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

  It was early January 1999 when I heard my parents fighting again right outside the house. It was in the middle of the night and I was lying on the floor, beneath the thin blanket I shared with my brothers, pretending to sleep. Nation was on one side, Simba on the other, and though no one said a word, I knew they were both awake as well. I could feel the tension in their bodies, their hearts beating a bit more quickly than usual, but not as fast as mine. Baby George and Lois were fast asleep beneath my parents’ bed—I was glad that they were too young to understand what was happening.

  My father shouted, “I don’t have the money!” And my mom responded, just as angrily, “Find it!”

  School fees were due at the start of every semester—my Form Three began the following day. They argued until my dad stormed off into the night. I heard my mom enter the room. She stepped over us, her three eldest sons, and sat on her bed, which squeaked as she lay down. And then, in the darkness, I heard what sounded like a gasp. I had never heard my mom cry before—the sound punctured my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and stayed very still, trying to keep back my own tears. It was impossible. They started to leak from the corner of my eyes and I prayed silently that my brothers would not notice. If they did, they never said a word.

  The following morning, my father was still gone. I got up, built the fire, and ate the leftover sadza my mother had saved from the night before. And then I went to school, as if it were any other day. I walked into my classroom and took my seat at the desk in the front row with the others in my group. I didn’t chat with my friends, like I did most days. I quietly prayed that my teacher would overlook the fact my parents had not paid the fees. Instead, the headmaster arrived at the start of class and called out all the names of those students who had to leave. When he called my name, I felt a sharp stab in my throat.

  I wasn’t embarrassed—many names were called that morning. It was Z$550 per student, roughly twenty American dollars, a fortune for many. Still, most of those kids didn’t care about school—for me, it was painful to leave.

  As I gathered my things, my mind was racing: I had to get back to school as quickly as possible. I did not want to fall too far behind, as being the first in the class was my only way to go to university. Then another thought struck me: What would I tell Caitlin? And when would I be able to write her again?

  February 1999

  Caitlin

  A MONTH PASSED WITH NO letter from Martin. I assumed he was busy with school. Or maybe there was another postal strike? Then another month passed and I started to get worried. What if he was getting bored of me? Or had found another pen pal? Still, I kept writing, and checking the mailbox daily for a response. If there was no mail, I’d rush into the house, thinking, Maybe Mom grabbed it. She started shaking her head as soon as I entered, anticipating my broken-record request. Every day that passed without contact started to hurt my feelings. Had I offended him?

  And then, one day in late March, my mom looked very serious.

  “Oh honey,” she said. “I just hope Martin is okay.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” I asked, my throat tightening.

  She told me she had been watching the news, and that things in Zimbabwe were unstable. She mentioned that the economy was failing and food costs were skyrocketing. People were starving as a result.

  “Do you think Martin is…?” I stopped myself—too many terrible thoughts were filling my head.

  “He’s fine,” I said out loud, as if to assure myself. “He has to be.”

  My mom sat on the couch in the den and patted the cushion.

  “Let’s watch this together,” she said.

  It was a BBC News special report on Zimbabwe that my mom had taped. Suddenly, terrifying images flashed before my eyes. There were riots in the streets: Soldiers were clubbing people. Gunfire sparked and crackled, sirens blared. Small fires blazed as terrified people ran, leaving wounded or dead people behind them. It was chaos. The announcer mentioned international sanctions against Zimbabwe in response to the government’s aid to Congo rebels. It was all over my head. Then the most terrible thought struck me: What if Martin is dead? I fought back tears until I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran up the stairs to my room and flung myself on my bed.

  As I sobbed into my pillow, soaking it with tears and snot, I realized how ridiculous I was being. My friend was in serious trouble—he needed my help. There was no time to act like a desperate teenager. I was totally fine, but I had to make sure Martin was, too. And that meant finding him. I pulled myself together and went back downstairs to log onto AOL. I typed “Zimbabwe” into a search. Several articles popped up about severe inflation and how people were struggling to afford basic necessities like food. As I continued to read, I got more and more upset: There were riots in the street because people were literally starving. Poverty existed in the United States, but even most of the poorest people had access to food. Why had Martin never mentioned any of this?

  That night, I went into the den, where my parents were watching TV.

  “What’s wrong, Caitlin?” my dad asked. “You look upset.”

  “We need to help Martin,” I said.

  “Caitlin, we know he means a lot to you,” my mother started to say, but I cut her off.

  “Can people actually die from hunger?” I asked. My sadness had turned into pure panic.

  “What are you talking about?” my father asked.

  My mom told my dad about the BBC News report, and how we were concerned that Martin might be affected by the riots.

  I suddenly wondered if Martin never shared any of this news to protect me. He knew I would want to do something to help. But I was so far away—what could I do?

  The next day, I didn’t go to school. I told my mom I felt sick, and that was true. Those BBC images kept me awake all night. I had a stomachache and felt nauseated as a result. What if he had been shot? Or was hurt in the riots? What if either was the reason he had not written—or worse?

