Chiware died a rich man

24 Aug, 2014 - 00:08 0 Views

The Sunday Mail

Gilbert Munetsi Sports Correspondent
IT’S often argued that we do not have poor people in this world.
Instead, it is just the form in which our riches are packaged that differs from individual to individual. Some people are defined as wealthy owing to material possessions attached to their names, and yet others are equally rich as a result of having been blessed with exceptional psychological faculties.

Shepherd Chiware, may his soul rest in peace, died a very rich man, indeed.

It’s unfortunate we may not afford the fees of an actuary to quantify, in monetary terms, how much the celebrated sports consultant could have been worth at the time of his ascendency.

The sad fact that remains with us today as we mourn this industrious, larger-than-life sports personality is that the sector in particular, and indeed the country, have been left the poorer.

Not many responsible offices ever bothered to breathe life into his theories, programmes and workmanship.

His researches, case studies and voluminous writings could surely have altered the domestic sports landscape.

Perhaps his efforts were like that of one trying to merchandise ice to Eskimos.

My initial contact with Shepherd was back in 1993 while working in the public relations department of a national farmers’ organisation at Reliance House in Harare. Then, he was based at Cleveland House, where he was employed as transport manager by the City of Harare.

On this occasion, he had crossed Speke Avenue to see his nephew with whom I worked.

Later, I found myself publishing an article for him in The Sunday Mail.

It was about three soccer administrators from an establishment called Greenhill All Sports Project in the United Kingdom, who were coming to hold soccer coaching clinics in the high-density suburbs of Harare under his Soccer 2000 Scheme banner (later re-branded S Chiware Sport Consultancy). What he did not divulge to me was that earlier in the year he had made a trip to Europe and the coming of the English trio was a reciprocal visit.

After a few phone calls and a couple of impromptu meetings in the city later, I one day woke up to a knock on my door. Standing there was Chiware. He said we needed to talk.

He informed me that “our” visitors would be touching down at Harare International Airport in two hours’ time and the dilemma was that “we” had no transport with which to pick them up from the airport, neither did we have a place to check them in.

What was needed, he said, was a plan.

I told him it was his baby and his reply was out of this world.

“Ah, manje mukasandibetsera nezano, VaMunetsi, handiende kuAirport kwacho tione anosuffer because imi ndimi makanyora story yacho. Makadziya moto wembavha . . . ” (If you don’t give me a plan, I will not go to the airport and we will see who will suffer because you are the one who wrote the story that these guys are coming.)

That was Shepherd Chiware for you.

To cut a long story short, with me in tow, we managed to sweet-talk the then Mayor of Harare, Solomon “Big Solo” Tawengwa, into releasing a municipal 18-seater bus. And in the nick of time, we were weaving in and out of the now Joshua Mqabuko Nkomo Road at suicidal speed, with Shepherd at the wheel.

We made it to the airport just as the British Airways Boeing 767 was landing and, sure as the sun sets in the west, there were Darren Dooley, Joven Payne and Daniel Griffiths waving at us from the old terminal.

While they rested from their jet-lag at a council chalet acquired on credit in Msasa, we managed to put together a big, colourful bash for them at a very popular spot in the city. And so touched were they by such hospitality that the following morning they gave us some money, which (unbeknown to them) we used to host them for the duration of their stay.

Peter Ndlovu (then turning up for Coventry City FC, a good friend of Shepherd and acquainted to the visitors) weighed in, asking his brother Madinda to “do something for the visitors”.

Today, I owe my passion for the sport of boxing to Shepherd Chiware, who gave me reason to start a weekly boxing column (Boxing Corner) in this publication more than 15 years ago. This was after he had invited me to Mai Musodzi Hall in Mbare to watch a film based on the real-life story of my namesake, Gilbert “Giro” Josamu.

He explained to me how the media could play a big role in shaping the lives of sportspersons.

How can I forget the day that Arifonso “Mosquito” Zvenyika was freed from incarceration and Chiware gave me some money to hire a car and pick him up from Harare Central Prison? With all his belongings on earth contained in a paper bag, I brought him to Braud Brothers Building where, in typical prodigal son fashion, Shepherd had a “six-piecer” from Chicken Inn waiting, sizzling hot, for Mosquito’s consumption.

That same day, Shepherd convinced Beta Ball Sports to host a welcome bash for the released brother.

His services were then sought by the Zambians, Anthony Mwamba in particular, who asked him to draft a work plan for their boxer, Esther Phiri.

He did, and Phiri later became a holder of five international titles that included the International Boxing Organisation and the Women International Boxing Association world lightweight crowns.

Today, she is among the top five best athletes ever to emerge out of Zambia.

Chiware was there in 2005 during the formative years of the Football Union of Zimbabwe.

With the blessings of both the PSL and Zifa, he authored a “build-operate-transfer” programme that resulted in former and current players having their own trade union. Like a lone voice in the wilderness, he once reckoned in 2009: “We have to find ways of how sport and development can join forces to improve the state of our country.”

As I pen this obituary now, I strongly believe Shepherd Chiware would not want us to shed any tears for him. Rather, he would prefer to see us befittingly celebrating his life and works. And probably start an annual sports event to his memory.

Because, for some of us who had the privilege to get to know him in his living years, here was a personality with an extremely colourful sports CV to his name.

Yet one still needed a second shake of the humble character’s hand to know who this short, bald-headed, dark man with the trademark chuckle really was.

Who are we to protest when the gardener decides to pluck a flower of his choice?

Adios, bosom buddy.

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