Martin Ganda Character Analysis

I’d never heard of Zimbabwe. But something about the way the name looked on the blackboard intrigued me. It was exotic, and difficult to pronounce.

Everyone started chattering. We all knew and loved America. It was the land of Coca-Cola and the WWF, World Wrestling Federation.

When I unfolded the letter, a small snapshot fell onto my desk.

I could not believe my pen pal would send me something so precious. Photos are very rare and quite expensive in Zimbabwe.

The next line really cracked me up: Have you heard the one from Spicy Girls, which says friendship never ends?

I laughed out loud when he called them “Spicy,” and hoped that the line would be our motto.

The next evening, with a full belly, I wrote Caitlin a letter. I thanked her for the very generous dollar bill and told her I would send her something in return soon. I considered sending her a Zimbabwean dollar but knew that was one day’s worth of sadza. So instead, I made the only promise that I knew I could keep: that I would always write back, no matter what.

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.

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.

I continued to check the mail every single day for weeks. And then one day, I saw an envelope so completely covered with stamps it barely had space for my name and address. Martin was alive! I ripped it open, thrilled. But when I unfolded the actual letter, I gasped. My friend was writing to me on trash.

A lesser man may have been threatened by Caitlin’s generosity. Here was a fourteen-year-old girl sending us more money than my father made in several months. My father only had love and respect for Caitlin. Her letters had always been precious to me. Now they were also crucial to my whole family. We were on a ship that was sinking, huddled at the tip before it went under. Caitlin’s gift was a lifeboat.

My mother was afraid to keep this much money in our house. It made us a target in these difficult times.

Alois was even more put together than my uncle. He wore a suit and tie, like the managers at my father’s work, but he was only in his mid-twenties. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a broad smile, then introduced me to several of his colleagues before taking me to the tea station.

Reading that letter brought tears to my eyes. He was so proud. He had never asked me for help. Asking my parents for help was probably one of the hardest things for him to have to do. He did not want to burden me. He knew that I would get sick worrying about him in such need. But there it was, written on paper, a huge SOS. My parents knew I had a pen pal in Zimbabwe, but they did not know how close we had become. That evening, I decided to tell them everything. It was the only way I could truly help Martin.

And then, like magic, a letter arrived.

This one, however, had been ripped and taped back up in a crude way. Someone had written in capital letters INSPECTED FOR CONTRABAND across Caitlin’s beautiful penmanship. It felt like a violation.

Thanks to Caitlin, we ate chicken for Christmas that year, a miracle considering what our friends and neighbors were experiencing. In Zimbabwe, if you have food, you share it, so our neighbors ate chicken with us.

Thank you for your effort, love, and time. Thank you for the shoes you gave us. My mom, I repeat, is now counted as a human in society.

“You’re too late! We’re already filled up,” he said. “Besides, there are many qualified students here who need to get in; we don’t even have space for them.”

“I’ve come all the way from Chisamba Singles to speak to you,” I countered. “Please, give me a chance.”

That quieted him.

“I have an uncle that lives near there,” he said. “That’s a tough place.”

The day after my birthday, my mom took me out of school to go get my learner’s permit. Damon met me at the DMV—he had skipped school, but lied to my mom when she asked him why he had the day off.

Hours later, a nurse confirmed it was malaria—thankfully not cerebral. She needed IV fluids immediately. She was so dehydrated that she was at risk of dying without them. But the hospital couldn’t afford to supply any medicine. Instead, the nurse told us what we needed, and then we had to secure it.

“There is a man outside wearing a blue shirt,” she said. “He sells IVs.”

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.

Today was different.

“We’d better start thinking about how to break it to him,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The first line of the email was like rocket fuel:

We are pleased to offer you a full scholarship beginning with the 2003-2004 academic year.

It propelled me from my seat. The breath I’d been holding for the past few months came barreling out of my mouth as I shouted, “Yesssssss!”

I felt Caitlin squeeze my hand, and I squeezed back. After six years of imagining what it would be like to see her, to hug her, to hear her laugh, to hold her hand, here she was, my best friend from afar, now standing right next to me.

Watching him exchange vows with Caitlin earlier that day, I got a bit choked up. Caitlin and I had already shared so many milestones—and still have many ahead. I did not know then that I would go on to do my MBA at Duke, or that Caitlin would finish her nursing degree, as she had planned since she was sixteen or give birth to a beautiful baby girl. All I knew was that we both had witnessed so many of each other’s dreams come true.

I have no idea what any of these young people will do with the emotions our story stirred in each of them—but I am excited by the possibilities. It’s why I wanted to write this book.

Kindness is contagious. It changes lives. It changed mine. What will it do for you?