  That morning, I wrote yet another letter that said, I’m really worried about you. Please write me back if you get this. I hope you got my last letter. I hope you are receiving my letters. And I hope you are not mad with me.

  I didn’t mention the BBC News report, or that I had been researching Zimbabwe, or any of that. I wrote, I’m praying for you. I was so distraught that I wanted to buy a plane ticket and go find him. But I didn’t share this with my parents—I knew they wouldn’t let me go, or even understand why I would want to.

  April 1999

  Martin

  I WAS NOT THE ONLY student expelled from class that morning in January, but I felt the eyes of the students who stayed as I left, like wasp stings on my back. Nation was waiting for me outside.

  “Martin, it’s not so bad,” he said, throwing his arm around my neck. “More time to practice football.”

  It was a bright, sunny day, but I felt cold in my bones and a big emptiness in my stomach. Nation sensed this.

  “You will be back soon, brother,” he said.

  We walked home with a group of kids who had also been kicked out. Nation was laughing with them and dribbling the ball, which one of his friends had made out of plastic bags and string. No one else seemed too upset, but my mind was going a million miles a minute trying to figure out how I could get back to school as quickly as possible. Form Three was an important year—we had to start preparing for our O-level exams, which we took at the end of Form Four. They were your ticket to university—without those exams, you could not go anywhere or do anything. I was so worried about all those missing lessons and tests. How would I catch up?

  Nation was not planning to go to university. He was a really good soccer player and wanted to try to make a career of it. I knew school was my only chance of getting a better life. I felt like I was moving backward. I knew my father wanted me to go back to school, but as inflation skyrocketed, we had less money to go around. How could I help my family, plus save up for school? It all felt so overwhelming.

  An
d then there was Caitlin, who sent a letter every few weeks. I had no way to respond. She also kept asking for more photos. I realized she didn’t understand how impossible this was for me. It was my fault for not explaining it to her, but I didn’t want her to know of my struggles. They seemed too low for her. I liked that she thought I was a kid just like her.

  I also liked living vicariously through her letters. These days it seemed ridiculous, as the life she described was becoming more and more of a fantasy—trips to the mall, family vacations, and Friday night football games. She had all these exciting things to report. What could I write? Still, her letters kept me connected to this idea that things might improve. That there was a better life awaiting me.

  As we neared Chisamba Singles that morning, the empty feeling in my stomach grew. It wasn’t hunger for food, but for a better life. I had no idea how to get there. So when Peter, one of the other boys who had been kicked out as well, asked if I wanted to go to the market that same afternoon to work, I agreed. It was bad enough working weekends, but to be here on a school day felt wrong. I was competing with hundreds of people, each trying to make a buck. This type of pickup work automatically put you in the lowest class. I had no choice. If I couldn’t depend on my father, I’d have to make money myself.

  As Peter and I neared the market, I could smell the roasted peanuts and hear the rumble of the buses and shouts from people selling water, mangoes, and sadza as we crested a small hill. From the top, I could see the sprawl of people selling oranges, avocados, packets of nuts on brightly colored pieces of material or small cardboard tables made from overturned boxes. Others sold live chickens, so there were crates piled as tall as a grown man filled with rustling feathers and frantic clucks. The market was encircled with idling buses and long lines of people waiting to go to Harare or Bulawayo, or to other countries like Mozambique, Botswana, or South Africa. Local routes also ran every hour to Mutare’s city center, thirty minutes away. Those buses were always jam-packed with people.

  I knew from my weekend experience that the easiest way to make fast money was to carry luggage for passengers: If somebody had a heavy bag, you offered to take it to the bus. It was hard work—you had to climb on top of the bus using the open windows as footholds, and then pull the bag up with you to place on the roof rack. I was excited when a man offered me two bucks to carry his bags. After I lugged them through the market and heaved them up on the bus, he said, “Actually, I only have a dollar.” That happened a few times that day: You could either take the bags back to where you first started carrying them, or take the dollar. I figured that it was an extra dollar I didn’t have before. But I was still angry about it.

  After two more jobs like this, I was exhausted. There was no shelter, and the sun was blistering hot. The worst part of the job was jostling with other kids who were desperate like me. Together we formed a competitive gang. After my third run, I was also famished. I wanted to buy something to eat, but that would take all the money I had just earned. So I kept working all day and felt let down when I came home with only four Zim dollars.

  I gave the money to my mom, who shook her head. Every little bit helped, but we both knew I’d never go back to school at this rate. Still, I was determined. Every day that week, I went to the market with Peter to wash cars and carry luggage. By Friday I had earned twenty Zim dollars. Five hundred thirty to go.

  My father asked about my day, and could not look me in the eye when I reported my earnings. So I was surprised when he sat next to me at breakfast midway through my second week working and said, “Martin, go to school today. Tell them I’ll pay them next week.”

