I was caught up in nightlife, women — Chazika

Veronica Gwaze

Zimpapers Sports Hub

IN the fading chill of a Mbare afternoon, amid the clatter of minibuses and the laughter of children chasing makeshift balls on dusty streets, Nyasha Chazika paces the length of Stodart Hall grounds, barking instructions to a group of wide-eyed boys in oversized jerseys.

His movements are sharp and purposeful, a far cry from the man who, not long ago, was fighting to escape the grip of addiction and homelessness.

Chazika was once one of Zimbabwe’s most promising footballers, a national Under-20 captain, a Dynamos talisman and a Supersport United export. His rise was swift, bright and admired.

However, what followed was a cautionary descent: addiction, betrayal, loss and, ultimately, the long road back.

His story is not one of fairy tales or trophies. It is a sobering, painfully human tale of how quickly talent can unravel when fame meets fragility, and how redemption can begin in the very place you once ran away from.

“I am rebuilding from scratch. I lost my parents and siblings, and I am divorced,” he says softly, as the cold wind stirs dust from beneath his feet.

Mbare, Zimbabwe’s oldest township, has raised many a footballing legend.

The narrow alleys and concrete pavements of the suburb served as Chazika’s first training ground. Football came early; by six years old, he was already turning heads.

The boy was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He once played barefoot on dusty corners.

However, he had something rarer: instinct, courage and a hunger to rise.

By 12, his gift had earned him a place in Dynamos’ junior ranks, opening the door to a football-based scholarship at Churchill School.

It was there that he stepped into the national spotlight. Junior national call-ups followed, and soon he was captain of Zimbabwe’s Under-20 squad, a natural leader with sharp reflexes and sharper resolve.

He progressed to Dynamos’ reserves before being thrust onto the big stage in the early 2000s, during a financial crisis that saw senior players abandon camp in protest over unpaid dues.

“Coach Sunday Chidzambwa showed up at my doorstep one morning before a match against Zimbabwe Saints and asked me to report for duty,” he remembers.

“That was a life-changing opportunity.”

It did not start with glory. Dynamos were hammered 5-1. Chazika, barely out of his teens, was among those blamed. Furious fans turned up at his home, voices raised, disappointment raw.

Instead of breaking, he remained strong. Over the next seasons, he matured into a formidable right back, quick, technical and tireless.

He ran the full flank, defended hard, overlapped with precision and delivered punishing crosses. He was also a set-piece specialist; the kind every team dreams of having.

When Moses Chunga took over from Chidzambwa, he handed Chazika the captain’s armband.

The Dynamos “Kidznet” squad, under his leadership, drew huge crowds.

Chazika was not just a player now; he was a symbol of youthful promise and pride.

In 2003, that promise turned profitable. Supersport United of South Africa signed him on a three-year deal, his breakthrough into international club football.

But success came with shadows.

With his first car came a change in lifestyle. His earnings ballooned, and so did his appetite for excess.

The discipline that once defined him was gradually replaced by wild parties, substance abuse and fleeting relationships.

“I was caught up in nightlife and women; it was an experience and a half,” he says, shaking his head. “But this is my biggest regret. If I could turn back time, I would do things differently.”

Injuries began to haunt him. His time on the pitch grew shorter. He was in and out of hospitals, struggling for fitness.

Though his pay was steady, his football suffered. The dream began to slip through his fingers.

Back home, personal shifts were underway too. After a childhood spent with his maternal relatives, Chazika reconnected with his paternal family and moved his belongings to his grandparents’ Mbare home.

They offered to sell him the house, and with his Supersport earnings, he began paying in instalments.

Over R20 000 went into renovations, a precast wall, a paint job and fittings. For a moment, it seemed like he was anchoring his success in something permanent.

But just as quickly, it all fell apart.

When injuries forced his return to Zimbabwe, it was not to a hero’s welcome. His once glittering future was now uncertain.

“I had to find a reason to come back home and seek spiritual guidance,” he says.

“Surprisingly, once I was back, I recovered quickly, as if the injury had never happened. But going back was no longer an option. I feared for my life.”

Rejoining Dynamos briefly, and then Buymore and CAPS United, he tried to claw back relevance. But fame had faded, and with it, his financial discipline.

Money slipped away, so did relationships.

The maternal family he had distanced himself from grew cold. His paternal relatives, despite the money he had invested in the house they had asked him to buy, asked him to leave.

“They evicted me, after everything I had done. That broke something in me,” he says.

The eviction marked the beginning of a spiral: addiction, homelessness and a fractured marriage. The community that once celebrated his runs down the right flank now averted its eyes.

His lowest moment came not on the field, but on the streets of Mbare, broke, addicted and alone.

Then came a lifeline.

A loyal fan, Munyaradzi Taundi, popularly known as “Mr Kuyamurana” intervened.

“I watched him play back in the day, so seeing him become a homeless addict broke my heart,” says Taundi.

“The situation was out of hand. Rehabilitation was a process, but it worked. Now, he’s on a path of self-rediscovery.”

Taundi sponsored Chazika’s rehabilitation and placed him as a junior coach at Kuyamurana Academy, a youth football initiative aimed at talent development and drug abuse prevention.

Today, Chazika mentors over 60 young athletes. He organises local tournaments, builds discipline in his players and shares his story to warn them: success without self-control is a trap.

He earns a modest income and rents a small room nearby. But unlike before, he walks tall. There is pride in his voice now, not for what he was, but for who he is trying to be.

Still, the pain lingers. His sisters have passed away, leaving him the guardian of his three-year-old niece. Financial hardship forced him to put her under the care of a local woman, an act that haunts him.

“She is all I have, and it breaks my heart that I failed her,” he says, wiping away a tear. “I had to make the difficult choice to ensure she is well cared for.”

Chazika adds: “I take responsibility for my isolation, but I also feel my paternal family failed me when I needed them most.”

He does not speak like a victim. He owns his choices. And now, he owns his redemption.

He may never wear the captain’s armband again, or hear fans chant his name at Rufaro, but he has found something deeper — purpose, peace and a mission.

And in the chilly afternoons of Mbare, as the sun dips behind the suburb’s skyline, he blows his whistle so that another young boy may find a better path.

“I’ve made peace with my past,” says Chazika. “Now, I just want to guide others to a better future.”