RIP Mkhays, our hero!

Rutendo Nyeve

I am still trying to find the right words, but my heart is heavy and my mind is filled with memories.

Mkhululi “Mkhays” Sibanda.

My Assistant Editor.

It still feels surreal writing that he passed away on Friday, 3 July 2026.

As the journalism fraternity mourns, I find myself reflecting on the remarkable coincidence that just a day before his burial, President Emmerson Mnangagwa conferred on him the status of a liberation hero.

It is a fitting honour for a man who dedicated his life and his pen to documenting the liberation struggle. For those of us who were privileged to work closely with him, one thing is certain — even in heaven, Mkhays is smiling.

He probably already has a notebook out, planning his next great column from above. He was that passionate and proud about his work.

I am fully aware that I am far too junior in this industry to speak extensively about his career. Mkhays had been in journalism for close to three decades, long before I even understood what a byline meant. The heartfelt tributes and eulogies pouring in from giants in the media fraternity this week are a true reflection of the giant he was.

But the inspiration behind this tribute is deeply personal.

I was the last reporter to be recruited by The Sunday News about four years ago, before I was later redeployed to Victoria Falls. Because of that, I consider myself one of the privileged members of the “last generation” of journalists to have benefited from his wisdom at such a personal level.

When I finally decided to pursue journalism after trying two other professions that simply did not fit, I told three people about my plans: Mhlomuli Ncube, Nduduzo Tshuma and Limukani Ncube.

The country was still recovering from the effects of Covid-19, but eventually, I got the opportunity to join as a sit-in correspondent.

I will never forget my first day.

Mkhays called me into his office, conducted a quick background check and warmly welcomed me. He explained what I should expect.

To be honest, I was full of confidence. I walked in believing I knew everything. It did not take long for me to realise I knew very little.

I got the feeling that my cocky attitude did not impress him at first. We were not the closest of friends in the beginning. I was probably just another young, inexperienced journalist to him.

But his office was the heartbeat of the entire building.

It was busier than the front desk.

I saw all kinds of people walking in — senior military officers, high-ranking intelligence officials, judges and ordinary elderly citizens carrying large files.

Out of curiosity, I asked another reporter what was happening in that office.

He simply replied: “That office cooks the best stories.”

That was my wake-up call. I knew I had to tap into that wealth of knowledge.

Mkhays taught me the golden rule of soft journalism: “Because people want to know, Nyeve…”

He drilled into me that the best story is one that affects people’s everyday lives.

He had an open-door policy. Literally, his office was rarely closed. He would always tell me: “If you want to make it here, you need to write page one stories.”

He had an unmatched appreciation for quality journalism.

At the time, I had no idea what made a story worthy of the front page, but he patiently guided me through it all, step by step.

You could walk into his office with nothing more than a rough idea and walk out with a complete story plan.

He paid painstaking attention to detail. He never left anything to assumption. Every fact had to be verified.

One thing that always touched me was his relationship with his children. I genuinely believe his children were among his closest friends.

The last time I saw him was just a few weeks ago at Barbourfields Stadium during the Highlanders versus Dynamos match. He was seated with his eldest son.

He asked about Victoria Falls and smiled when I told him the city was treating me well.

Mkhays was a hard man to please.

But if you walked into his office with a brilliant story that captured his attention, the feeling was unmatched.

“Nyeve, yiyo indlikizane leyi,” he would say, describing a great story.

He would then immediately tell you who to contact and how best to structure it.

Beyond the daily newsroom grind was his extraordinary contribution to documenting the liberation struggle through his celebrated “Lest We Forget” column.

I witnessed first-hand what it took.

He dedicated his personal time and, at times, his own resources to travelling to war veterans’ homes, listening to their experiences, recording their stories and taking on the demanding task of transcribing their accounts.

All this was done while still clearing more than 40 articles submitted by reporters every week.

The column was not easy. There were cancelled appointments, last-minute changes and countless challenges. But every week, the stories found their way into print.

I remember one day when he asked for my assistance. I arranged an interview with a senior war veteran and retired Brigadier General. We met at Holiday Inn and gathered an incredible narration that was published as a five-part series.

A few weeks later, that same comrade was appointed to a ministerial position.

Mkhays and I were both genuinely happy about that.

His articles were always deep, detailed and comprehensive. In his later years, one of his pieces received recognition from Presidential spokesperson Mr George Charamba — an acknowledgement that I, as someone in this media space, hold in the highest regard.

Over time, we built a relationship where he would share updates about his personal projects. We even went together to buy materials for some of them.

One weekend, he called me to Southworld shops. We bought drinks, and he opened up about his personal life. It was an emotional, candid and mature conversation I never imagined having with my boss.

On a lighter note, Mkhays was always sharp.

Clean. Smart. Modest in his formal wear.

He had a rare ability to gather intelligence and turn information into compelling journalism.

He was proud to be a son of the liberation struggle.

He was proud of his coverage of the DRC conflict.

But above all, he was proud of producing a quality journalist.

Rest well, Mkhays.

Thank you for the wisdom.
Thank you for the stories.
Thank you for the patience.

My life is richer because I knew you.