"Chikwese chiriko here nhasi?" ("Do we have a soccer game today?") — that was our version of "hello" growing up. It wasn’t just a question; it was a heartbeat check for the day. If the answer was “No,” it felt like someone had stolen the sun. But if it was “Yes!” — oh, that was the golden ticket, the day’s blessing, the reason to run faster than goats being chased from the garden. Glory was calling, and dusty roads were ready!
I started playing soccer when I was just a tiny barefoot dreamer. Back then, the ball wasn’t leather or Adidas — it was a proud invention made from plastic bags and old string. We played in the wide, dusty roads of my village, where traffic meant a passing donkey cart or a slow-moving herd of cattle. Most of the area was hilly — not just hills, but scattered with stones and jagged rocks that bruised our feet and tested our balance. But we didn’t care. We’d climb and dodge our way down to a slightly flatter stretch of road that led to Mr. Masimbi’s homestead — a well-known man in the village, famous for his tall, green stalks of sugarcane that lined the path like cheering fans. That small patch of level ground became our stadium, and we played like the world was watching. Every kick, every goal, every cheer felt like magic. Soccer wasn’t just a game — it was freedom, joy, and our daily dose of hope.
Most of the time, we didn’t even wear shoes. Why bother when you could feel the earth under your feet — and occasionally a sharp rock too? One time, I kicked the ground so hard trying to score that my toenail turned black and stayed that way for weeks. Did it hurt? Yes. Did I stop playing? Absolutely not. We called that "earning your football stripes."
We had clever tactics to stay out of trouble. Before heading home, we’d remove our dusty shirts and switch to the “clean” layer of shorts — yes, we wore two on purpose, one for soccer and one for our grandparents' approval. It was our way of saying: “See? I’ve been responsible all day!” (Spoiler alert: they were rarely convinced.)
There were no referees, no VAR, and certainly no red cards. The only official was the owner of the ball — and their word was law. Whether it was a goal, penalty, or “That was totally not offside, I swear,” we respected the judgment (unless we were losing, of course). If teams were uneven, we used the sacred tradition of "pick from the other side until it's fair...ish."
After the final whistle (which never existed), we’d march straight to the nearest river to clean up. No soap, no towels — just cold water and laughter. We’d then run home, drying off in the sun like human laundry, slip into our clean clothes, and head to our next duty: herding goats from the hillside. Of course, arriving home late sparked some heated grandparental lectures, but hey, greatness comes at a price.
My love for soccer wasn’t born from watching the World Cup — it started in a village where turning on the TV was a Christmas miracle. Literally. The TV only came alive when my cousins from town visited. They talked endlessly about teams like Chelsea and Barcelona, so I became a fan before I even knew who played for them. I chose them based on passion, not players — now that’s loyalty!
When I was about 11, I learned the art of TV stealth. I secretly watched my cousin connect the solar-powered battery and tune into the soccer channel. One day, I tried it while my grandparents were out — and boom, I was hooked. Chelsea and Barça weren’t just teams anymore; they were stories I wanted to follow forever.
Watching TV, though, was a delicate operation. First, I had to place the solar panel under the sun, charge the battery for hours, then sneakily hook up the TV. One unlucky day, my grandma came back earlier than expected and caught me mid-match. Her reaction? Let’s just say, solar charging was temporarily suspended.
So, I switched to Radio Zimbabwe. Thankfully, they didn’t mind me using the radio as much. But even that came with drama. I once dismantled the radio because it wasn’t working — and there was a game I couldn’t miss! My grandfather walked in just as I had the whole thing opened like I was on a NASA mission. He didn’t share my sense of urgency.
Worst of all were rainy days. Rain meant no sunlight. No sunlight meant no charging. No charging meant no soccer. That kind of pain is hard to explain — like being benched by nature itself.
One of my biggest fans? My grandfather — my sekuru — who beamed with pride every time we played at Munjerenje, our community ground. And when I say “ground,” I mean two wooden poles with crooked crossbars and boundary lines that looked like someone traced a drunk snake through a forest path. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the crowd. And my sekuru’s joy reached the clouds when people said, “Mr. Hove, your grandson is a star — we can’t start the game without him!” That praise was better than a trophy. Sometimes, as a token of appreciation, folks would even buy him a bottle of Super Beer — village-level VIP treatment! Did my grandmother love it as much? Hmm… probably not. Especially on days I skipped chores just to chase a ball. Silly me — but passion has its price!
