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  For my dearest Gogo, whose indomitable spirit, love, and wisdom formed the core of who I am.

  To my beloved continent, this is my love letter to you. I cannot imagine any greater gift than being a child of the African soil.

  You cannot tell a hungry child that you gave them food yesterday.

  —Zimbabwean proverb

  1

  Deep in the African wilderness, rolling hills open onto a barren maize field. In the middle of that field stands a huge, useless tree. I lie underneath that useless tree unable to move. I am eight years old. I am all alone.

  * * *

  Stand, I tell myself, but I cannot. I lie on my stomach, my legs stretched out, my arms limp at my sides, my palms turned toward the heavens, begging for mercy. I burrow my face deeper into the ground, seeking shelter from the scorching sun, yet the earth feels as hot as fire, practically sizzling beneath me. There is no cool or comfortable place to hide. The leaves of the tree are long gone, and with it the shade, burned away by the punishing drought that has descended on our small village in Zimbabwe.

  Rise, I think, but I cannot. I am simply too weak to move. I am starving. I have had nothing to drink or eat for three days. My shrinking stomach growls like two hungry hyenas fighting over a goat. I am so thirsty it’s as if tiny, sharp razors slice the inside of my throat with each breath or attempt to swallow. I have never felt so hollow and wasted from hunger. I worry that the drought may never end, and I will never leave this tree. I will die here, I think, but I am too tired to be truly frightened.

  My world has changed from one of abundance and joy to one of fear and emptiness. It seems a long time ago that I cooked sadza (maize meal) with goat stew alongside my gogo (grandmother), whom I live with inside our round, grass-thatched hut that is small-small, but big enough for the two of us to cook and eat and sleep and pray. Our warm, cozy hut, just like all the other huts in our small village of Goromonzi, stands at the top of a hill surrounded by cow pastures and farmland. Goromonzi is the only home I have ever known, but through the haze of hunger I struggle to remember the faces and voices of my village: Gogo’s three sons and all her other relatives, who are my ambuyas (aunts) and sekurus (uncles), and their children, whom I call sisis (sisters) and hanzwadzis (brothers).

  Long before the drought, all of us gathered in Gogo’s yard on special days, eating and laughing and feasting. Each family brought baskets full of food picked from our fields at the bottom of the hill and the gardens tucked behind our round huts: fresh maize, sweet potatoes, watermelons, groundnuts, pumpkins, mangoes, and guavas. The sekurus slaughtered a cow gifted by one of the families, providing plenty-plenty cow stew, which we washed down with soured milk from our stubborn goats until our bellies rejoiced and our hearts felt satisfied. We wanted for nothing because the food belonged to everyone; we shared it all, bartering and trading with each other for things we didn’t grow. Gogo traded her large orange pumpkins, which tasted almost as sweet as honey, for small packets of black-eyed beans and groundnuts from the ambuyas. If you needed anything, you only had to ask, and often somebody offered what they knew you needed before you did. After supper, on our feast days, we sat around a huge fire under the dark African sky perforated with tiny shiny stars, singing songs of praise to God, calling for the rain to return.

  God always answered our prayers, and each year the rain returned, filling our days with purpose. Ox-drawn plows worked the fields; wooden and metal hoes tilled the land; family stood by family, helping to tend the crops until they sprouted from the ground. Our fields were lush and green; our harvest was bountiful. Gogo and the sekurus sold our maize, sunflower seeds, and other crops at the Township Center in the next village, to buy any food we couldn’t grow ourselves. We found meaning in our work, making sure that we all did our part to take care of our families and of each other. It was a happy life.

  That was then, and this is now. For two years, God has refused to answer our prayers. He has left us with Satan’s punishing heat, which is killing everything in its path. He has left us with only the little food from the previous harvest, which is not enough. Even though we share whatever we can, even though we count our maize and beans each day before cooking, even though we skip meals, ignoring our hunger pangs, the little food we have left is slowly running out.

