August 2002

Martin

I SAID GOOD-BYE TO WALLACE right before our school break that August. Our school year doesn’t end until December, but he’d been accepted to an American university and was leaving school early.

“You must reach out to my friend Caitlin,” I said, handing him a slip of paper with her e-mail address, and her mother’s as well. “They’re good people. Do not hesitate to get in touch.”

“I promise I will,” Wallace said. He was packing his trunk up with all of his things. His uniform lay on top of his weekend clothes, books, and bed linens, likely never to be worn again.

“And don’t forget to write me as well,” I said. “I’ll come looking for you next year.”

“I know you will,” Wallace said. “I will do anything to help.”

First I had to get a scholarship. Wallace’s parents were resourceful, so they had figured out a way to pay his tuition for him. I had to find another way.

I returned to Chisamba Singles for August break more determined than ever. People often asked if I was jealous that Wallace might meet Caitlin before I did. On the contrary, the idea filled me with joy. It was another step toward my finally meeting her.

As was collecting my passport. I had received a letter at Nyanga that said it was ready for pickup in Mutare. I went to get it my first day home. I had heard from friends at Nyanga that it was near impossible for most Zimbabweans to get passports. The international sanctions made the economic situation even worse; people who could afford to were fleeing the country. But Mr. Muzawazi said he’d make a call. The father of a Marist Brother student ran the passport office in Mutare, he told me.

That morning, I woke up early and went to the market with Nation. He was still selling clothes from Mozambique with three other friends. They traveled to the border, less than thirty minutes away, to buy bales of used clothing, which they then separated into piles: Nation sold shoes, his friend Cliff took the T-shirts, another guy would hawk jackets, and the fourth gathered up whatever was left. The used clothes market is huge in Zimbabwe. When Americans donate their old clothes to Africa, they often wind up being sold in markets. Nothing in Africa is free. It was not Nation’s favorite job, but since things did not work out with his soccer career, it was better than nothing.

I helped him carry two big bags of shoes to the market. There, he laid down a tarp and placed the shoes side by side, like soldiers: worn-out pink Skechers, tattered blue Nikes, once-white tennis shoes, work boots missing laces. All of them had seen happier days, but for poor Zimbabweans, they were better than bare feet. As my brother began bargaining with an older man who wanted the boots, I scanned the market and was struck by how much bigger it seemed from the last time I had worked there a year earlier. More and more people were out, selling, hustling, bargaining, and trading. I saw so many familiar faces—neighbors as well as kids from my old school now scrapping with one another to carry luggage or pour tea. I spotted my friend Peter, still selling cold drinks.

“Martin!” he shouted as I waved to him. “Where have you been?”

I told him about Nyanga, and how I was hoping to go to university in the United States.

“I’m headed to the passport office right now, friend,” I said.

“You’re on your way to great places,” he said.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I said, offering him my fist, which he tapped with his.

The passport office opened at nine o’clock and I expected a long line, so I took an 8:05 AM bus. Shockingly, I was the only one there. I entered the squat cement building that looked more like a bunker than an official government office.

“I am here to collect my passport,” I told the receptionist.

“Right this way,” she said.

I followed her into another room, where a man in a navy suit asked me for my birth certificate and the letter that stated my passport was ready for pickup. I produced both, and he handed me my passport within five minutes. I stood there, holding this small green book, waiting for more instructions.

“Is there anything else, sir?” I asked.

“No, that is all,” he said.

Clearly, Mr. Muzawazi’s assistance had worked.

My travel documents were in order, my family was doing okay—thanks to Caitlin and her family—and I even had a friend going to the US, leading the way for me. The only worry I had was that I had been doing quite a lot of thinking about pursuing medicine. The images of those people waiting on line at the hospital haunted me and often kept me awake at night. I wanted to help my fellow countrymen but had grown concerned that I did not have the stomach for it. I loved numbers, and was good at them. And so I decided to pursue actuarial science. I wanted Caitlin to know this immediately, as she was putting great effort into finding me scholarships at medical schools. I knew she’d understand. She had recently written me about changing her career focus to nursing. That gave me the courage to shift my own course.

As I walked toward the exit, I flipped through the many blank pages in this pocket-sized book waiting to be filled. I couldn’t wait to get home and write to Caitlin.