I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives Read online

  “Mine too,” Lauren said. “Or maybe I didn’t write back? I can’t remember because that was like forever ago.”

  “He must really like you if he sent you jewelry,” Alison said.

  “Caitlin insists that they are just friends,” Lauren said. “But I think she’s really in love with him.”

  I laughed at first, but really, I was annoyed. Lauren knew we were close in a different way. She actually sounded a little jealous, which pissed me off. I wanted to share my news with someone who would understand how special my relationship with Martin was.

  Mrs. Miller was sitting at her desk correcting papers when I knocked on her door.

  “Caitlin!” she said. “What a nice surprise!”

  “I just wanted to show you what my pen pal sent me,” I said.

  “You’re still in touch?” she said, clearly impressed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s sent me eight or nine letters. Oh, and these.”

  I slipped off one of my earrings and laid it on her desk.

  “He bought them for me at a traditional shop,” I explained.

  “How remarkable,” she said.

  I knew that—and wished Lauren would see it as well. But that might be hopeless—we’d been fighting again. She never had time to hang out now that she was on the varsity basketball team. And I was getting to be closer friends with Halle, who Lauren thought was lame.

  My favorite thing about Martin was that there was no drama. I could be entirely myself with him, and I felt he was doing the same with me. I looked forward to receiving Martin’s letters more than going roller skating on Friday nights or to the mall on the weekends. He was introducing me to a whole other world, one I had never imagined before we started writing to each other. These earrings were a physical connection to him, and to that world.

  I was excited to send him my next package with Richie’s shirt, so I could do the same.

  October 2, 1998

  Dear Martin,

  Hello! How are you? It was so nice to hear from you. Thank you so much for the lovely earrings that you sent! I wear them all the time and all my friends love them, too.

  I’m very glad you liked the shirt I sent! You will find a shirt in this package, too. My brother suggested that I send it to you. He likes Nike, too! I will also look for a Fila shirt for you. I’m glad that you like the clothes we have in the US.

  I also included a postcard I bought him in Canada, and several mechanical pencils I bought at Staples. They were my latest obsession and I thought he’d like them, too.

  I paused before finishing my letter. I’d been thinking about Martin in a new way ever since the embassy bombings. I could not wrap my head around why anyone would want to harm innocent people, or understand how hatred could fuel such violence. Frankly, I didn’t want to understand it. It made me see how truly special my relationship with Martin was. I continued: As US citizens, we are always mindful of the effects of terrorism. The two attacks on US embassies in Africa were terrible. The radicals who cause this destruction of lives are so nasty and cruel. We hope it stops! Everyone must strive to get along—have an international friendship, like us!

  I also told him about our vacation, and explained all the photos I was enclosing, including the one Mom took of me in the hat, as well as one with me and Romey, and those of our house and cars: In the driveway on the right you will see my mom’s Jeep. My dad drives a 1997 Nissan Maxima and my brother drives a 1987 Nissan Maxima. Richie took his car to university, so we have more room in our driveway now!

  I ended with: Thank you again for the lovely earrings. I will always think of you when I wear them. At the bottom of the page, I added: BF4E-Best Friend Forever.

  October 1998

  Martin

  I DID NOT KNOW ANYONE—besides the human resources manager at my father’s work—who had one car, let alone three. That was not the only astonishing thing: Caitlin’s house was as big as a castle, and in one photo, she was wearing jewelry on her teeth. I had never seen anything like that before. It was fascinating.

  I brought the stack of photos to school to show my friends. I knew they would not believe me if I said she lived in a castle and had three cars and mouth jewelry. I needed proof.

  At break that morning, Joe, Paul, and Raymond sat with me beneath the baobab tree outside our school.

  “This is her house,” I said, taking out one photo at a time.

  “Impossible!” Joe laughed. “It looks like the one our president lives in!”

  “It’s huge,” Paul agreed.

  “You could fit five families in there, at least,” Raymond chimed in.