  At first, when the rain failed to come, Gogo spoke directly to God. “I will not stop until you bring back the rain. I will not rest. Do you hear me, God?” Her prayers went unanswered, but she refused to give up. Gogo gathered all the ambuyas and sekurus, and together we all prayed for rain again—this time without the feast—as our food began to diminish. We prayed for so many days and nights and so loudly and faithfully that our knees were bruised and our voices were hoarse. Still, God did not respond. Now I wonder if the world is ending, but this thought moves slowly through my mind, as if through mud.

  * * *

  When Gogo left the village a few days ago, she told me, “An illness has visited a sekuru from the mujuru village,” which is far from our village. Sunlight fell across the hut, casting light across the walls and floor. Gogo wrapped her few belongings in a faded brown cloth: a pair of underwear; two maroon dresses, both with tiny holes from termites; a half-used jar of Vaseline; and, of course, her Bible.

  “I can help,” I said, offering to carry Gogo’s Bible as I always do on Sundays when we go to church wearing our nice-nice clothes and special church hats.

  “No. I am going with the ambuyas and will be back soon-soon. Eat the boiled maize when you get hungry.” She pointed to the black clay pot. She tapped the water container. “Yes. There is enough for two days.”

  I nodded, “Okay, let’s pray.” Kneeling with Gogo on the floor, I prayed for God to protect my family on their journey. I waved goodbye and watched Gogo disappear behind the guava and mango trees behind our hut, descending the hills with her belongings bundled on top of her head to join the ambuyas.

  That was five days ago. The water container is empty, and the food is long gone. With no food or water for three days, I feel as though I am slipping out of my body. I manage to lift my face by pushing slowly-slowly into the dry ground with arms that feel as heavy as the thickest tree branches. I sit up, wipe the dirt from my face, and open my eyes.

  The light burns my tired eyes as if I’m staring at the sun. Sitting alone in Gogo’s devastated field, I am no longer surrounded by all things bright and beautiful, as the church hymn goes. Before me is an unrecognizable landscape, strange and scary. All that remains is scorched baby maize shoots that stood no chance against Satan’s punishing heat, the heat that dried up our river, leaving us with no water to drink; destroyed our crops; and killed our animals, leaving ambuyas wailing inside empty cow kraals and goat sheds.

  * * *

  When Gogo didn’t come back home three days ago as she had promised, I felt sad because I missed her, but I didn’t feel scared. Gogo always goes away to pray for sick ambuyas and sekurus in faraway villages. Sometimes she takes me with her. Sometimes when the sick ambuya or sekuru refuses to recover and their soul is called back to the heavenly father, Gogo stays longer for the funeral. I tell Gogo not to worry about me, because she taught me how to take care of myself for a time when she is no longer here. I cook and fetch
water; I noodle-out flying termites with a single straw of grass; I make a catapult and shoot down birds; I catch fish with a sharp stick and roast them. I create fire and cross rivers.

  Yesterday I went to the bush above our village, on the other side of the hill, to search for small birds to shoot with my catapult and flying termites to catch. I found nothing. This morning I went to the Good Forest, which sits just below Gogo’s field, past the family cemetery but before the river, to search for berries. Gogo and all the ambuyas call this forest the River Forest, because we fetch our drinking water here from the crisp, cool river. I call it the Good Forest, because there are no hyenas that might try to eat me, unlike the Hyena Forest on the other side of the river. I know just the tree! The one by the river with the sweetest black water berries.

  As I descended the hill to the Good Forest, the village felt strangely quiet: no loud children playing in the yards, filling the air with laughter; no busy-busy ambuyas running around cooking and cleaning and attending to the children; no sekurus mending their goat sheds and chicken coops. Now that we had been left with Satan’s punishing sun, ambuyas and sekurus hid their small-small children inside their huts, away from the heat, while they and their older children searched for food, going deeper into the forest and visiting neighboring villages. I stared at the empty goat sheds and felt my heart ache, thinking about my favorite goat, Little-One.

