EVERY NIGHT IN MY DREAMS, I SEE YOU, I FEEL YOU, THAT IS HOW I KNOW, YOU GO ON

SHARUKO TOP 30 JULYRobson Sharuko
SHE was just three when I first took her to Rufaro and only five when she told me she had made a choice, in terms of the local football club she loved, the latest recruit of the millions of Zimbabwean who have been seduced by the mystic appeal of Dynamos since 1963.

Maybe, it was a beautiful romance that was meant to be, from day one of her life, given she arrived in this world in a landmark year for the Glamour Boys which would see them — just nine months after her birth — celebrate a 15th league title in their illustrious history.

Being the lonely, and lovely dove, in a house full of Red Devils, supporters of that Old Trafford football franchise, it was only fitting that she also fell in love with a Chelsea team whose sky blue colours, from down here, appear to represent the paradise of the golden kingdom of heaven where angels reside.

Football mattered to her, as much as music and, as fate would have it, the first year I took her to Rufaro, was the season her beloved Glamour Boys soared highest in their history, coming within just 90 minutes of being crowned champions of Africa.

And, seven years later, she was part of the generation which finally celebrated Chelsea’s first league title in 50 years, as world football embraced the genius of a Portuguese coach who would transform himself into ‘The Special One,’ with the Blues’ landmark triumph coming in the year the London club celebrated 100 years of their existence.

She had turned 10, back then, and I remember seeing her beaming with pride as Chelsea became champions, providing her with the chance to finally celebrate her team’s success story, having grown up in a house where the bragging of her Red Devils’ family members — whose Manchester United had won six titles since her arrival in this world — had been a pain in the soul.

Of course, she was unaware that her Chelsea had smashed records, along the way, conceding the fewest number of goals in an English Premiership season (15); powering themselves to the highest points tally in a season (95); knitting together the most consecutive away wins in a season (nine) and capping it all with the most clean sheets in a season (25).

But that didn’t matter, in her hour of triumph, when her Blues had finally beaten “daddy’s team led by that grumpy old man (Sir Alex Ferguson) who has been around as long as I can remember it’s as if he owns the club,” and in Didier Drogba she had a footballer she could now call “my favourite player”, his smile, and goals, lighting up her little world.

To me she was just my girl, my Mimi, my Mimizeni (God knows whatever that means, but that was what I called her and that’s what she will forever be called), the ultimate gift God gave me 21 years ago, presented to me in a special year for football in Southern African when a club from this region finally conquered African football.

South African football powerhouse Orlando Pirates, formed in the year her grandfather, my late father, was born in 1937, were crowned champions of Africa in 1995, the year my Mimi was born, although I always told her that her beloved Dynamos should have been the Kings that year.

That is, if her Glamour Boys had not self-destructed, a fatal technical decision plucked from hell, to keep Moses Chunga on the bench in the second leg of their quarter-final tie against Express of Uganda at the National Sports Stadium, backfiring horribly and ending the adventure of men who had the pedigree of being champions of this continent.

Dynamos president Kenny Mubaiwa came home on Sunday morning to pay his respects to a devoted fan of his club he never met, but whose enduring love for the Glamour Boys was known by us who had walked with her every step of her two decades on this earth when all we needed was her smashing smile to provide light on the days when gloom paid us a visit.

Somehow Mimi, my Sophia, passed away at exactly 3pm on that Black Friday, two weeks ago, quietly departing the garden of the living at exactly the same time that is the traditional kick-off time for a game, in this country, which has become a part of her family’s name.

Somehow, my girl had to die at 21 and, given her love for her Dynamos, I could not help, but find it ironic that it was on the occasion of her beloved club’s 21st birthday anniversary, in 1984, when her Glamour Boys, for the first time in Independent Zimbabwe, were dethroned from their throne as domestic football champions after having ruled the roost for four straight years since 1980.

My Mimi has been gone for 15 days now, but — as those who have lost their kids in the prime of their lives, from music superstar Oliver Mtukudzi whose handsome Sam, also only 21 when he died, and Professor Jonathan Moyo whose angel Zanele was only 20 when she died, will tell you — there is nothing as terrible as this.

“Robson, I’m gutted to hear about the loss of your daughter. I know how dark and painful such a loss is,” Professor Moyo said in a message. “My family and I have you and your wife in our prayers. Only God knows why. Do all you can to be strong.”

People have been telling me that she was beautiful, as if it would have mattered had she been ugly, they have been telling me she was full of life, as if it would have mattered if she been a reclusive girl, they have been saying she had grown to become a charming young woman, as if it would have mattered had she not been elegant, as they say, or cute, as they tell me.

To me, she was just my girl, my golden gift from the Lord, the one I would never leave to walk alone and, for two decades, we walked together, our bond growing stronger with each passing day, week, month and year, more than being a daughter she was something special, a part of me always carried her wherever I went and a part of me always stayed with her wherever she was.