I’d never heard of Zimbabwe. But something about the way the name looked on the blackboard intrigued me. It was exotic, and difficult to pronounce.

Everyone started chattering. We all knew and loved America. It was the land of Coca-Cola and the WWF, World Wrestling Federation.

When I unfolded the letter, a small snapshot fell onto my desk.

I could not believe my pen pal would send me something so precious. Photos are very rare and quite expensive in Zimbabwe.

The next line really cracked me up: Have you heard the one from Spicy Girls, which says friendship never ends?

I laughed out loud when he called them “Spicy,” and hoped that the line would be our motto.

The next evening, with a full belly, I wrote Caitlin a letter. I thanked her for the very generous dollar bill and told her I would send her something in return soon. I considered sending her a Zimbabwean dollar but knew that was one day’s worth of sadza. So instead, I made the only promise that I knew I could keep: that I would always write back, no matter what.

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.

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.

I continued to check the mail every single day for weeks. And then one day, I saw an envelope so completely covered with stamps it barely had space for my name and address. Martin was alive! I ripped it open, thrilled. But when I unfolded the actual letter, I gasped. My friend was writing to me on trash.

A lesser man may have been threatened by Caitlin’s generosity. Here was a fourteen-year-old girl sending us more money than my father made in several months. My father only had love and respect for Caitlin. Her letters had always been precious to me. Now they were also crucial to my whole family. We were on a ship that was sinking, huddled at the tip before it went under. Caitlin’s gift was a lifeboat.

My mother was afraid to keep this much money in our house. It made us a target in these difficult times.

Alois was even more put together than my uncle. He wore a suit and tie, like the managers at my father’s work, but he was only in his mid-twenties. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a broad smile, then introduced me to several of his colleagues before taking me to the tea station.

Reading that letter brought tears to my eyes. He was so proud. He had never asked me for help. Asking my parents for help was probably one of the hardest things for him to have to do. He did not want to burden me. He knew that I would get sick worrying about him in such need. But there it was, written on paper, a huge SOS. My parents knew I had a pen pal in Zimbabwe, but they did not know how close we had become. That evening, I decided to tell them everything. It was the only way I could truly help Martin.

And then, like magic, a letter arrived.

This one, however, had been ripped and taped back up in a crude way. Someone had written in capital letters INSPECTED FOR CONTRABAND across Caitlin’s beautiful penmanship. It felt like a violation.

Thanks to Caitlin, we ate chicken for Christmas that year, a miracle considering what our friends and neighbors were experiencing. In Zimbabwe, if you have food, you share it, so our neighbors ate chicken with us.

Thank you for your effort, love, and time. Thank you for the shoes you gave us. My mom, I repeat, is now counted as a human in society.

“You’re too late! We’re already filled up,” he said. “Besides, there are many qualified students here who need to get in; we don’t even have space for them.”

“I’ve come all the way from Chisamba Singles to speak to you,” I countered. “Please, give me a chance.”

That quieted him.

“I have an uncle that lives near there,” he said. “That’s a tough place.”

The day after my birthday, my mom took me out of school to go get my learner’s permit. Damon met me at the DMV—he had skipped school, but lied to my mom when she asked him why he had the day off.

Hours later, a nurse confirmed it was malaria—thankfully not cerebral. She needed IV fluids immediately. She was so dehydrated that she was at risk of dying without them. But the hospital couldn’t afford to supply any medicine. Instead, the nurse told us what we needed, and then we had to secure it.

“There is a man outside wearing a blue shirt,” she said. “He sells IVs.”

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.

Today was different.

“We’d better start thinking about how to break it to him,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The first line of the email was like rocket fuel:

We are pleased to offer you a full scholarship beginning with the 2003-2004 academic year.

It propelled me from my seat. The breath I’d been holding for the past few months came barreling out of my mouth as I shouted, “Yesssssss!”

I felt Caitlin squeeze my hand, and I squeezed back. After six years of imagining what it would be like to see her, to hug her, to hear her laugh, to hold her hand, here she was, my best friend from afar, now standing right next to me.

Watching him exchange vows with Caitlin earlier that day, I got a bit choked up. Caitlin and I had already shared so many milestones—and still have many ahead. I did not know then that I would go on to do my MBA at Duke, or that Caitlin would finish her nursing degree, as she had planned since she was sixteen or give birth to a beautiful baby girl. All I knew was that we both had witnessed so many of each other’s dreams come true.

I have no idea what any of these young people will do with the emotions our story stirred in each of them—but I am excited by the possibilities. It’s why I wanted to write this book.

Kindness is contagious. It changes lives. It changed mine. What will it do for you?