  A few days after Little-One was born, her mother disappeared from the goat shed during the night. When we discovered this the following morning, Gogo placed her hands on her hips, shook her head from side to side, and said, “Eeee, the hyenas.” I looked up at Gogo, tugged at her dress, and without being asked, said, “I can help.” Gogo nodded in agreement, and that’s how the little brown goat became mine. I named her Little-One and became in charge of feeding her and playing with her so that she wouldn’t feel too sad about her missing mother.

  But then the drought came, and one morning I found Little-One motionless in the shed: her legs were completely straight, her face tilted up to the heavens, her eyes rolled back in her head with a soft smile resting on her face. I called out her name, but she didn’t move. She had left me. I collapsed on top of her, wailing, “Dear God, please bring back Little-One.” I wept and prayed. But God did not hear my prayer; he did not bring back my best friend; he did not bring back Little-One. I decided then I would not speak to God again. Now I speak only to Jesus.

  Dear, sweet Jesus. Please hear my prayer. Please help me find food. I am too-too hungry. Amen. I prayed silently as I walked through the village to the Good Forest. And when I saw an ambuya in her yard making packets of dried black beans and groundnuts so the food would last long-long, and she asked if I was hungry, I responded, “No thanks, Ambuya. Me, I am fine-fine,” refusing to take her little-little food which must feed all of her children. Ambuya has eight mouths to feed. I only have one. Besides, I wanted Gogo to be proud of me for taking care of myself. Also, I had a perfect plan to find my berries in the Good Forest, which always had plenty-plenty fruit to pluck: the red berries that make my eyes water; the black water berries that turn my tongue black; the brown mazhanje fruit that tastes as sweet as honey. The Good Forest is my magical place, filled with beautiful birds—some with sparkling blue wings and red-and-yellow coats, others with bright orange beaks, and very tiny ones with black and white spots.

  But when I reached the Good Forest there was nothing. The berries were gone, and the tree was completely bare, the bark and branches dry and brittle in the hot, motionless air. Hopelessness fell over me like a long shadow.

  I will go back to the village and ask an ambuya for food, I thought. But then I grew too tired and I collapsed in Gogo’s field. Now, here I am, so weak from hunger I cannot stand, the sun punishing me for a sin I don’t remember committing. I say another silent prayer to Jesus, pleading with him for the strength to move before the darkness comes and brings out the hungry hyenas from the Hyena Forest.

  Move, I remind myself. I will try crawling back to the hut. Gogo always says, “You must never ever give up.” I plant my palms on the ground, steady my knees, then slowly move my right arm and then my left. The effort is too much. I fall to my stomach and everything goes dark.

  I dream that I am spinning, surrounded by butterflies that circle slowly around me; the yellow ones remind me of Gogo’s beautiful sunflowers. I am so dizzy, so happy and warm, and when I lie on the ground the butterflies cover me. For a moment, everything is perfect.

  I am drifting in and out of consciousness, between darkness and light, between pain and happiness, when I feel a shadow, shielding me from the sun. It must be Gogo! I feel a rush of relief in my aching body. I’m also ashamed to be found like this, helpless, when she has worked so hard to teach me to take care of myself.

  The person standing in front of me is not Gogo. I notice she has shiny-shiny legs like none I have ever seen, and shiny shoes that match. Sometimes Gogo and I use Vaseline on our legs when we go to church, but only on the exposed parts between our hemlines and ankles, so we don’t waste it.

