marist Brothers.
He pointed down a different dirt road, that led away from the town’s small center.
“I meant the school,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Marist Brothers School is that way.”
I looked down the road, which disappeared into a forest.
“How far?” I asked.
“About thirty-five kilometers,” he said.
“Is there another bus that will take me there?” I asked.
“It left two hours ago,” he said. “Try again tomorrow.”
I was planning on taking the five PM bus back home, so I started jogging down the new dirt road, hoping to hitch a ride. An hour later, I heard a rumble behind me. I turned to see a pickup truck in the distance, kicking up dust in its wake. I planted myself in the middle of the road and started to wave my arms. This was my chance.
The truck slowed down and a man my father’s age peered out the window.
“Marist Brothers?” he said.
I took it as a good sign that he thought I was a student already. I nodded.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’m making a delivery.”
The back of his truck was filled with onions, potatoes, carrots, and kovo—food for the dining hall, he explained. My mouth started watering.
I was so relieved to be moving quickly again.
Twenty minutes later, we emerged from the forest and a lush green lawn unfurled before my eyes. We parked in front of a freshly painted building where dozens of guys in navy-blue blazers, white shirts, and gray flannel pants were milling about. A few wore the cricket hats. I had made it.
I hopped out of the truck, proud to be wearing a Caitlin shirt and my Nikes. I wasn’t wearing a suit, but I fit in.
I quickly found the headmaster’s office and asked the secretary for a meeting.
“Mr. Muzawazi will be back late tonight,” she said. “You can see him tomorrow morning.”
“I’m due to head back to Mutare this evening,” I explained.
She suggested I speak with the deputy headmaster, Mr. Nyamandwe, right down the hall. I told him I wanted to do my A-levels at Marist Brothers.
“You and every other bright boy in Zimbabwe,” he said, barely looking up from the papers on his desk. “School starts next week, and we’re full. It’s impossible.”
“There must be a way,” I countered.
We went back and forth. When he saw that I wouldn’t take no for an answer, he said, “Well then, I suggest you see the headmaster tomorrow. He’s the only one who can find room for you.”
“I wasn’t planning to spend the night,” I replied.
“Go introduce yourself to some of the students,” he said. “Someone will surely find you a bed.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I promise you will see me studying here this year.”
“I don’t see how,” he said, shaking his head.
Outside, I scanned the courtyard. All the students looked the same in their pristine uniforms, but then I noticed one kid was wearing cheap sandals sold at the Sakubva market we called Rafters. All the others were wearing leather shoes or sneakers. As I made my way closer to this one guy, I overheard his accent and knew he was from the rural areas. He spoke as if he were singing, more lyrically than the tight and clipped way of city people. When someone called him Rabbit, my hunch was confirmed: He was from the countryside, even worse than Chisamba Singles. He probably didn’t even have electricity where he came from. He would understand my dilemma.
I introduced myself, and then told Rabbit my story. His eyes lit up. “You must see the headmaster tomorrow,” he said. “He will listen.”
Rabbit told me that he also came from a very poor family but was the top student at his school.
“I’m here on full scholarship,” Rabbit said. “The headmaster set the whole thing up.”
This made me hopeful.
Rabbit gave me a campus tour. Each classroom had individual desks, and the library was bigger than the one I had snuck into all those months, lined with books floor to ceiling.
“Twenty-four-hour access,” Rabbit explained when he saw my eyes pop out from my head.
The dorms were large rectangular rooms with six beds lining either side, a locker in between each. Rabbit took me to his.
“This is where you sleep?” I asked.
“You can get used to a mattress, Martin,” he said with a wink.
“I would like to,” I replied, laughing.
“Last year, I was eating one meal a day in Marange, sleeping on dirt,” he said. “Next year I will go to medical school in Harare.”
That afternoon, Rabbit introduced me to many students. He was very popular—all the guys respected him. Every time, he said, “Meet my new friend Martin! He’s coming to school here!”
I started to believe him.
The dinner bell rang at five PM. My stomach rumbled in response. I hadn’t eaten since seven AM. I followed Rabbit and two friends to the huge dining hall, which had twelve long tables, one per dorm. Rabbit found an extra plate for me, and grabbed two forks and knives. This made me nervous. I had never used silverware before—we ate with our hands at home. I kept my cool as we found our seats with ten other guys. I could tell by their haircuts and shoes that they came from wealthy families. They appeared blasé about this place, like they expected life to be this way. Rabbit, however, remained amazed and amused. He knew poverty—and privilege.
A platter of steaming sadza came out first, followed by several heaping bowls of beans. My mouth was watering, but I waited for Rabbit to make the first move. He kept talking with friends. Then the rice and kovo arrived. I’d never seen so much food on one table. One kid asked, “Any meat tonight?” The server replied, “Not tonight, but definitely tomorrow.” The kid who asked looked disappointed. I was speechless.
