June 2002

Martin

I WAS SURPRISED TO RECEIVE a letter from Caitlin’s mom. In it, she offered to help me navigate the complicated American college admission process. I was so happy to hear this. It was further proof that Caitlin was not the only angel in this family.

Anne asked me if I had ever heard of the SATs. I had, in fact, because my good friend Wallace had taken them earlier that year. He, too, was planning to go to school in the States that September.

Wallace lived in the dorm next to me but was always in my room because he was close friends with my roommates Bonaventure and Cornelius. We called Wallace “Lobe,” short for Lobengula, the Ndebele warrior who fought the white colonialists when they invaded in the eighteen hundreds. Wallace was very buff. He worked out all the time, lifting weights. But he was also very calm, quiet, and reserved. He never said much unless you asked him direct questions, which was why I didn’t learn sooner that he was going to the US to study. When I did find out, I started grilling him. That’s how I found out his brother was already attending college in Canada, and that his parents owned a bed-and-breakfast in Victoria Falls, where he grew up. Despite his family’s wealth, Wallace was humble, not showy like so many of our other classmates. I asked him one day why that was so, and he explained that his father was the first in his family to go to university, and that many of his relatives lived in the rural areas and were even worse off than my own parents. He understood poverty, even though he had not experienced it firsthand. He never judged me for mine. Instead, he inspired me to be the first to escape it in my family, like his father had.

When I received Anne’s letter, I asked Wallace where I could take these SATs.

“You sign up for them through the Internet,” he explained.

This was yet another reason I needed access to a computer. Anne had already mentioned that all of the information I needed for college was online, and she had recently asked if there was any way I could communicate with her via e-mail to save time, as it took a month for letters to get back and forth. There was an Internet cafe in Mutare, but I wouldn’t be able to use that until I went home for break. I was getting frustrated, but then Wallace told me that Mr. Muzawazi had a computer—and online access—in his office.

I made an appointment to meet with Mr. Muzawazi, who was pleased to hear I was pursuing university in the States.

“Terrific news, Martin,” he said.

“That is why I’m here,” I explained. “I’m having trouble finding all the necessary information. I need access to the Internet.”

“I see,” he said.

“And so I was wondering if I could borrow your computer from time to time,” I said. This was a lot to ask. I had to offer a compelling reason.

“I’d only use it after hours to correspond with my pen pal and her mother as they are helping me gather material,” I explained.

“Other students have managed to get into universities abroad without a computer, Martin,” Mr. Muzwazi responded. This was going to be a hard bargain.

“Yes, I understand, sir, but those students come from wealthy families,” I said. “I will only be able to do it if I find an international scholarship.”

Mr. Muzawazi remained silent.

“Caitlin’s mother said she’d help me, but she needs to be able to get information quickly,” I explained.

“Okay,” Mr. Muzawazi said.

“Plus, I must register for SATs online,” I explained. “Wallace told me this is the only way.”

“I’ll talk with my secretary,” he said finally. “And we’ll arrange to get you a key. You may use my office after hours.”

“Fantastic,” I said. I held back from hugging Mr. Muzawazi. He was not a touchy-feely guy, but after five years of waiting for letters to cross the Atlantic Ocean, this meant immediate access to Caitlin and her family.

“You can start this evening, after dinner,” Mr. Muzawazi said. “But do not let word out. No one else is to use my office computer. This is our deal, okay?”

“Absolutely, sir,” I said. “You have my word.”

“And you have mine,” Mr. Muzawazi said.

I left his office elated.

Later that evening, I returned to Mr. Muzawazi’s office. The key was left for me with a note from his secretary explaining how to open the door, and how to turn on the computer.

I had only used a computer twice before in my lifetime, to type letters. Both times, the machine was already turned on. I walked up to the large beige box on Mr. Muzawazi’s desk. Wires sprouted out its back side. That’s where I found the power switch and watched in amazement as the screen buzzed to life. A row of numbers and letters appeared at the top corner, as if the machine was speaking its own language. Then a box appeared asking for a passcode. I typed in the secret word the secretary had supplied for me, written in neat capital letters on the school stationery. Next, I followed her specific instructions for getting online and accessing the school’s only e-mail account.

Anne had sent me her e-mail address, and Caitlin’s as well. I decided to send each one a message as an experiment. I had never sent an e-mail before, and the concept that they would receive it moments after I hit SEND was something I couldn’t begin to grasp.

Hi Caitlin! I typed into the green screen. It’s me! Martin! My headmaster has allowed me to use his personal computer. Isn’t that exciting? Please respond to this address so I know you received this. Your forever friend, Martin.

I hit the SEND button and the message disappeared with a whooshing sound. I worried that it may have done just that—disappeared. I sent Anne the same e-mail. And then I started to research SATs in Harare. I finally found the website and learned that I needed a credit card in order to register. I didn’t have one nor know anyone who did. I made a note of it. Anne would know what to do. Then I started to look up other requirements for African students to go to the United States for school. Two hours later, I had two pages of notes and a heart brimming with hope.