Friday July 2019 was a match day at Chipinge High School. That tournament was something else. No classes, no books — just football. Chipinge High was hosting the 2019 District Championships, and the whole school turned into a stadium. People knew me as the sharp-dressed Vice Head-Prefect, the calm Junior Member of Parliament, the preacher at Scripture Union. But when I stepped onto that pitch in a black and yellow jersey, matching boots, and socks — some thought it was a prank. Until they saw the first goal. Then the second. Then the magic. We didn’t just play — we dominated. And yes, we took the trophy home.
The crowd was electric — but let’s be real, the loudest voices? Girls. Every time I touched the ball, their cheers hit different. It was like the sound turned into energy, and boom — suddenly I had the confidence of Messi in a Champions League final. The moment the ball kissed the back of the net, I wasn’t just scoring goals… I was scoring hearts. But as I jogged back, chest out, all I could think was: “Did she see that I’m the one who scored?” And even if she didn’t — her friends definitely would tell her.
And they did. Because the very next time we crossed paths, she didn’t waste time. “Wooow, Blessing, you’re so talented! I saw you scored six goals!” she said, all smiles and sparkle. “I wanted to come give you a hug, but I was too shy… and my friends already think we’re dating.” My poor high school crush. She said it with a laugh, but inside, I was doing cartwheels. That day I didn’t just win a game — I won a memory that still glows like a golden goal in extra time.
For the next two weeks, school and town had one headline: “Blessing!” I wasn’t just a student anymore — I was a sensation. The boy with the books who could also bend it like Beckham. That feeling? Uncontrollable. Unforgettable. Like scoring a goal in a dream… only this time, it was real.
I continued playing throughout high school. Even when academics became a top priority, I was still known for my game. I led teams to finals, won trophies, and proudly collected titles like Man of the Match, Player of the Season, and Top Goal Scorer. I wasn’t just playing — I was building a legacy one dusty pass at a time.
The luckiest thing about my childhood? Every single friend I made was a soccer fanatic. Like, it was basically a rule — if you didn’t like football, sorry, we couldn’t vibe. In primary school, Charles and Trevor were my day-ones. We did everything together: homework, breaktime drama, even getting punished in sync like a trio of mischievous geniuses. We weren’t just friends — we were a package deal, like sadza and stew.
But high school? Oh, high school came with a plot twist. New uniforms, new teachers, and of course — new friendships. Charles and the old crew weren’t there anymore, but God, in His infinite humor, sent me three legends. Yes, three! Now this wasn’t just a friendship — this was a squad, a proper football club in human form. James(Morningstar), Msuthu (we called him Legend, for obvious reasons) and nd Trevor (yes, Trevor made a comeback like a Marvel superhero, but this one is differrent from primary one in so many ways).
The four of us were classmates in most subjects, but one class in particular was both our comedy show and our tragedy series: Math, I swear, we could study all night and still score 49%. The exam questions looked like riddles from outer space. Yet somehow, we were known for being sharp minds — blazer-wearing gentlemen who walked like CEOs and joked like stand-up comedians.
People laughed at our Math marks, but Legend had the last laugh. One day, after yet another group flop, he stood up like a motivational speaker and declared: “From today, we are Mashasha(The best of everything) — we may fail to interpret the question, but we NEVER go wrong!” And boom — that was our new name. Our motto. Our vibe.
“Mashasha” caught on like free Wi-Fi in town. Within weeks, the whole school was calling us that. Even teachers joined in! It spread faster than gossip after a school fight. Before we knew it, we had our own Mashasha Tournament, fully endorsed by Gaza High School. It wasn’t just a football match — it was an event. Music, dancing, laughter, vibes — the kind of memories that live rent-free in your mind forever.
So yes, while others were stressing over grades and textbook pages, we were busy building a legacy — the kind that made people smile, cheer, and wish they were part of something that fun. We weren’t just students. We were Mashasha: bold, brilliant, and slightly confused by exam questions.
Even after moving to the USA, soccer never left me. I joined a community club where I still lace up and hit the pitch. My motto remains: "Whether we win, lose, or draw — there must be my goal." It’s not just a slogan; it’s a mission. That drive has made me a valued teammate and a respected striker.
Summer 2024 brought fantastic news — not just news, but a moment of pure joy. It was a busy day. we had just finished resetting beds and preparing rooms in Pondside 3 for the incoming students of Fall 2024. The building had no AC, so I was already sweating and tired when an iPhone notification popped up. Half of it read: “Clubs are preparing to leave for US Tour this month.” I almost ignored it, but something told me to click.
