daniel chigunwe
Sharuko On Saturday
SO, there l was, a cheap jacket and tie to the good, fresh faced, quite raw, very single, of course, but with a soul pregnant with ambition.
It was the summer of 1992.
November 1, ‘92, to be precise — Wilfred Mugeyi was about to be crowned Soccer Star of the Year, after his goals powered Black Aces to the league championship.
CAPS United, searching for their first league title since Independence, would be forced to wait again, as they could only finish second in the championship race, six points adrift of Aces.
I arrived on the scene to witness the final days of the rebellion which would topple the Super League, giving way to the Premier Soccer League, as Morrison Sifelani and Chris Sibanda led the top-flight clubs into a new era.
The divorce from ZIFA was very ugly, as the leaders at 53 Livingstone Avenue fought long and hard, to hang on to the top-flight league, amid a tsunami of rebellion from the leading clubs.
With their marriage collapsing, I arrived on the scene to be part of the narrative, joining a seasoned team of experts, who were capturing the sights and sounds of this acrimonious divorce.
I was a free spirit, marriage only came later, and so did my daughter Mimi, my boy Kalu, my boy David, my boy Marlon and my boy Takondwela.
Along the way, we lost the two flowers in our gang, my wife Florence and my girl Mimz, the huge void they left, still being felt to this day.
But, the gang of Chakariboys remain, pursuing their personal interests, intent on making sure their old man finds comfort, and family love, just to keep going.
That’s something I always thank God for because, in the beginning, it was never like this.
I was alone, clearly lonely, in the big city, its buzz quite a culture shock, from the tranquility of the paradise of my hometown, Chakari.
For close to three years, I had found a way to adjust to Harare, with the sheer quest for education overriding just about every obstacle, which life kept throwing in my way.
A long lost friend of my old man had provided me with a room to stay in a cottage at his house in Mabelreign, when I arrived for my studies.
He was a nice man, but I can’t say the same about his wife, who didn’t like me, and ensured I knew that, because she wasn’t happy with my presence.
And, for the first time in my life, I faced the wrath and pain of rejection, which was hard to understand, because of where l was coming from, where l had grown up.
A community of simple people with simple lives, where when our mealie-meal ran out during the course of the preparation of dinner, it was normal for me to be sent to the neighbours to get some.
And, they would give me without any reservations at all, as if it was a privilege for them to do so or because they knew they would also need a similar favour, in the coming days, from my old woman.
We shared just about everything, and it was very normal for families to run out of salt, and the neighbours would always be ready to provide it.
We feared God, went to church every Sunday, as families — there were Anglicans, there were Catholics and there was the CCAP church, in between.
Ours was the Dutch Reformed Church, adjacent to the Catholic Church, and on those beautiful Sunday mornings, these places of worship, built side by side, would explode into life.
We had a sizeable Muslim community, the majority traced their roots to Malawi, and they went to church every Friday.
We basked in our religious diversity and generated a lot of pride, as a community, that we had provided the country with one of its biggest football stars of the ‘80s.
His name was David Mwanza.
A tough-as-teak midfielder, blessed with both strength and talent, whose beard would not make him look out of place, among a group of American Team Six Navy Seals, he was a fine athlete.
WITH THE NAME OF A KING, HE ILLUMINATED OUR PATH
Watching him playing for Rio Tinto and State House Tornadoes was a beautiful picture, but watching him playing for the Warriors was very special.
The boy from the M3 Section of our little town, where the neighbourhood used to share a common public toilet, where the young men needed to first check whether the old men were using it, before they could gain access.
The whole idea was to ensure there was respect for the elders, something which was preached with regularity, something which could not be negotiated, in a community where respect means everything.
The son of a humble mine policeman, with the first name of the King of Israel, was now representing his country, as one of Zimbabwe’s finest footballers.
The boy from our local primary school, who had been parachuted by his special talent from our dusty fields to the country’s biggest football arenas, was now taking his place as one of our nation’s football ambassadors.
