On Thursday, the clock that keeps time on my service in this company will read 20 years or two decades or five-short-of-a-Silver Jubilee, whatever suits your taste best. It has been quite an absorbing adventure, from the very first day I arrived here as that fresh-faced rookie journalist still weighed down by the home sickness of being so far away from Chakari.
I had spent the last three years resident in Harare but still the innocence of Chakari remained very attractive to me and, in those early days, every Friday meant a bus ride back home to be at peace with my people. Tauya Coaches was the bus of choice back then, cheap and safe, and a ride to Chegutu cost Z$4 and then I would need less then a dollar to complete the final leg home, passing through farms that were bursting with crops

If our boys feel they deserve to play at the 2013 Nations Cup finals then they should be good enough to weather whatever storm comes their way blowing from the Atlantic into the November 11 Stadium tomorrow because, with all due respect, if we can’t defend a 3-1 lead, then we don’t deserve to be in Mzansi.
There was a time when we had virtually perfected the art of collapsing at the final hurdle, whenever it came to the World and Nations Cup qualifiers, we even ended up believing someone had cursed us.

But the Lord works in a lot of mysterious ways and, for all the challenges he faced in Poland where, by default, he turned into the public face of Asiagate in Europe, and all the devils who stalked him to South Africa, God opened a window for him in Vietnam and, today, Justice Majabvi is singing his redemption song.
Polish football has had a long relationship with Zimbabwe since Wieslaw Grabow-ski landed in this country in the ’80s and used his connections in his motherland to provide a base for a number of our players.
Norman Mapeza is probably the one with the highest profile, among the scores of Zimbabweans who ended up playing in Poland, who include

Ithimu yezwe lonke, the nation’s team, they used to sing at Barbourfields during the good days of Zenzo Moyo and Thabani Masawi at the turn of the millennium, and in the year that Tuku celebrated his 60th birthday, with a big birthday bash, you can hear them singing once again in the City of Kings.
Ihave always considered myself a child of music and, having been born just six months after the historic Woodstock Festival of ’69 in New York, maybe there is considerable justification for that.
Woodstock was a defining moment in the history of music, a four-day mass concert organised by four young men that attracted an estimated 500