Guess what I saw? Chelsea. Barcelona. Real Madrid. My heart started beating faster than ever. I had no budget for this kind of fun—I was supposed to save for health insurance, car insurance, and to cover the gap in my tuition. But in that moment, I had no choice. Like the sun, I had to come out.
With the little I had, I bought a ticket to Chelsea vs. Real Madrid at the Bank of America Stadium. Now I had the match ticket, but I still needed to get to North Carolina. I made a reckless but joyful decision—I bought a flight ticket.
Of course, that wasn’t the end. I needed gas to drive to Logan Airport, and money for parking. But this time? I didn’t care.
Tuesday, August 6, 2024. I drove to Logan like I was flying already. Thank God all the police were off duty that day—I didn’t see a single one. You know how much I love planes. I got to the airport extra early just to enjoy the view. I sat by the window at the gate like a little kid with a dream, watching Boeings, Airbuses, and all kinds of aircraft. I even started naming them like old friends: “There goes Boeing Beyoncé… and that’s Airbus Ronaldo.”
I grabbed a sandwich that cost the same as a week’s groceries in Zimbabwe, and waited. As I sat munching and scrolling, I imagined myself walking into the stadium with fireworks behind me like some kind of FIFA trailer. Then came the classy British-accented voice over the speaker: “Boarding is starting in 10 minutes to Charlotte, North Carolina.” I smiled to myself. “This is it.” Then I remembered — I hadn’t booked a ride from the airport to the stadium. “Okay Blessing, chill,” I told myself. I quickly booked an Uber.
The flight? Oh, it was an adventure on its own. I got a window seat (blessing upon blessing), and spent half the time looking out and half pretending I was on an ESPN interview: "What motivated this trip?" “Well, I just couldn’t miss seeing my boys, Chelsea, in action — it’s not every day your childhood dreams fly you across the country.” I even had a playlist on. My AirPods were blasting Burna Boy, then switched to Davido, then boom — straight into “Blue is the Colour.” Every time the plane hit a little turbulence, I said a quick prayer and imagined I was dodging tackles. We landed smoothly in Charlotte. And guess what showed up? A white classic BMW with the exact license plate from the app. I couldn’t believe it. At first I thought the app was playing with me. But lo and behold — that exact number plate rolled up like I was some kind of visiting diplomat. I almost saluted the driver. I got in, leaned back, and let the breeze hit me like a superstar. That moment? I was him. President. Celebrity. Ballon d'Or finalist. The driver dropped me right at the stadium entrance. I stepped onto the terrace like Prime Minister Blessing, ready to give a victory speech on the red carpet. And then… The boys came out. I stepped onto the terrace like the Prime Minister, walking a red carpet to deliver a speech.
Then—the boys came out. I screamed like a proper fan. Like a Sekuru-funded vuvuzela. I didn’t even care who heard me (thank God the people around me didn’t throw me out). Yes, Chelsea lost, but seeing them in person? It was a blessing.
After the game, I took another Uber back to the airport. My flight was delayed by 2 hours. I left North Carolina around 11 PM, landed in Boston around 1 AM, then drove two hours home. I stayed at home for just two hours—and by 7 AM, I was back at work.
Tired? Yes. Broke? Definitely. Regret? Zero. If you had told that boy sprinting barefoot across the dust of Munjerenje — dodging rocks, goats, and the occasional angry chicken — that one day he’d fly across American state just to watch Chelsea play, he probably would’ve laughed and gone back to chasing the ball. But here I am. From a pitch made of hope and sand to sitting in a stadium surrounded by tens of thousands, watching football giants — my giants — do what we all once dreamed of.
Even after the game, even after all the cheering and losing my voice screaming for Chelsea, I still had one thing in mind — my journey. My story. From Munjerenje to North Carolina wasn’t just about chasing fun; it was me chasing a piece of the boy who used to juggle a worn-out ball in dusty fields while his friends counted touches like medals. The same boy who believed one day the world would see what his sekuru saw.
So yes, wallet was screaming, eyes heavy… but soul full. And yet, in all that excitement, I couldn’t help but think back to my sekuru, sitting under the shade of that old musasa tree, telling neighbors, “My grandson is living the dream — one match, one memory at a time.”
But all of it — the barefoot games, the sneaky TV sessions, the victories, and the village adventures — built more than just a soccer player. They built character, resilience, and joy. And that’s why, no matter where I go, a ball at my feet feels like home.