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Robson Sharuko
EXACTLY 10 years ago, on this day, Simon Chimbetu breathed one last time, slipped into a deep sleep, and never woke up again.

And, with that, a golden voice, which had turned him into a superstar, in an era of genuine legendary Zimbabwean singers, was silenced for good.

Never to produce another classic like “Samatenga”, for in those dizzy heights of angels, his soul now lived, never to be burdened again by the challenges that stalk the living, never to worry about record sales or a pending court case about receiving stolen property.

They say legends never die, and that is probably true about Simon.

A decade later, his music has withstood the test of time, still sounds as good, if not better, than it did all those years when he was introducing it to our ears, voice so powerful, the creativity so distinct, the melody so rich and the meaning so strong.

That Simon thundered on the scene at a time when the Zimbabwe musical scene was littered with legends, at the peak of their game, and that he didn’t only distinguish himself, among the superstars, but found a way to get to the top, was testimony of the talent that he had in abundance.

The competition was intense, the immortal Leonard Dembo was producing hit after hit, this was the era of “Chitekete”, when our music was so powerful even the Bundu Boys were good enough to be a supporting act for Madonna at Wembley.

Music fans were spoilt for choice, from John Chibadura and his Tembo Brothers to the original Khiama Boys, Paul Matavire, Marshall Munhumuwe and the Four Brothers, James Chimombe, Leonard Zhakata to the never-fading veterans, Thomas Mapfumo and Oliver Mutukudzi, who simply would not go away.

And Simon, with his Dendera music, did not only battle the intense competition but, for some time, even took himself to the top and, given the quality of the opposition, that was a phenomenal achievement.

Simon was a natural.

He was born to sing, to compose songs, to entertain those who believed in his music, and at one point the entire country appeared to embrace him as its favourite musician, and that he was able to achieve that feat, after the low point of having served a four-year jail term for possessing stolen property, was testimony of his gift.

Yes, as improbable as it might sound today, Simon became a bigger star after he walked out of prison, his popularity seemingly untainted by his stay in jail and his creative genius unaffected by the most difficult period of his life.

He could draw 2 000 fans at London’s Statford Rex, draw a full-house at the Large City Hall in Bulawayo and he always had a sellout crowd, at his shows, in the capital or anywhere he went across the country.

People loved him, if not for his voice then for his striking good looks, he also was a fashion icon and, more importantly, he was real.

He never shied from what he believed in, whether in his songs or in his interviews, and there was always that beaming smile to accompany every word that came from his mouth, and you felt the chemistry between him and those who flocked to his shows.

His role in the liberation struggle shaped his music, he even named his first band, during his time with his brother Naison, Marxist Brothers, and some of his greatest songs were stories of his time in the trenches of that war.

“I fought in the liberation war and still think of my comrades who died in my arms,” he told Mduduzi Mathuthu, during an interview in England.

“They never fought for their own families alone but they fought so that Zimbabweans can repossess what had been taken away from them by the whites.

“I look at the opposition parties across Africa, just as I look at all new things that come up, and I realise that they have no base.

“I am a revolutionary and what I see in most of our opposition parties is a group of people who have no foundation, they can’t think on their own.”

And, in that landmark interview, spoke of his love for his country and everyone who was a Zimbabwean.

“Every Zimbabwean is a friend,” he said.

Simon was my friend and, together with Tendai Ndemera and our crew, we used to attend his shows with regularity and, from up-close and personal, I got to appreciate that he was an incredible musician and, even though 10 years have passed since his death, it still feels like he is still around us.

And it still feels like, tomorrow, or on Sunday, or one day next week, I will get some time from my busy schedule, to go and watch the Master of Song in action, to chat with him during one of his breaks and to just stand in that crowd and admire a genius at work.

Of course, that will not happen, and that is what hurts the most, pain that hasn’t been diluted by the passage of time, and on the tenth anniversary of Simon’s death, memories of those days when his band played on, come flooding back.

It’s that love affair, with Simon’s music, which made me attend a number of shows that his son, Sulu, used to hold at Jazz 105, before Josh Hozheri closed his joint, and moved across town to Pamuzinda.

Sulu reminded me of Simon, for a fleeting moment, until I came to understand that there will never be another Simon because musicians like the immortal Chopper, a Master of Song, come only once in a generation.

I play his music in the car, and at home, and every time it feels so rich, so pure, after all these years, it’s a sign of how remarkable a genius he was.

I guess it’s true what people say, that you never know what you have, until it’s gone and, yes, you were right Simon, utete ura wedu.

One thing for sure today is that, “pane asipo”, and it’s on days like these that some of us, who were a part of your life and music, know that it’s important to ensure that “tarangarira gamba”.