July 2001

Martin

AS MUCH AS I LOVED going to Marist Brothers, I missed my family. Nation would write every so often to keep me posted on things. Thanks to Caitlin and her family, money wasn’t an issue. Knowing my family wasn’t going hungry or homeless allowed me to study worry free.

Still, I couldn’t wait for the semester break, which started in late July. I was so eager to see everyone, and was all the more disappointed to learn that my mother was not well. She got out of bed to greet me, but then had to lie down immediately afterward. Nation had mentioned that she was ill in a letter I received a few weeks earlier at school. I was surprised that she had not recovered. Everyone assumed that it was a bad flu or cold. But the following day, she did not even get up to make breakfast. Nation said she had been sleeping a lot lately. He was concerned. After she spent two consecutive days in bed, I was, too.

Malaria and cholera were rampant in Zimbabwe. Both are potentially fatal. I wanted to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. This was no easy task. The closest clinic was only five kilometers away, but due to a fuel shortage, there were no taxis on the road. I was lucky to get a bus back to Mutare, as gasoline prices had skyrocketed, costing Z$110 per liter. Even if we had money to spend on a taxi, we couldn’t find one. Instead we borrowed our neighbor’s wheelbarrow, which I lined with a blanket for padding. Nation and I gently placed her on top of it, taking extra care not to startle her, as she winced at the slightest jostle. Everything hurt. She was thinner than usual, and delirious with a fever that drenched her with sweat. We covered her with another blanket and took turns pushing.

“We must move quickly,” I said as my mother moaned in her sleep. If she had cerebral malaria—and it entered the brain—it meant permanent damage.

The rainy season had turned the roads to mud, which made pushing the wheelbarrow that much more difficult. I was thankful we had Caitlin’s boots and rain slickers. While one of us pushed, the other held our new umbrella over our mother.

After two hours of pushing, I was relieved to finally see the hospital in the distance. We neared the entrance and I saw that there was a line of at least fifty people waiting to be seen. We joined the end and I ran ahead to see if there was any chance of bumping my mother to the front. As I walked toward the admitting door, I passed many people who looked worse off than my mother. One woman was limp, almost lifeless, in her husband’s arms. An older man was covered in open sores that wept clear liquid like tears. I returned to our spot and told Nation we had to wait like everyone else.

My mom was so weak that she barely knew where we were or how we got there. She looked so small, almost childlike, curled in the cart. Her breath was so shallow that I placed my hand on her throat several times to make sure life was still pulsing through her veins. It was so faint, I worried that she might die, right there, as we waited. If that happened, what would we do? My mother may have been strict, and tough on all of us, but she was the spine of our family. We walked upright because of her. Caitlin was the reason I could go to school; my mother was the reason I wanted to. She had to survive. Life without her was too terrible to imagine.

Hours later, a nurse confirmed it was malaria—thankfully, not cerebral. She needed IV fluids immediately. She was so dehydrated that she was at risk of dying without them. But the hospital couldn’t afford to supply any medicine. Instead, the nurse told us what we needed, and then we had to secure it.

“There is a man outside wearing a blue shirt,” she said. “He sells IVs.”

She told us to look for another guy in a red bomber jacket, who had the pills my mother also needed. Both were selling drugs like people sell fruit or wood carvings at the market: out in the open, negotiating prices, haggling. If you didn’t have the money, or something worthy of trading, you were screwed. I had heard that people died all the time because of this. Now I saw how it was possible. Nation and I both knew how lucky we were to have enough money to get my mother what she needed, but we did not mention it. Nor did we speak the more terrifying truth: Without Caitlin’s help, my mother would have died that day.

As soon as the nurse gave my mother the IV and pills, she perked up. It was like giving water to a droopy plant. When she sat up in bed for the first time that evening, I fought back tears. She was going to be okay, but needed to spend another two days in the hospital, to gain back strength. Nation and I returned home with the good news. My father let out a deep sigh. It filled our small hut and escaped out the door, taking so much tension with it, as if he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

I returned to the hospital the following day with food for my mother, since there was no meal service there, either. This time, Simba came with me. He needed to see for himself that she was going to be fine. Nation and I returned the following day with our neighbor’s wheelbarrow to bring her home.

My mother didn’t want to get back in it.

“I’m not an animal to be carted around,” she said.

“Of course not, Mother,” Nation said. “But it’s a long way home.”

Finally, we convinced her it was more dignified to ride in the wheelbarrow than on either son’s back, the only other option. She complained the entire way home. This made me happy. She was her old self. It meant she was going to be just fine.

With her safely back home, I could finally relax. That included seeing my friends and going to the post office, as I had heard there was another package for me. Caitlin hadn’t mentioned anything, so I was intrigued.

This box was filled with pencils, pens, crayons, glue, and erasers. Caitlin’s mom included a note that explained that her students had donated these things. Take whatever you and your family need and share the rest with your friends and neighbors, she wrote.

What a joyous task, I thought.

Caitlin also sent another two pairs of sneakers. The Filas fit me perfectly, so I gave Nation my beloved Nikes. Simba got the other pair, which meant now we all had proper shoes. Nation did a karate kick in his new shoes, and Simba copied him. I would have done one, too, but I was still unpacking: toothbrushes, shampoo, disposable razors, and a pair of cargo shorts that would impress my wealthiest friends at Nyanga. I couldn’t wait to show them off when I returned to school. The most fascinating gift was a container of bright orange powder called Tang. The instructions said to mix it with water. My father got a cup and Nation went to fetch water from our jug beneath the bed. Following the directions, I spooned two scoops into the cup, added water, and stirred. Lois put her nose to the cup and said, “It smells like Starburst!”

I handed her the cup to have the first sip.

“Tastes like it, too!” she said.

I tried it next, and agreed. “Like Fanta without the fizz,” I said, passing the cup to Simba. We each had a sip before giving it to our mother, who was still weak.

“Finish it, Mai,” I said. “The jar says it has vitamin C, which will make you strong.”