December 2002

Martin

WE SAT FOR FINAL EXAMS that November in Nyanga and had to wait until January for the results. We would all be back home by then. There was no graduation at Marist Brothers. Instead, Mr. Muzawazi hosted a final party in early December.

Most of my friends were headed to Harare for University that January. A few were going to England, and one guy was going to Canada. Two others had applied for early admission to American colleges, and had been accepted. I was the only one without a definite plan.

While my friends all had their places secured, they also had opinions for where I should go.

“Harvard is the place,” Bonaventure said.

“I hear Princeton is even better,” Cornelius countered.

They were both planning to study medicine at the University of Zimbabwe. At the party, they weighed all the pros and cons of my options—Brown, UPenn, Stanford, Villanova.

“Guys,” I said, interrupting their fun, “I’d be happy at any of these places. I just need one to say yes to a full scholarship.”

Both friends fell silent. They understood how high the stakes were. I had not applied anywhere else. If none of the US colleges worked out, I’d have to rethink everything.

Before I left Nyanga for good, I went to Harare to take the SATs. My American mother had arranged everything—she paid up front for the exam and then wired me money to the local bank in Nyanga so I had enough for the bus ticket and pocket money. I stayed with Alois and Sekai the night before the exam. I hadn’t seen them since they helped me get in to Marist.

I arrived at the test site forty-five minutes early. I had been awake all night, whether it was from nerves or excitement, I didn’t know. But I knew taking this important test on no sleep could be a problem. I watched nervously as two dozen or more students entered the room. All of them came from wealthy families—I could tell by their shoes.

The test was more difficult than I had anticipated. I had never taken an exam like that and worried I did not do well. The verbal section was very challenging. I struggled through it. But then I shook that thought from my head. There was no time to doubt.

I took the bus back to Nyanga to gather my things, and then continued on to Mutare the next day. Before I left that majestic campus, I popped in to see Mr. Muzawazi for the last time as a Marist Brothers student.

I was among the last students to leave, so the campus was void of the usual hum of student life. I knocked on his door and heard the thumps echo through the great hall I had first walked two years earlier.

“Enter!” Mr. Muzawazi’s voice boomed from the other side.

I opened the door and saw him sitting behind his desk. Finally, instead of having to convince him of anything, I simply wanted to thank him.

“Sir, if it weren’t for you, I’d be stuck in Chisamba Singles,” I explained.

“Martin,” he interrupted me. “You don’t get stuck.”

“I try not to, sir,” I said.

“But you do succeed,” he replied. “I wish you continued success, wherever you land.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, bowing as I backed out of his office.

“And don’t forget to keep in touch!” his voice bellowed down the hallway after me.

Back home, I made daily trips to the only Internet cafe in Mutare to keep up my correspondence with Anne and Caitlin. Now with my A-levels and SATs behind me, I could concentrate on college admissions 100 percent.