Online Reporter
Howard Musonza in MARRAKECH, Morocco
Zimpapers Sports Hub Editor
I have an abusive relationship with the Warriors.
It is built on love and disappointment and on belief that keeps returning even when history offers reasons not to.
They make my blood boil.
They break my heart.
And still, I follow them across borders, across time zones, across long nights that end with questions football rarely answers.
This time, the road led to Morocco.
I came to watch Zimbabwe at the Africa Cup of Nations, but I also came to see something else.
I wanted to understand how a country prepares itself to host the world.
In 2030, Morocco will stage the FIFA World Cup alongside Spain and Portugal.
This tournament, quietly and deliberately, is its rehearsal.
The Warriors are in Group B with Egypt, South Africa and Angola.
Their journey began in Agadir, continued inland to Marrakech and will end, one way or another, against South Africa.
Familiar opponents. Familiar stakes. Unfamiliar possibility.
Before football took over, memory did.
I first visited Morocco in 2005 and stayed in Fez, a city that would one day return to my story. Back then, I walked through a newly completed stadium that seated 45 000 people.
It wasn’t loud or extravagant.
It was efficient, confident, purposeful.
Even then, you could sense a nation thinking years ahead.
Getting there was another matter.
Travel within Africa has always tested patience.
In 2005, my route ran through South Africa, then Senegal, before finally reaching Morocco.
Long waits. High costs. Unnecessary detours.
Twenty years later, not much has changed.
This journey took me through South Africa, then Zurich, before doubling back to Marrakech. Europe once again became the bridge between two African points.
A trip that should have taken hours stretched into more than a day.
Somewhere between terminals, Morocco’s long pursuit of the World Cup kept circling in my thoughts.
They lost the 1994 bid to the United States.
They tried again in 1998 and were beaten by France.
Germany edged them out in 2006.
South Africa won in 2010.
Even in 2026, the United States returned, this time with Canada and Mexico.
Each rejection only seemed to sharpen Morocco’s resolve.
Persistence finally won.
In 2030, Morocco will host between 30 and 50 World Cup matches and hopes to stage the final. The scale is enormous. The pressure even greater. This Africa Cup of Nations is the test run.
Nine stadiums. Millions of visitors. Security, transport, logistics all under scrutiny.
Because of travel delays, I missed Zimbabwe’s opening match in Agadir.
What I watched later was a performance that deserved better than its scoreline.
The Warriors lost 2-1 to Egypt, but the defeat carried dignity.
Prince Dube scored early. Egypt responded through Omar Marmoush. Mohamed Salah struck late.
Still, the night lingered. Washington Arubi’s saves. Daniel Musendami’s composure. Marvelous Nakamba carrying the armband with calm authority.
Proof, perhaps, that this team belongs.
But proof without points fades quickly.
Boxing Day in Marrakech felt different.
The stadium sits just under 10 kilometres from where I am staying.
Thick walls, high towers, intricate detail, a stadium shaped by tradition and modern ambition.
Entry was smooth. For the first time this tournament, I watched the Warriors live, not through updates, reports or highlights.
The game asked its first question almost immediately.
Three minutes in, Bill Antonio found space down the left.
The goalkeeper was beaten by movement rather than touch. The stadium leaned forward. The shot rose. Drifted. Missed.
Antonio stopped, hands on hips, eyes lifted briefly to the sky. Frustration, yes, but also recognition. Football had already shown its teeth.
That moment never quite left the afternoon. Zimbabwe walked out with calm purpose. White shorts catching
the light. Red track tops pulled tight. Jah Prayzah’s Sori floated across the stadium during warm-ups.
Angola followed to a different rhythm.
Two teams arriving in their own tempo.
Marian Marinica stood still on the touchline.
Hands in pockets. Watching.
Support came in pockets, not waves.
Songs started in one corner and were picked up elsewhere.
When Angola scored first, it felt less like a blow and more like another test.
Knowledge Musona answered just before halftime, rolling the equaliser home with assurance.
The second half tightened. Space narrowed. Tawanda Chirewa forced a full-stretch save.
Angola pressed.
Zimbabwe absorbed. Arubi stayed alert. Nakamba kept talking, pointing, organising.
When the final whistle came, it ended 1-1.
No collapse. No celebration. Just players standing still, breathing in what had been earned and what had slipped away.
Inside the dressing room, frustration sat openly among them.
Not anger. Not despair. The familiar ache of chances that refuse to become certainty.
It was there that Nakamba began pulling the night back into focus.
“We just have to soldier on and push each other,” he said.
“Hopefully we rest well, prepare well and be ready for Monday.”
He did not hide from the moment. He did not dress it up.
I asked what needed to change, he resisted grand explanations.
“Not really about changing,” he said. “We just have to be consistent and believe in ourselves. We are competing against anyone we face here. Now it’s South Africa, so we keep pushing and believing.”
That belief, he explained, is being built quietly, meeting by meeting, detail by detail.
“The technical team has been on top of us,” Nakamba said.
“Meetings every day. One hour, two hours. People going into every detail. It’s up to us to implement it.
“They are pushing everyone and the group is together.”
The emotions had not disappeared.
“Everyone was frustrated,” he admitted.
“But we focus on the future. We can only control what we can control. We recover well, eat well and train well.”
Bafana Bafana beckons tomorrow.
A derby shaped by proximity and memory.
This time, it also carries consequence.
“It’s a derby,” Nakamba said.
“We have a chance. We are playing for something. It’s an opportunity to give everything, to fight for our country.”
He paused, then returned to the only place leadership can live.
“We focus on the next match. We can’t control what has already happened.”
The road bends one last time.
From Agadir to Marrakech.