Today I’m grieving, not only as a father who lost his angel, but as a man who lost his best friend, haunted by a flood of questions that I will never find an answer to, asking every minute why this had to happen to my sweetheart, of all people, and still getting no answers, wondering why I have been provided with the gift of having to live this long and why my girl never got such a privilege.

A FATHER WHO HAS MADE

A CAREER WRITING OBITUARIES FOR OTHERS

In October 2002, I wrote an obituary for former Zimbabwe international midfielder David Mwanza in this newspaper, writing from a position of considerable authority given that the man they called Chikwama was someone I had known since I was a boy in Chakari, before his rise to become a superstar, a shining beacon who inspired us to also pursue our dreams and find a way out of those goldfields.

Since then, I guess, I have penned a dozen other obituaries for our departed football heroes.

I have also read a number of obituaries, including one by an American lawyer called Amanda Lewis of Dallas, which she penned for her father, Harry Weathersby Stamps, which catapulted a man who, in his life was just a teacher known only to his little closely-knit Mississippi community, into someone who — after his death at the age of 80 — became popular around the world after his daughter’s moving piece was published in The Herald Sun and went viral online.

“Harry Weathersby Stamps, ladies’ man, foodie, natty dresser, and accomplished traveller, died on Saturday, March 9, 2013,” she wrote about her father.

“The women in his life were numerous. He particularly fancied smart women. He married his main squeeze Ann Moore, a home economics teacher, almost 50 years ago, with whom they had two girls Amanda Lewis of Dallas (the writer of the obituary), and Alison of Starkville.

“One of his regrets was not seeing his girl, Hillary Clinton, elected President.

“He particularly hated Day Light Saving Time, which he referred to as The Devil’s Time. It is not lost on his family that he died the very day that he would have had to spring his clock forward. This can only be viewed as his final protest.”

I never imagined, for a moment, that one day, I would sit down and read an obituary for my daughter, as written expertly by my colleague Gilbert Munetsi in this newspaper last week, and I would also sit down and write about her in the past tense.

But, sadly, that’s what fate has cruelly decided and, in the madness that has been my life in the past two weeks, searching for answers that will never come, suffering from excruciating pain that will never heal, staggering in the darkness that will never pass, I have found myself turning to reading a number of obituaries.

I have since found out that Irish singer and songwriter, Bob Geldof, actually contemplated suicide after the tragic death of his daughter, Peaches, two years ago, at the young age of 25.

And, when you consider that this is the same man who, in the face of the catastrophe of the devastating Ethiopian famine of the early ‘80s, which estimates claim killed more than 500 000 people after drought ravaged the northern parts of the country, found the strength to organise the Band Aid initiative whose song, “Do They Know It’s Christmas” grossed more than US$30 million around the world to help the people of Ethiopia, then you know how unbearable losing a young daughter is.

“This thing of being forever 25, in my head, that’s unbearable, simply because of that cliché — YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE YOUR CHILDREN DIE,” Geldof told The Daily Mail this year.

“But she is the one who is with me every second of the day and she is the one who bangs my conscience at any moment, especially in any down moment, where I’m not doing something. She is very present. Times does not heal, it accommodates. But it is not accommodating this.”

Yes, Bob, those who tell us that time is a healer haven’t been hammered with the kind of devastating blow that we have suffered.

YES, MIMZ, MY SWEETHEART, MY HEART WILL GO ON

My girl was just two when Celine Dion released her blockbuster hit song, “My Heart Will Go On”, in 1997, a year before I took her on her first visit to Rufaro, and given that she also loved music and movies, with Titanic among her all-time favourites, maybe, it’s probably fitting that the parting shots, this week, should be about the lyrics of that super song.

Every word seemingly written for my tragedy, for my daughter, for my Mimz.

Yes, Mimz, no matter where you are now, a quarter mile away or halfway around the world, you’ll always be with me, with us, with your mum, who is suffering badly right now as she counts her big loss, your brother Kalusha who can’t believe it and your uncle Simba who can’t stop crying.

“Every night in my dreams

I see you, I feel you,

That is how I know you go on

 

Far across the distance

And spaces between us

You have come to show you go on

 

Near, far, wherever you are

I believe that the heart does go on

Once more you open the door

And you’re here in my heart

And my heart will go on and on

 

Love can touch us one time

And last for a life-time

And never let go ‘til we’re gone

 

Love was when I loved you

One true time I hold to

In my life we’ll always go on

 

Near, far, wherever you are

I believe that the heart does go on

Once more you open the door

And you’re here in my heart

And my heart will go on and on

 

You’re here, there’s nothing I fear,

And I know that my heart will go on

We’ll stay forever this way

You are safe in my heart

And my heart will go on and on in the days of gloom.”

TO GOD BE THE GLORY!

Come on Warriors!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Khamaldinhooooooooooooooooooo!

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