Rabbit helped himself to everything and told me to do the same. I waited for Rabbit to start eating, to watch how to hold a fork. Mine felt clumsy in my hand. Rabbit must have sensed my discomfort, because he said, “You can eat with your hands. No one will judge you.” I looked around and saw every single kid was using a fork. I tightened my grip and dug into the steaming pile of beans on my plate. Some fell onto my lap, but thankfully no one seemed to notice. I quickly picked them up and popped them into my mouth. The second try was more successful and before long I had finished everything on my plate. Rabbit encouraged me to have more. After my third helping, I was so full, my stomach ached. One guy noticed how much I ate and called me the bean eater. As we walked back to the dorm, two other guys said, “Oh, you’re the kid who ate all the food!” Everyone laughed, including me.
I didn’t mind. I still couldn’t believe that much food was possible. We couldn’t finish it all. I asked Rabbit what they did with the leftovers.
“They throw it out,” he said. “You and I know how crazy that is. But these guys have no clue.”
Most of the students were the sons of judges, politicians, businessmen, and soccer stars. Their families lived in houses in Harare with maids and had not one but several cars. None of them had ever known hunger.
I continued asking Rabbit all the questions bombarding my brain: I’d found the perfect guide.
That night, Rabbit secured a bed for me in his dorm room. Another bell sounded, which meant it was time for quiet hours. Rabbit informed me that everyone got up at six AM. Breakfast was at seven, followed by an eight o’clock church service on the lower campus.
“The headmaster will be there,” Rabbit said. “That’s your chance.”
I thanked Rabbit for all his great help and said good night. As I lay down and pulled the covers up to my chin, I thought, This can’t be happening. I had never slept on a mattress, let alone had my own linens. At home, I shared one thin blanket between two brothers. These sheets felt crisp and cool on my skin, and the blanket was heavy yet soft. It warmed me immediately as I pulled it up, all the way to my chin. I closed my eyes and listened to the faint breathing of my roommates as I drifted into one of the deepest sleeps ever.
A siren startled me awake. I hopped out of bed and followed Rabbit to the showers. I turned on the spigot and laughed out loud when warm water came rushing out. I had only ever bathed with cold water before. Rabbit laughed as well—the only person in the room who understood what was so funny.
Breakfast was eggs, toast, and porridge. Beans were one thing, but eggs were even a bigger luxury and unheard of where I came from. And yet there I was helping myself to not one but two. I turned to Rabbit before I began to eat and said, “I love this place!”
Mass took place in an old stone church with all the students on both the lower and upper campuses. Following the sermon, a large man with a big bushy beard and matching Afro that floated on top of his head like a crown approached the podium.
Rabbit elbowed me. “That’s him,” he whispered.
As soon as everyone was dismissed, I went looking for this formidable man. He was outside the church chatting with students. Everyone else was in a suit and tie, so I stood out in my Nike shirt and shoes. When Mr. Muzawazi spotted me, he said, “You must be Martin Ganda. Follow me.”
We walked to his office, where several people were already waiting to see him. I took a seat and waited until his secretary called my name.
As I walked into his office, he asked, “I hear you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, sir. I want to do my A-levels here,” I started to explain, but he cut me off.
“You’re too late! We’re already filled up,” he said. “Besides, there are many qualified students here who need to get in; we don’t even have space for them.”
“I’ve come all the way from Chisamba Singles to speak to you,” I countered. “Please give me a chance.”
That quieted him.
“I have an uncle that lives near there,” he said. “That’s a tough place.”
I saw that he was impressed and I just kept building up on that—I told him that I had been kicked out of school time and time again for lack of fees, and still managed to graduate number one in my class.
“Okay, let’s look at your grades,” he said.
As I handed him the envelope, I said, “I got the highest grade in my school—and in all of Mutare, too.”
“How did you do this from Sakubva?” he asked.
“Hard work and study, sir,” I explained.
“What does your father do?” he asked.
I think he expected me to say “teacher,” so when I said that my father lost his factory job after sixteen years of dedicated work, Mr. Muzawazi was even more surprised. I explained that my parents didn’t even finish their O-levels, and that they were barely literate. And I added what I knew was the urgent truth: that I was their only hope. As I spoke, I felt a big ball of emotion forming in my chest.
“Sir,” I said finally, “this is my only chance. If you don’t allow me this opportunity, I’ll die a poor man.”
“And if you do come here, what next?” he asked, his tone softening.
“I want to go to university,” I explained. “I have young siblings. We’re sharing one room; there’s barely enough space for us to sleep, let alone for me to study.”
“Okay,” he said. “Get me a deposit by tomorrow at five PM and I will find room for you.”
“How much?” I asked.
“One thousand Zimbabwe dollars will secure you a spot,” he said. “The rest will be payable by the middle of March.”
