Unless someone’s copied and pasted this onto a scammy WhatsApp group, you’re currently reading this on Riddims & Raps. When I joined as a feature writer, I was confident I’d contribute meaningfully to the team, specifically in the Raps section. They were desperate and starving for a hip-hop writer. Not a good one; just anybody. The bar was so low they even offered my uncle $350–$400 a week, and he’s been dead for nine years.
I know a thing or two about rap. I love rap. The issue is that my contract also says I have to cover “Riddims.” I don’t know if you know this about me, but I know nothing about riddims. My parents did well enough in life to shield me from any real contact with Zim Dancehall. As far as I’m concerned, "riddim" is just how Jamaicans pronounce “rhythm.” That’s the full extent of my expertise on this subject.
And yet I owe my readers 5,000 words. Let’s just say in the museum of bad takes, whatever you’re about to read might end up being the Mona Lisa. The backlash will likely be louder than the response to my “20 Greatest Zim Hip-Hop Songs” list.
Side note: judging by the comments on that article, humanity is not doing great mentally. I sincerely wish us all healing.
I barely know enough about Zim Dancehall to finish this paragraph. I didn’t know what to write. I considered quitting. I briefly considered faking my own death. For a whole week, I thought about it. Then one morning, my editor, Manando, knocked on my door and asked how far I’d gotten with the new piece. I gave him the same look I used to give in class when a teacher said, “Can you read the next paragraph for us?” and I’d spent the last 30 minutes drawing Dragon Ball Z characters in the margins.
I looked at my screen. Twitter was open. And sitting right there, like a holy vision, was a tweet from King Kandoro celebrating ten years of Killer T’s Ngoma Ndaimba. I turned to Manando and said, “That’s what I’m writing about.”
And that’s how we got here.
Is Ngoma Ndaimba a classic? King Kandoro thinks so. It’s old enough, ten years, so it qualifies in age. But is that enough? Age alone doesn’t make something a classic. I mean, technically, NRZ is also still around, but no one’s calling it a national treasure. Maybe God gave Kandoro all the comedic talent and balanced it out by leaving his music taste somewhere in the Mabvuku-Tafara sewers.
We don’t have much in common, Kandoro and I. Except two things:
- We’re both from the dusty ends of Zimbabwe.
- Fate paired us with British citizens whose only real dating criteria was: “Must be funny.”
Kandoro’s a professional comedian. I’m funny-looking. So we both checked that box.
Before I started writing, I tried to get my wife’s opinion. I asked if she liked Killer T’s music. She said, “Isn’t that the one who dissed Drake?”
“Babe…that’s Pusha T.”
“Okay. Are you going to make the restaurant reservation or should I, since Killer T is obviously your priority right now?”
That’s how we talk to each other in this house. It’s why the marriage works. Anyway, after making the reservation, I retreated into my office, shut the door, and teleported back to the winter of 2015.
It’s time to play Ngoma Ndaimba.
Track 1: Itai Ndione
“Shamwari dzacho chaidzo ndedzipi apa!”
Oh my God. Immediate goosebumps. I’d completely forgotten about this song. This just unlocked some suppressed memories so strong I might need to lie down.
Back in high school, I used to battle rap. I know, don’t ask questions. We all had our hobbies. One time, the finest guy in our stream—his name was Emmerson—challenged me. He wasn’t great, but I remember one of his lines made people scream, throw their scarves in the air, and jump out of their desks.
The line was:
“You're not a rapper, you’re a bookworm—uri muchenje.
I’m the GOAT, and your girlfriend mufenje.”
The line should’ve hurt. In another reality, it does hurt. But in that moment, all I felt was pride. Because that gorgeous man had just implied I had a girlfriend. I was flattered. That was a huge compliment. If I did have a girlfriend, though, and she left me for Emmerson, I’d help her pack. I’d write her a letter of recommendation. He was stunning.
Needless to say, I lost that battle. Pretty privilege is real, and it never loses. All Emmerson had to do was show up with his jawline and say things that vaguely rhymed. He could’ve rapped “Sadza rinondidzipa, ndikuda macaroni” and they’d have praised him like he’s Holy Ten or something.