  Raymond also lived in Chisamba Singles. Paul and Joe lived in a township nearby that was a bit nicer, but nothing like this.

  Then I showed them the photo of her parents on the houseboat.

  “This is the floating house they stayed on this summer,” I said with mock authority. “In Canada, people live on boats.”

  My friends shook their heads in disbelief.

  “How is it possible?” Raymond asked.

  I did not know the answer, and so quickly pulled out the next photo from the stack. It was Caitlin, wearing her mouth jewelry.

  “This is very popular in America,” I explained. “Caitlin is going to send me a set so I can show you all how to wear it.”

  “Wow,” Paul exclaimed. “She looks like a princess.”

  “You should marry her, Martin,” Raymond said. “Then you could be a prince.”

  We all laughed at that idea—and I held back what I was thinking, that my love for Caitlin was far deeper than that.

  The next photo was of Caitlin in bed, with her dog Romey.

  “In America, dogs are treated like family members,” I said.

  This photo actually shocked me. Zimbabwean dogs were scrawny and slept outside. They ate only if there were leftover scraps, which was never the case in my house. My friends were amazed, too.

  “What happens if the dog poops?” Raymond asked.

  We all burst out laughing. It was a good question—and I had no idea what the answer was.

  That afternoon, I gave my mother the stack of photos to store with the rest of Caitlin’s letters. As I peered into the box, I saw how many pictures she had sent. There were over a dozen. It bothered me that I had only sent her one picture. Worse, she had asked again for another photo of me. Caitlin had been so generous. I had to reciprocate.

  This meant we had to hire a photographer to come to our house, take the photo, develop it, and bring it back later. That was expensive. Still, I asked my father to consider it—he knew how important this was to me, so he promised he would do his best to find the money for a photographer. Before I put all the photos away in what had now become Caitlin’s box, I selected the photo of her wearing the big straw hat. I had already started calling her “queen” and in that photo, she really looked like one. I pinned that one to our wall, next to the first one she sent.

  To buy some time, I decided to send Caitlin an African bangle I bought at the market, which I imagined was the closest thing we had to the American malls that Caitlin seemed to visit every weekend with her friends. The Sakubva Market was five kilometers from my house and called “Musika We Huku,” or “the market where chickens are sold.” My mother bought our food and other life necessities there. It was adjacent to the central bus station, where I had started working every weekend carrying luggage for tips in order to make pocket money to keep up my correspondence with Caitlin.

  The bus station was chaotic, but I loved wandering through the market. It was the size of three football fields and filled with vendors selling all kinds of things, like fruit, vegetables, and peanuts. You could also buy beef and live chickens there, as well as roasted mice, a popular snack in Zimbabwe. We used to hunt them in the fields around Chisamba Singles when I was younger. It was hard work to catch a small mouse.

  People also sold fake sunglasses called Prada or Gucci. One guy hand-painted T-shirts with popular logos, like
Puma and Nike with the swish. One said Reebock. I now knew that spelling was incorrect, thanks to Caitlin. Whenever I was wearing my shirt, I avoided going by his stand. I did not want to be bad for business.

  I spotted the bracelet one weekend. It was made from wood, and had a small cheetah print pattern burnt into it. It was lovely, and reasonably priced, so I bought it hoping it would keep her happy until I could find a way to get my photo taken.

  5 November 1998

  Dear Caitlin,

  Hello! How are you? It was so nice to hear from you. Thank you very much for the Nike shirt. I love it. Now I have two of the competitive modern fashions—Nike and Reebok. Thank you. My parents also thank you for the present.

  The pictures are brilliant. I was glad to know your lovely family, nice big house, and beautiful vehicles. Caitlin, I have to tell you what I feel: You are becoming more and more beautiful and lovely! Keep it up!

  I have enclosed an African bangle. You wear it on the wrist. I hope you will like it. In my next letter, I am going to give you something bigger and more beautiful.

  At our school we wear uniforms so our parents do not bother buying us as many clothes as you have. You are lucky.

