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They didn’t float like butterflies, but certainly, they sang like bees
Like Ali’s greatness, their loyalty to the Glamour Boys unquestionable
Together they battled in domestic and continental football trenches
Winning many battles against opponents that were quite formidable
Rufaro was their fortress, the holy theatre of their dreams
A place they called home, dancing and singing in sunshine and rain
Against challengers who came and were slaughtered like breams
By an irresistible force that usually inflicted considerable pain
They were the 12th man, those who could never be substitutes
The vocal ones who never got injured or could be suspended
Always serving a club whose company ensured they weren’t destitutes
And deriving a lot of pride, and joy, which could never be ended
Some of them experienced the golden era of a man called Sunday
Back in the day when this fine gaffer made them serial champs
Providing them with bragging rights from Monday to Saturday
And, in ’98, making more headlines in Africa than Donald Trump
For them, the heartbeat of their team was in a chap called Memory
The boy from Mufakose whose small frame hid the power of a lion
Their captain, the inspirational one who always guided them to glory
The great one, the brilliant one who kept taking them all the way to Zion
Others came later, and endured the lengthy barren spell in the wilderness
Without a league title to their credit, stumbling from one crisis to another
Those years between ’98 and 2006 when their men staggered in the darkness
Replaced on the podium of champions by this team or the other
But, even in that blanket of gloom, including a flirtation with relegation
The 12th men, as they had always done, stuck with their struggling side
They were there in Masvingo when their team faced Premier League elimination
And in that pounding rain they sang, Clive Mwale’s winner ensuring they enjoyed the ride
Then Yogi came along and cheered the spirits with a first league title in a decade
And they saw old boy King Khali return to win four straight league championships
In the continental battles they watched in horror as their pedigree began to fade
Including a seven-goal Tunis demolition where sour became the taste of their chips
But their faith was never shaken, they saw no evil, heard no evil and spoke no evil
After all, they remained the loyal 12th man, after all this remained their team
In good and bad times, it was just a journey to enjoy and salute their Captain Marvel
For those iconic blue-and-white colours were all that mattered in their beautiful dream
Last Saturday they embarked on another road trip, this time to a place called Ascot
Even in these trying times, with their heroes struggling this season, they still believed
On that bus they were singing for King Nasama, so diminutive he looks like a mascot
And his mother was on that bus, too, carrying boots which would make her son relieved
But something horrible happened and, in just a flash, their life adventure was all over
Consumed by a tragedy that has shaken us all, those who never got a chance to say goodbye
For those of us who today mourn this loss, knowing it could be us tomorrow in that Rover
We can only say, go well the DeMbare Eight, for one day it will be our turn to die
This poem was written for the DeMbare Eight by our Senior Sports Editor Robson Sharuko
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