The death of Simba Rushwaya, last week, reminds me of when our paths crossed. I can’t remember everything. It is not possible. I am not attempting to be an authority on Simba Rushwaya. The writing of these reflections is in itself a painful exercise I enjoyed reading better, more expansive memories from John Mokwetsi, Hope Chizuzu (Facebook) as well as others. Mine is hardly an obituary.
Rushwaya just seemed to burst into my life in the same workplace. We were both freelancers. He died at 49, 3 years older than me. But it felt as if he was younger because of his smaller stature, humility, compassion and empathy. If there is a group I have struggled to understand or be understood by, it is often those a year or two older than me. Not all of them. I have known some really decent people like Ian Zvoma whom I went to primary and secondary school with and often played football with who managed to also be older and still remain humble.
Journalism in 2000 was an interesting space. Change was in the air. Change in technology. Change in generations. Change in general.
There was once a time when you had to have a secure full-time or freelance job to share an opinion with a wide audience on any issue. An odd letter to the Editor was all the public could bank on for their own opinions. That was before social media.
There was once a time when you had to be in a certain department to share your specific opinions on one but not all of sports, news, politics, business or any area of journalism.
Those days are gone now. You can speak on any subject to 1000s. Old school Journalists must wake up feeling powerless some days when mere mortals share yet another publicly.
Anyone can share the same reckless abandon as social media affords now when it comes to reporting. Back then in the days of blue-chip, stock exchange registered companies, a celebrated career could end with a lawsuit and one would be disgraced forever. These days influencers have 100,000s of overnight followers. Even millions. They own their destiny. They can’t be disgraced. They do not apologise. They have no responsibilities other than to themselves. Their names are registered trademarks. They tell us what to eat, who to love and even who to hate.
Back then, I had friends in the more visible media departments. I would pop in and discuss their ‘sacred published writings’ in some youthful exuberance which was not always appreciated except by the most open-minded writers.
On the bright side journalists do not anymore have to live with the resentment they attracted in those days for their sacred opinions. But your ordinary journalist also had a team of Editors, colleagues and sub-editors to make sure he was more balanced and accurate and to cover his or her back, as it were.
Robson Sharuko is considered a writer of note since taking over from Omaar at the Herald as Sports Editor. Back then Sharuko was often accused of being a Dynamos fan, or a fan of one of the Dynamos factions.I can remember a time when fans of one faction hounded Sharuko into exile from his own home.
In 2024 opinions are everywhere. Everyone has one. Journalists compete with bloggers, experts and ordinary people when sharing their views. Sadly, these career professionals can now be drowned out at a cost.
Simba Rushwaya, a 49 year-old sports journalist sadly died this week of cancer. The label ‘veteran” was attached to his name. Just when he was entering into his best years. The Birchenough bridge product had a nickname “Genaro Gatusso” named after the sulliest face in all football. Gatusso, an Italian was combative. To those of us who knew Rushwaya, back in the day, this was somewhat of a misnomer. A misnomer is a name almost in-accurate in describing someone. Rushwaya was not combative. He was a gentleman. But maybe the name came from his love of the goatee bearded Italian.
I can’t remember a personal disagreement with Rushwaya. There should have been one. If there was it is too late to know now. That ship has sailed. This, with a sports reporter and my opinionated mid-20s self, is something of a miracle.
Our friendship began as freelancers at ANZ. Back when employment guaranteed payment. If work was done work was paid for. By check, not long after the first of the month. Employers were beginning to stretch the realms of credibility by delaying payments, in the early days of serious inflation.
Rushwaya and myself found a method to counter the late payment madness. We had a penchants to overdress on broke pockets. Ties, formal shirts and jackets, for me. Suits, white shirts and ties, for Rushwaya. We would camp in accounts, where they couldn’t forget us. Where they could see us. And we would be engaging for hours, for days.
Any serious accountant would surely be frustrated. Eventually the payment would come through. Eventually could be another month. To solve this problem, Editorial reduced the number of free-lancers. Somehow Rushwaya and myself survived. He always called by the pre-fic “Mr” and then my surname. Soldiers in arms, chasing payment. He made the hours feel shorter. Eventually payment would come through and we would pay our landlords.