  Did you hear the new hit from the Spice Girls? “Viva Forever”? I love it! Do you?

  We are in summer and it’s very hot. We even sweat at night. Are you also in summer? Caitlin, thank you again for the nice shirt, best pencils, lovely pictures, and the nice postcard. Thank you!

  Lots of love,

  Martin Ganda

  BF4E

  A few weeks later, my father arrived home in a jovial mood.

  “Martin!” His deep baritone funneled through our doorway.

  I was inside, studying for my Form Two finals that would take place that December. That January I would begin Form Three, which meant I had two more years before I could go on for my A-levels, the last two years before university. My goal was to stay number one in my class, so I would be eligible for a scholarship at the University of Zimbabwe. That meant doing well in all my subjects: math, Pure Science, history, geography, and English were easy. I didn’t worry about accounting—I had a 100 average in that class. Shona and woodworking were the problem. Both were also required classes and my least favorite. That evening, I was working on Shona verb conjugations when my father arrived with news.

  “What is it, Baba?” I asked, ducking out from our house into the courtyard.

  “A photographer will come this weekend,” he said. “It’s all arranged.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  “A friend offered to help,” he explained.

  I felt as if I had swallowed several frogs—they were hopping in my stomach. I was so happy, I started jumping, too. I could finally give Caitlin something she had asked for after everything she had given me.

  The day my photo was taken, I wanted to look my best. I asked my father if I could wear his button-down shirt and his only jacket even though both were too big on me. He agreed and then also pulled out a tie. I’d never seen him wear it before—it was beige with a brown swirled pattern. Wearing my father’s clothes made me feel powerful and strong. We paid the photographer for two photos because you had to pay for the picture even if it came out badly. So if he chopped off your head, you still had to buy it. We took two, hoping at least one would come out okay. One was blurry, but thankfully, the other was fine.

  PART 2

  Clues

  December 1998

  Caitlin

  I WAS SURPRISED TO GET such a formal photo from Martin. All the pictures I had sent him of me with my friends were goofy by comparison. In his, Martin was wearing a suit that looked too big for him, and was staring straight into the camera, looking quite serious. Still, I could see the sparkle in his eye and the hint of a smile on his lips. I immediately put the new photo under the piece of glass on my desk, next to the first one he sent. Looking at them side by side, I realized that we were growing up together, so far apart.

  It was strange, because even though we had never met, Martin was the only person I felt I could be totally honest with. I never worried that he would judge or tease. On the contrary, I could tell Martin whatever was happening in my life, knowing he’d always take my side, no matter what. Even over the silliest stuff! Like the time I saw Lauren hanging out with some older kids at the mall. I ran up to her and said “Hey!” and she literally turned her back to me and continued her conversation as if I wasn’t there. I can still hear her say, “As I was saying…” while I just stood there growing hot from humiliation. That was in the middle of eighth grade. I described the entire incident to Martin, who responded in his very next letter, That’s so rude!

  Another time, I got into a really big fight with Lauren over a Janet Jackson CD. We were dancing in her basement with a bunch of our girlfriends and somehow the CD got ruined. Lauren blamed me. I was so upset! I then thought, I have to tell Martin, and immediately felt better. He knew all about Lauren. I told him the whole story, ending with She’s so mean! And Martin responded as if he totally understood, like he didn’t know anything different—as if he was just like me. By then, he really was my true best friend.

  In hindsight, I’m almost ashamed of how ridiculous my teen dramas were. I had no idea what Martin was going through because he never let on. Instead, he responded to my silly stories and never said much about his own life. Not even when I asked him. But there were clues hidden in these upbeat, cheerful notes. Like the one he wrote me in November of that year. In addition to asking me if I had heard the new Spice Girls hit “Viva Forever” he also wrote: At our school we wear uniforms so our parents do not bother buying us as many clothes as you have. You are lucky.

  I think he was actually trying to protect me from knowing how incredibly hard his life was.

