By Rukudzo Onai
In the turf wars of township titans,
Gold is separated from lightning ash.
Chitungwiza sneezes; Berlin takes a jab.
A king bites dust, the bishop sleeps in his bed.
Lords of misrule throw streets off the scent,
Country-building between pulpit and biller shed.
And yet nobody had ever heard of the World Cup
Decided from our good old Zengeza 4 Terminus
Till ’06 rambled to photo-finish like a wrestling cut.
Not favelas with Coca-Cola goalposts in the sand;
King Pele and Emperor Adriano rule those badlands
But ’06 was nothing like barefoot ballet in the sand.
Not United States of Africa in the French shirt
While Addis Ababa mafia scratch each other’s back;
In ’06 Dictator Mbappe was still lost in Disneyland.
Germany ’06 was a series of misfiring curses
Targeting soccer shirts on a scarecrow, stolen
To hurt Tumbuzviyo only to jinx his Pan-African line-up…
continues next web instalment
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