In time, we attracted fulltime employment. He had a friend in Dakarayi Mashava, then a librarian under Mr Mavhudzi, a legendary librarian who outdated Harare’s most respected libraries and was in the middle of forming one at ANZ. Milton Shoriwa and Munyaradzi Mutebuka established themselves under Mavhudzi and Mashava. This library was a favorite place for many, for verification of potential stories, for filed pictures and for company.
Mavhudzi had a way of initiating visitors by marking his territory. He had a dyed Afro hairstyle and a combative approach, initially, until you knew who was the boss. After that your friendship was established. Mavhudzi carried the air and authority of an Editor, a Chief Executive in his library.
Mashawa, the budding assistant had a permanent smile, even in his irritation. You never knew when Mashawa was angry. You still don’t. He smiled to a fault. He had booming voice. Rushwaya was his homeboy from Beitbridge in Chipinge. Mashawa loved his local football and Manchester United.
Mashawa was a walking encyclopedia on football, especially local. I vividly remember the day he announced the discovery of Benjani Mwaruwaru of Air Zim Jets. According to Mashawa (he denies it now) his Uncle, Major Kwenda, in charge of Air Zim Jets, had a son who named Benjani “The Undertaker” and he just walked in, at ANZ, and exclaimed: “We have found the Undertaker.” To this day, in Zimbabwe, in South Africa, football has one Undertaker, even in England: The guy who buries chances: Benjani Mwaruwaru. Finding his real name was nightmare for the press. Mwaruwaru? Maliwali? Benjamin? Benjani? Mpenjani? Eventually they settled on Benjani Mwaruwaru.
Mashawa and Rushwaya’s friendship from home or ‘kanye’ as they say in Chipinge, was firmly established, the sports journalist and the librarian soccer fan. They both did not like Dynamos. Or rather they liked Caps more. Where they Caps fans because they disliked Dynamos? Or did they dislike Dynamos because they were Caps fans? The fact is they opted to be different back when everyone was a Dynamos fan was the received wisdom.
Rushwaya struck an interesting friendship with Norman Mapeza who was playing in Europe and also for The Warriors. Rushwaya was known at Mapeza’s house on Borrowdale in the fast rising apartment blocks of Borrowdale Brooke, which housed Nick Price, the international golfer, Byron Black the decorated international tennis player and others among Zimbabwe’s best paid sportsman. Rushwaya was even known to Mapeza’s family. And then just like that the friendship ended in acrimony. Perhaps, if Rushwaya had acted in self-interest the friendship would have blossomed.
Life took us in different directions. Those days became a distant memory and my life took a totally different direction from newsrooms. We lost touch.
We grew in our different directions. Other journalists like Hope Chizuzuzu and John Mokwetsi eloquently wrote about their extended colorful encounters with Rushwaya. Some referred to these as eulogies. But so candid were the recounting of facts that I just felt these were men who bled when cut.
It is entertaining to readers to listen to someone who can give a blow by blow account when most emotionally affected. But the truth can often be that that person is actually hurt. They just have a way with words. They helped us to see Rushwaya’s concluding 2 decades from up, close and personal.
Zimbabwe’s life expectancy has often been so short, it was a fraction of longevity elsewhere. Things have somewhat improved. But far too many people endure dialysis weekly and radical chemotherapy often after late diagnosis. Out of desperation for father figures and senior figures who become endangered species we hang on to these individuals, male AND female and attach the word veteran to their names. Sadly, ageism means they may be resented and hounded out of workplaces in a world that has so become intolerant to opinions. Some of them become unemployable, even when newsrooms cry out for wise old heads that remind us not to quickly publish for clicks. The desperation to publish first then apologise later is the nightmare of our time.
Only when they are declared dead do we then attach the recognition these colleagues always deserved for their experience, manner and talents. We call them veterans out of guilt. Death approaches away from the city centers of Harare with the veterans feeling lonely and forgotten. It doesn’t feel right, if you catch my drift.
Not all veterans die lonely. Some have strong social support structures and remain relevant to associations outside their immediate work. This can be a nightmare for devoted careerists. It can feel a betrayal.
When they had power and influence, they also had friends. When they shed that power, often involuntarily, they shed their closest associates too. They can feel their former friends shying away from them. And the cycle rinses and repeats with the next veteran. “Success has many fathers but failure is an orphan.” It ought not be this way.” “Failure is not permanent and defeat is not eternal.” But this life is no longer one of second chances. It’s all or nothing on that one chance.