The deposit alone was four months’ rent, impossible to access in twenty-four hours. We didn’t even have that in our savings, which was already earmarked for living expenses. I thought of asking Caitlin, but she was too far to get the money so quickly. Then I thought of Alois. He worked in a bank. He may be willing to help—and was my only chance.
“I can do that,” I said, reaching out my hand to shake on it.
“Then you will be a student here,” he said.
He knew he was asking me to do the impossible, but he also believed in me.
I thanked the headmaster and ran out of his office. It was eleven AM, and I was in the middle of nowhere. There was a lot to accomplish in thirty hours. I quickly caught a ride to Nyanga and hopped a bus back to Mutare. When I arrived home, I told my parents everything and then went to call Alois from the post office. I tried him at home first. No answer. Then I tried his cell. No answer. I tried him at home again, and was thrilled when I heard, “Hallo?”
“Alois, it’s Martin,” I said—and then breathlessly recounted the entire situation, from getting the highest O-level scores to the headmaster’s offer. “I promise to repay you, cousin.”
“Let me see what I can do,” he said.
“They need it by tomorrow,” I explained. “School starts the following day.”
“What else do you need?” he asked. The headmaster gave me a list of supplies required to attend Marist Brothers, which included the uniform and a specific trunk, all of which I needed by Tuesday.
After I rattled off everything on my list, I heard Alois speak to Sekai.
“You are in luck,” his voice boomed through the receiver. “Sekai can come to Mutare tomorrow morning to help gather all these things.”
“Fantastic!” I shouted.
Sekai and Alois understood how important this was.
The next morning, Sekai stepped off the bus looking as beautiful and vibrant as I remembered her.
“We have a lot to do, cousin,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Sekai was paying for everything—so I had already crossed off unnecessary items, like the tracksuit, the extra shirt, and the lace-up shoes. I had to get the black metallic trunk, to store my personal belongings. Everyone had one, including Rabbit. Back home, I filled it with a few clothes from Caitlin, notebooks, and a blanket my mother had secured for me.
“I traded this for work,” she said. My mom had picked up a part-time job working as a maid for a wealthy family. I didn’t know how many hours it would take her to pay off such a lovely thing, but it became my most prized possession, my connection to her. I packed my Walkman, a few cassette tapes, and a dozen or more of Caitlin’s photos.
After dinner, I walked Sekai to the station to say good-bye.
“Alois is very proud of you, Martin,” she said right before she boarded the bus. “He’ll do his best to get the deposit in time.”
I clasped both my hands around hers and bowed my head into our interwoven fingers.
“I don’t know how I can repay such kindness,” I said. “But I promise you, I will.”
Sekai smiled and said, “Focus on your studies, Martin—that’s all we want in return.”
I barely slept that night. After the first rooster crow, I jumped up. My new uniform was draped over my trunk. Slipping into the long pants and proper shirt and jacket that morning made me realize that my life was truly about to change. I felt ready.
My trunk was too heavy to carry to the bus station, so my family accompanied me to the main road, where I hailed a small tut tut taxi. I hugged my younger brothers and sister good-bye. Before I got in the vehicle, my mother placed both hands on my shoulders and stood on her toes to look in my eyes.
“Work hard,” she said. “Don’t do crazy stuff there.”
My father put his arm around me and said, “You’ll do just fine. You have made us so proud.”
“I will miss you, brother.” Nation was the last to say good-bye.
“And I you,” I replied. “All of you.”
As the taxi took off, I realized I wouldn’t see any of them again for months. I felt sad as I watched my family, still waving, disappear. Then I realized, I’m doing this for myself, and for them. I was starting a new chapter.
In Nyanga, a van collected me and a few other students. I quickly found Rabbit, who had saved a bed for me, next to his.
“I knew you’d be back,” he said.
This meant we shared a cabinet, too. His side had several photos pinned to it. One of his family visiting on parents’ day, another of his girlfriend back home. I started unpacking and took out the photo of Caitlin wearing her sun hat.
“Wow,” Rabbit said. “Who’s that?”
I pulled out all the other photos and started telling Rabbit about Caitlin.
“So she’s your girlfriend?” Rabbit asked.
“She’s my best friend,” I countered.
By then, a small crowd had gathered around to look at the pictures of Caitlin, her family, dogs, house, and her new car.
“She looks like a movie star!” Bonaventure said. His bed was on the other side of mine.
“Is that how you got those Nikes?” asked Gregory, another dorm mate.
The questions kept coming rapid fire. Finally, I put up my hands and said, “Okay guys, enough! I have to unpack!”
When I was done, I adhered all of Caitlin’s photos to my locker with tape borrowed from Rabbit. From then on, I was no longer known as the bean eater, or the kid from Sakubva, but as the new guy with the gorgeous American girlfriend. I didn’t argue. They would never understand our bond. Besides, it raised my cache on campus.