  I felt a throb in my temples and my throat. The thought of going back to school was exhilarating—but I also knew they wouldn’t take me without the full fee. Nevertheless, I felt a rush of excitement when I put on my uniform that morning and thought maybe, just maybe, they’d make an exception.

  My chest grew tight as I rehearsed my father’s words on my way to school. Patrick spotted me and shouted, “Martin! You’re back!” I waved and kept walking. I decided to go directly to my teacher, who was preparing for class when I knocked on the door.

  “Welcome back, Martin Ganda,” he said, rising to greet me with a wide smile.

  I kept my eyes on the concrete floor as I relayed my father’s promise.

  “Let’s see what I can do,” he responded.

  I looked up, unable to contain my own enthusiasm.

  “Fantastic!” I said. “I will do my best! I promise!”

  “Martin,” my teacher interrupted. “I already know what a dedicated student you are—I will try, but I cannot make any promises.”

  The bell rang and kids started arriving in the classroom. I placed my hands together in a prayer position and bowed at him, our way of saying thanks in Shona. And then I took my seat, front row center.

  I spent that first class trying to concentrate on the lessons, wondering whom I should ask for the best notes to catch up for all the lectures I had missed. But then, toward the end of that period, I saw the school’s financial manager standing at the doorway. The teacher invited him in. I held my breath.

  The manager asked which students had returned to class. I was the only one that day, and so my teacher asked him to step outside for a moment. I said a silent prayer.

  The teacher returned with tight lips and a grim expression, followed by the financial manager, who came up to my desk and asked, “Did you pay your fees?”

  “No, sir,” I started. “My father said—”

  Before I could finish, he said, “Martin, I must see the paid receipts before you can enroll in class again. These are the school rules.”

  The entire class remained quiet as I gathered my things to leave. No one was surprised my father could not pay. This was the story of too many people in Zimbabwe. Why did I think I was I any different?

  As I left the room, I caught my teacher’s eyes and bowed my head again. He nodded back and I knew he was disappointed, though not nearly as disappointed as I.

  I returned to an empty home. My mother had gone to fetch water. That morning a slow trickle of rusty red liquid came out of the communal faucet—it smelled of mud and left a residue on your skin rather than cleaned it. No one could bathe in it, let alone cook with or drink it. This happened frequently in Chisamba Singles. The nearest river was a kilometer away, but if the bed was dry, or the water polluted, my mother might walk three—or ten kilometers to a place she heard from neighbors had a working well. It was still early in the day, so I changed from my uniform into my T-shirt and shorts and headed back to the market.

  There, a man asked me to help him pour tea, a new task. I did that for a few days, and while it was a nice change from carrying luggage, I made even less money. So I was intrigued when Peter asked me to help him sell cold drinks.

  It was a particularly hot day and he had frozen these small packets of juice. He offered to split any profits we made after he was reimbursed for the cost of the drinks. I was excited, especially since by the day’s end I had sold two boxes’ worth and had only a few juices left. The sun was casting an orange glow over the market as I headed toward a bus leaving for Harare. There were three and four people to each two-person seat. I boarded holding the box over my head, shouting, “Cold drinks! Cold drinks!”

  As I squeezed my way toward the back, I saw William, a friend from school, sitting with his brother, laughing. William was in Group One with me. He was clever, and cared about school as much as I did. But he lived in a house, and both of his parents worked. He never had to worry about school fees or textbooks or money for exams. He had more than one uniform, and several pairs of shoes. I suddenly felt hot not from the crush of people, but from shame. I began walking backward, quickly. I didn’t want him to see me doing this work, or knowing that I had gone that low.

  Even he knew that Zimbabwe was in terrible shape, but the people who lived in Chisamba Singles witnessed it every day. Food shortages had become a real problem. Fights b
roke out daily, haggling over prices, or bartering gone bad. This was becoming common. As was domestic violence—I had always heard men beat their wives, since we lived in such close quarters, but now I would see it out in the streets as well. Nothing was being hidden anymore. AIDS, too, had become rampant. The man we split our room with had blisters all over his face as if someone had splashed him with acid. Another neighbor died from it that year. She got so skinny and weak that her family had to carry her outside on sunny days for fresh air. She looked like a skeleton draped with papery skin and scared me so much that I was relieved to hear she had died.

  I was only fifteen, but I knew Chisamba Singles was considered one of the worst slums not only in Mutare but also in all of Zimbabwe. We were famous for our poverty. If I had bumped into someone from Chisamba Singles on that bus, he would have understood why I was selling those drinks. William would, too, but not in the same way.

  I gave Peter the remaining packets and walked home feeling more down than ever, even though I had made eight dollars that day, a record. I still had such a long way to go. I felt doomed.

  That weekend, I got another letter from Caitlin. She had sent three in a row and was disappointed that I had not responded. I understood her frustration. Then I got to the part where she asked if I was mad at her. Mad? At her? This was impossible. I could never be mad at her. That she thought this made me so upset. I had to write her immediately.