  January 1999

  Martin

  TOWARD THE END OF 1998, things really began to disintegrate for my family. I was just about to finish Form Two, the equivalent of eighth grade in America. Nation and I began working after school as well as weekends in order to help feed our family. My father’s paycheck was never enough. It was rough. Worse, I could see how it affected my father. He was no longer singing when he came home, if he came home at all. Some nights, he’d creep in late, well after we had all gone to sleep. I’d wake up, not from any noise but from the sweet, rancid smell of Chibuku.

  “How can you drink when there is no food for your children?” my mother would hiss at him the next morning. My father moaned through his hangover, but still got dressed and went to work. It was almost pointless by then. His paycheck barely covered our rent. My mother had begun working in neighbors’ gardens and doing pickup work as a maid in town in exchange for mealie meal.

  At the end of the semester, I had to take an important exam, which cost one Zimbabwean dollar. My friend Nyasha came to pick me up the morning of the test. He had just moved to Chisamba Singles a few months before and we became fast friends. He was smart and funny. We liked to study together.

  The morning of the test, I asked my dad for the dollar. He turned to my mom and said, “Give Martin the money.”

  She was irate. “Are you crazy?” she shouted. “I don’t have any money!”

  Nyasha was waiting right outside. He could hear everything. I was crushed. Then I heard Raymond and Paul arrive as well.

  “Martin, we’re going to be late,” Raymond shouted.

  I stepped outside as my parents continued arguing inside.

  My mind was reeling. If I didn’t take this test, I couldn’t move to the next grade.

  “I can’t go,” I said. “I don’t have the fee.”

  “You have to go,” Paul said. “You’re the best in class.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, and felt a warm sensation rise from my belly and get stuck in my throat. I did not want to cry in front of my friends.

  “I have an extra dollar,” Nyasha said. “My father gave it to me for good luck.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed me the
coin.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I’m totally sure,” he said. “Just don’t score higher than me!”

  I did not bother telling my parents I had found the money. I just left. My friends came from poor families, too, but they all had their dollars. Their parents knew it was important.

  The scores came back a few weeks later and I once again received the highest grade in our school. I couldn’t wait to tell Caitlin my news—but how? Postage to America now cost fourteen Zim dollars—two weekends’ worth of tips. And my father could not afford one dollar for a test.

  Around this same time, my parents learned that my younger brother Simba had started to beat up other kids to give him money or to bring extra food for him to school. He was only seven years old, but that’s how he dealt with his hunger: He was a bully. One day, all of the parents came to school for a meeting. Many asked, “Who is this Simba Ganda?” That was because their kids would go home and complain about him. One girl begged her mom for two cookies every day. Her mother wanted to know why and eventually she told the truth: She needed one for her and one for Simba.

  My parents were so upset—it was shameful not to be able to feed your kids. Plus, they did not expect Simba to go that far. We were getting sadza for breakfast, but it wasn’t enough. And now the whole school knew, which was humiliating for my parents. Simba got a beating at home, which was rare. And then the teachers told my parents they had to feed him more, so my mom started giving him extra sadza every morning from the night before. But the problem was, other kids would have a piece of chicken or a muffin or peas—really sexy stuff. And Simba had sadza. So while he was no longer hungry, he still wasn’t happy.

  I didn’t mind the hunger as long as I could stay in school. In the past, if my father didn’t have enough money to cover the fees, he’d borrow from neighbors or people at work and pay them back. He often used our boom box as collateral. We kept it on the same shelf with Caitlin’s letters and used it to listen to music on holidays and weekends. I learned my father used it to get the money for the photographer when the man he borrowed it from came to collect his debt the day before Christmas. Since my father could not repay him, he took our stereo. That was a very sad day at our house. That boom box was a lifeline to a world beyond Chisamba Singles. It was also my connection to Caitlin. When we played the radio, I’d hear songs that Caitlin wrote about in her letters. I felt like we were listening to them together. As the country became more troubled, my father stopped listening to music, and singing. He was slowly just giving up.