He had become a man now, they even called him Chikwama, such an indomitable force in those titanic midfield battles, such a class act, in the way he exhibited his God-given skills.
So full of life, a man with a smile which could illuminate the darkest hour, David Mwanza was our all-time hometown hero.
In him, some of us found a beacon of hope to cling on to, a tower of strength to inspire us, to believe we could realise our dreams, or a part of them, if we chose dedication, instead of frustration.
If we chose devotion, instead of emotion, if we chose faith instead of doubt, if we chose commitment instead of disillusionment, if we chose hope instead of hopelessness.
He was only 40, when he died one morning at his home in Kwekwe and, this year marks 20 years since our Chikwama left the garden of the living.
David Mwanza’s influence in my life story can never be underestimated, let alone forgotten, because he blazed the trail and cleared the path on which some of us later walked in pursuit of our dreams.
This journey which, on that morning of November 1, 1992, found me walking into Herald House, as the new recruit of this newspaper’s Sports Desk.
And, there l was, a cheap jacket and tie to the good, fresh faced, quite raw, very single, of course, but with a soul pregnant with ambition.
Jahoor Omar was the boss of the desk, the man entrusted with guiding me through this initiation process, Sam Marisa, the big man from Gweru, was his immediate lieutenant, Collin Matiza, the funny chap from Mbare, was the workhorse of the department.
Omar had gone to the same journalism school from where I had been recruited, and this appeared to bond us well, which meant my initiation period wasn’t rough, even though it was tough.
He also seemed to like the fact that I could cover just about any sport code, which meant he had someone to turn to, when the world sailing championships rolled into Kariba, where I spent a memorable week covering a unique sport.
At Morris Depot, while covering rugby, I came into my first contact with Ian Smith, the former prime minister of this country, who was a huge fan of the game.
Then, I had the privilege of writing a number of stories of the world’s fastest policeman, Thabani Gonye, unaware this athlete would one day rise to become the Zimbabwe Olympic Committee president.
But, for all my love of cricket, football appeared to be my calling.
And, now and again, I would find myself on assignment at Gwanzura and Rufaro, back when these stadiums were maintained, covering the domestic league matches.
Even though the gem, called Peter Ndlovu, which Bosso had unearthed, had been taken away from them to play in England, Highlanders still won the league championship, in my first full year on this job.
They had waited 27 years to win their first domestic crown, when the then 17-year-old Peter powered them to glory in 1990, but now, in just three years, they had won their second championship.
Their triumph, in the first season of the domestic Premiership, started a run in which the Big Three would dominate the championship, with such ruthlessness, they won 12 of the 13 championships, between 1993 and 2006.
Bosso won six, including four on the trot, at the turn of the millennium, while Dynamos and CAPS United shared the other six, with each of the Harare giants winning three titles.
TWENTY NINE NOT OUT
All these domestic twists and turns helped shape my career.
And, so did the Dream Team, with its magical adventure, which ended in honourable failure, in both the AFCON and World Cup qualifiers.
Their stunning rise, to become the 40th best football team in the world, means they set a benchmark, which will always provide a reminder, even as their memory begins to fade away, of how good we used to be.
At the ’98 Nations Cup finals, in Burkina Faso, I found myself covering a tournament, which no other Zimbabwean newspaper writer had covered before.
In the second leg of the ’98 CAF Champions League final, in Abidjan, I found myself covering a decider for the battle for the right to be crowned kings of African club football, which no other local newspaper writer had done before.
Today, I find myself reflecting on a number of World Cups, in football, cricket, you name it, which I have had the privilege and honour, to cover.
From South America to South Africa, from Jamaica to Australia, from New Zealand to New Delhi, it has been one hell of an adventure.
On Monday, the clock will mark 29 years since I first arrived here, a cheap jacket and tie to the good, fresh faced, quite raw, very single, of course, but with a soul pregnant with ambition.
Same desk, same newspaper, this Old Lady of Zimbabwean newspapers, in a marriage which has stood the test of time, including that offer from South Africa’s City Press, to head their Sports Desk, in 2008.