From frustration to belief. From what might have been to what still waits.
The Warriors have one night left to decide whether this journey ends as it always has, or whether, at last, it becomes something quietly new.
And still, I follow them across borders, across time zones, across long nights that end with questions football rarely answers.
This time, the road led to Morocco.
I came to watch Zimbabwe at the Africa Cup of Nations, but I also came to see something else.
I wanted to understand how a country prepares itself to host the world.
In 2030, Morocco will stage the FIFA World Cup alongside Spain and Portugal.
This tournament, quietly and deliberately, is its rehearsal.
The Warriors are in Group B with Egypt, South Africa and Angola.
Their journey began in Agadir, continued inland to Marrakech and will end, one way or another, against South Africa.
Familiar opponents. Familiar stakes. Unfamiliar possibility.
Before football took over, memory did.
I first visited Morocco in 2005 and stayed in Fez, a city that would one day return to my story. Back then, I walked through a newly completed stadium that seated 45 000 people.
It wasn’t loud or extravagant.
It was efficient, confident, purposeful.
Even then, you could sense a nation thinking years ahead.
Getting there was another matter.
Travel within Africa has always tested patience.
In 2005, my route ran through South Africa, then Senegal, before finally reaching Morocco.
Long waits. High costs. Unnecessary detours.
Twenty years later, not much has changed.
This journey took me through South Africa, then Zurich, before doubling back to Marrakech. Europe once again became the bridge between two African points.
A trip that should have taken hours stretched into more than a day.
Somewhere between terminals, Morocco’s long pursuit of the World Cup kept circling in my thoughts.
They lost the 1994 bid to the United States. They tried again in 1998 and were beaten by France.
Germany edged them out in 2006.
South Africa won in 2010.
Even in 2026, the United States returned, this time with Canada and Mexico.
Each rejection only seemed to sharpen Morocco’s resolve.
Persistence finally won.
In 2030, Morocco will host between 30 and 50 World Cup matches and hopes to stage the final. The scale is enormous.
The pressure even greater. This Africa Cup of Nations is the test run. Nine stadiums. Millions of visitors. Security, transport, logistics all under scrutiny.
Because of travel delays, I missed Zimbabwe’s opening match in Agadir.
What I watched later was a performance that deserved better than its scoreline.
The Warriors lost 2-1 to Egypt, but the defeat carried dignity.
Prince Dube scored early. Egypt responded through Omar Marmoush. Mohamed Salah struck late.
Still, the night lingered. Washington Arubi’s saves. Daniel Musendami’s composure.
Marvelous Nakamba carrying the armband with calm authority.
Proof, perhaps, that this team belongs.
But proof without points fades quickly.
Boxing Day in Marrakech felt different.
The stadium sits just under 10 kilometres from where I am staying.
Thick walls, high towers, intricate detail, a stadium shaped by tradition and modern ambition. Entry was smooth. For the first time this tournament, I watched the Warriors live, not through updates, reports or highlights.
The game asked its first question almost immediately.
Three minutes in, Bill Antonio found space down the left.
The goalkeeper was beaten by movement rather than touch. The stadium leaned forward. The shot rose. Drifted. Missed.
Antonio stopped, hands on hips, eyes lifted briefly to the sky.
Frustration, yes, but also recognition.
Football had already shown its teeth.
That moment never quite left the afternoon.
Zimbabwe walked out with calm purpose. White shorts catching the light. Red track tops pulled tight. Jah Prayzah’s ‘Sorry’ floated across the stadium during warm-ups.
Angola followed to a different rhythm.
Two teams arriving in their own tempo. Marian Marinica stood still on the touchline.
Hands in pockets. Watching.
Support came in pockets, not waves. Songs started in one corner and were picked up elsewhere.
When Angola scored first, it felt less like a blow and more like another test.
Knowledge Musona answered just before halftime, rolling the equaliser home with assurance.
The second half tightened. Space narrowed. Tawanda Chirewa forced a full-stretch save.
Angola pressed. Zimbabwe absorbed. Arubi stayed alert. Nakamba kept talking, pointing, organising.
When the final whistle came, it ended 1-1.
No collapse. No celebration. Just players standing still, breathing in what had been earned and what had slipped away.
Inside the dressing room, frustration sat openly among them.
Not anger. Not despair. The familiar ache of chances that refuse to become certainty.
It was there that Nakamba began pulling the night back into focus.
“We just have to soldier on and push each other,” he said.
“Hopefully we rest well, prepare well and be ready for Monday.”
He did not hide from the moment. He did not dress it up.
I asked what needed to change, he resisted grand explanations.
“Not really about changing,” he said. “We just have to be consistent and believe in ourselves. We are competing against anyone we face here. Now it’s South Africa, so we keep pushing and believing.”
That belief, he explained, is being built quietly, meeting by meeting, detail by detail.
“The technical team has been on top of us,” Nakamba said.
“Meetings every day. One hour, two hours. People going into every detail. It’s up to us to implement it. They are pushing everyone and the group is together.”
The emotions had not disappeared.
“Everyone was frustrated,” he admitted. But we focus on the future. We can only control what we can control. We recover well, eat well and train well.”
Bafana Bafana beckons tomorrow. A derby shaped by proximity and memory.
This time, it also carries consequence.
“It’s a derby,” Nakamba said.
“We have a chance. We are playing for something. It’s an opportunity to give everything, to fight for our country.”
He paused, then returned to the only place leadership can live.
“We focus on the next match. We can’t control what has already happened.”
The road bends one last time.
From Agadir to Marrakech.
From frustration to belief. From what might have been to what still waits.
The Warriors have one night left to decide whether this journey ends as it always has, or whether, at last, it becomes something quietly new.