  This person kneels down next to me; she is a much older sisi. I have never seen her before, she is not from our village, and when she smiles, I see her white-white teeth. She is so beautiful! She places a blue plastic bowl of porridge next to me, and without waiting for an invitation or even sitting up, I dig my dirty fingers into the warm porridge and scoop it into my mouth as quickly as I can. Gradually the sounds in my stomach diminish and disappear. The girl lifts my head gently and rests it on her chest, placing a plastic bottle in my mouth. I close my eyes and guzzle the fresh water that tastes so cool and wonderful it sends shivers down my back. I feel life returning, filling me up. I lift my head from the sisi’s chest and sit up on my own. I am back in my body. I am alive.

  I take in this sisi more carefully. I see that she is wearing a uniform as blue and as pretty as the brilliant sky. Now that my hunger is gone, I can see without wincing or squinting. I see words written on the front of her shirt. I cannot read, and I wonder what they mean. Where is she from? It’s as if she is an angel, dropped from heaven. Thank you, God, I pray silently, speaking directly to him. The sisi keeps smiling at me, and I finally have the energy to smile back, which feels like a miracle.

  “Thank you, Sisi.” My voice is weak and scratchy.

  She nods. “What is your name?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “What are you are doing here all by yourself?”

  “I am not alone. I am with my butterflies,” I say, and she looks confused. I don’t want her to ask me any more difficult questions, so I ask, “Why are you here?”

  She squeezes my hand and smiles. “I am here to feed hungry children in the village, because as Africans we must uplift each other.”

  I don’t understand what it means to uplift others, but I nod.

  I know that I can finally stand up. I will search for food. I will live.

  * * *

  I will never forget this moment, when I hovered so close to death and was saved just in time. What I don’t yet know is that this particular encounter will define the purpose of my life, acting as a beacon that motivates my actions and aspirations; the light that guides me through every darkness.

  We desire to bequeath two things to our children:the first one is roots, the other one is wings.

  —Sudanese proverb

  2

  A surge of excitement courses through me as the plane begins its final, bumpy descent into London. As we drop below the clouds, I press my face against the window and look closely, trying to take in everything at once. The River Thames is a shiny ribbon, snaking through buildings I have only ever seen in books: clock towers that I imagine strike at the top of each hour and row after row of tall, glass buildings reflecting the early morning light. The whole city shimmers, and I have to blink several times as I have never seen so many lights before. They flicker and glimmer all the way to the horizon, merging with the sunrise as London wakes up and the plane descends. The
year is 2000; I am twenty-five years old. I can hardly believe that I have finally made it to the United Kingdom.

  I couldn’t sleep for the length of the flight. Leaving the African continent for the first time and literally flying into the unknown, I peered through the window into the darkness and listened to the whirring engines. I was thrilled. I’m finally doing it! I was finally taking the first big step to fulfill my dream, after so much struggle and hard work. But then I immediately felt anxious, remembering that I had no friends or family in the UK, and only two hundred and fifty pounds to last me until I got a job.

  * * *

  A few years after my encounter with the girl in the blue uniform, who gave me a bowl of porridge and saved my life, I learned that she worked for UNICEF, which is part of the world’s largest humanitarian organization: the United Nations. The mission of UNICEF is to protect the rights of children across the globe, providing food and resources to communities in times of acute need. This explained the sisi’s blue uniform and the lettering across her chest. The encounter stayed with me throughout my childhood; inspired by her, I dreamt of one day working for the United Nations, where I too would be able to uplift the lives of others, just as my life had once been uplifted. And after much research and planning and support from my family, I am confident that coming to London is the first step to pursuing this singular dream. I have a plan, a clear purpose, and all the motivation in the world.

  Through the window, the sky is overcast. I immediately miss the bright, clear African sky, which to me has always felt as big as the world, stretching across villages and fields and people walking along footpaths, headed to work or to bring food to a neighbor. I think of Gogo and how much she has sacrificed for me to be here, selling her cows and goats to raise money for my plane ticket. Yesterday, when I left Zimbabwe, Gogo’s face was transformed by sadness. She did not want to see me go and refused to say goodbye. Instead, she threw her arms around me and we knelt on the dusty airport floor in Harare and prayed for my journey ahead.