Maybe, it was meant to be.
After all, I was born in February, the only month which has 29 days, in the event of a leap year, which comes once every four years.
The odds of being born on February 29 are one in 1 461, which means it doesn’t always happen.
And, as I mark 29 years on this newspaper, I can probably also say it’s unlikely anyone would have gambled on a guy coming from my community in Chakari to go on an adventure, which I have enjoyed, on this grand old newspaper.
I have had some people say it’s unlikely to happen again. They say gambling on it happening again is like hoping to see a car, which travels from earth reaching the nearest star.
Well, they say while it’s possible, we shouldn’t forget that a car, travelling at a constant non-stop speed of about 160 km/hr, will require 29 years, to complete such a mission.
Of course, I beg to differ with them.
Because, as long as the human skull is made up of 29 bones, and it continues to protect the brain, coupled with our community’s obsession with education, there will always be hope another young man will rise from Chakari, to travel a similar path.
It’s a strange world, where the word “never’’ shouldn’t be a part of your vocabulary.
After all, on June 29, 2008, Thomas Beatie, the world’s first pregnant man, gave birth to a daughter, Susan Juliette Beatie.
The name Jacob is mentioned 29 times in the Bible, the 29th time when the name of Noah was mentioned in the Bible, he was leaving the Ark, together with his family, after the Great Flood.
It took 29 years, after the turn of the last millennium, for the British XI — featuring players from Leicester, Fulham, Leeds and Southampton — to finally tour this country.
The visitors won their two matches 4-0 in Harare and 6-1 in Bulawayo, against the local national team as international football finally arrived in this country.
That British XI team was under the guidance of a manager called Brian Glanville.
Today, the name Brian Glanville, represents genius, nobility, brilliance, purity and excellence, in our profession and he is widely regarded as the greatest football writer of all time.
Of course, they are two different people, the manager and the journalist.
“When it comes to sports journalism, Brian Glanville is a British institution,’’ noted the www.footballpink.net website.
Last month, Brian celebrated his 90th birthday, in a life which has seen him spending over 30 years as a football correspondent for The Sunday Times.
He has also spent more than 50 years as a contributor for World Soccer magazine.
His father Joe, a lifelong Arsenal fan, had a huge influence on Brian’s lifelong romance with football.
Joe was an Irish Jewish dentist, which means his son Brian grew up quite familiar with Judaism, the Star of David, Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shemin Atzeret, Simchat Torah and Hanukkah.
Brian is also familiar with the Passover.
Inshalla, which in Egypt means God willing, is probably the word the Israelites used to talk about as they dreamt of their freedom from slavery. And, one day, the Lord heard their prayers and took them out of their bondage in Egypt, back to the Promised Land.
This gave birth to the celebration of the Passover, which remain to this day, as the Israelites reflect on their freedom from slavery.
The word Passover is mentioned 29 times in the Bible.
As I mark my 29th year on this newspaper, the Old Lady of Zimbabwe’s Newspapers, I can only say Inshalla, God willing, when I grow up, I want to be like Brian Granville.
Thank God, for the past 29 years, and here’s hoping for another 29 years, writing, analysing, commentating and fighting those who want to destroy our football, and cripple our Warriors.
After all, I am also a devoted fan of football, the game which provided David Mwanza with his golden chance to make a name for himself.
And, gave me the chance to pursue my dreams.
To God Be The Glory!
Peace to the GEPA Chief, the Big Fish, George Norton, Daily Service, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse and all the Chakariboys in the struggle.
Come on United!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ronaldoooooooooooooooooo!
Text Feedback — 0772545199
WhatsApp — 0772545199
Email — [email protected]; [email protected],zw
You can also interact with me on Twitter (@Chakariboy), Facebook, Instagram (sharukor) and Skype (sharuko58) and GamePlan, the authoritative football magazine show on ZTV, where I interact with the legendary Charles Mabika, is back every Wednesday night at 9.30pm
Online Reporter