I’ve been thinking about who I could use as a reference here so people truly understand how good-looking Emmerson was. I want to give you a visual reference, someone from Zim Hip-Hop. A “he looked like this rapper” kind of thing. But in Zim Hip-Hop, the pickings are delicate. I say this respectfully. Please, I beg, don’t say Denimwoods. We’ve had this fight before. Every time someone says Denimwoods is handsome, I have to pull up a dictionary and a mirror. Yes, Denimwoods has abs. Yes, he moisturizes. Yes, his shoulders can bench press my future. I wish I had his body. I do. But if we send Denimwoods to the Handsome Olympics, we’re getting clapped in qualifiers. He’s not that guy. I’ll circle back when I find a better candidate. For now, just imagine a stupidly handsome man. That was Emmerson.
Emmerson loved Killer T. I didn’t get it. It honestly confused me. He was the cool, shiny type of handsome. Like the kind of guy who listens to Bryson Tiller. The kind that had options. He seemed too put-together to like Killer T. Even if I did like Killer T back then, I wouldn’t have said it out loud. I was ghetto-adjacent, but always pretending I’d outgrown the ghetto. I was trying very hard to rebrand. I knew about Soul Jah Love, sure, but I made sure to act unfamiliar with his catalogue. I needed people to think I listened to real music; music with saxophones and violins, not riddims.
Once, a friend asked me on the school bus if I’d heard the new Jah Love track. A pretty girl was seated next to me, so I said, “Who?”
He said, “Jah Love.”
And I, with the fakest confusion, went, “Ohhh… you mean Soul Jah Love?”
He blinked. “Bro, who else would I be talking about?”
In my mind, calling him Soul Jah Love gave me plausible deniability. Like, sure, I’d heard of him, but only in a culturally distant, “I-heard-his-name-on-radio” kind of way. Saying Jah Love made it sound like I knew him personally. That was too ghetto for the brand I was trying to cultivate. I needed that Soul. It was my buffer. Ten years later, I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t grown much. I know Silent Killer. I know a lot of Silent Killer. But you’ll never hear me refer to him as Ngwere. That’s a level of intimacy I still don’t have the stomach for.
Eventually, I asked Emmerson why he liked Killer T so much. He said it was because Killer T was handsome.
And then he came out to me.
At the time, I didn’t quite know what to do with that information. I was too young and too ghetto-conditioned to fully process what he’d told me. I’d grown up in the kind of conservative township where the word “gay” only came up if someone was being insulted or misquoted. But Emmerson didn’t care. He was calm, confident, and pretty. In hindsight, it all adds up. Gay men being handsome is a stereotype I will not challenge.
After that conversation, every time he gave me a ride (not that kind of ride, you perv), there was only one album allowed on the aux: Ngoma Ndaimba.
Every journey started with Itai Ndione.
I miss high school.
Track 2: Haupore
“Ukaita godo neni rinosvika pakunyungudika” is a bar.
Unfortunately, it’s the only one I’ve ever heard from Killer T. Yes, he’s quotable. Bits and pieces of his lyrics have seeped into our everyday speech. But I’ve never once felt like the man has a relationship—not even a one-night stand—with wit. Ironically, the smartest line about Killer T didn’t even come from Killer T. It came from my best friend, Holy Ten.
Killer T has a song where he sings “Ini handivhunduke.” In our household, that line has gone triple platinum. We say it when we open our bills. We say it when we hear a noise in the ceiling. We love that line.
One afternoon, I decided to illustrate to my wife the genius of a particular Holy Ten bar from Fire Emoji (Remix). Like any responsible man, I began with a lecture. To get her on board, I first explained what “Ndenge ndanwa tea saka ndovhunduka chii” means. She nodded. She didn’t get it. But she appreciated that SaintFloew says it a lot.
We skipped straight to Holy Ten’s verse. I was practically holding my breath.
“Handivhunduke, monaz ndakiller tea” is a bar.
Why is it brilliant? “Killer tea” sounds like “Killer T.” And Killer T has a song called Handivhunduke. Boom!
I felt proud. I wanted my wife to see me as a man of intellect. I wanted her to realise she’d married not just a man, but a scholar. I wanted her to look at me like I was the living, breathing Genius.com. To bring it home, I queued up Handivhunduke, the Killer T song. Except... there’s no Killer T song called Handivhunduke. It’s Handigumbuke. She clocked it immediately.
“It’s actually Handigumbuke, innit?”
My soul left my body. I wasn’t just wrong; I was confidently, dramatically, performatively wrong. I was so sure of myself, I even had that little “pause for impact” look on my face. The worst part is I play Handigumbuke almost every other day. I sing it. I’ve screamed that chorus while holding a mop. How do you recover from that?
My first job after uni was as a PA to a terrifyingly ambitious entrepreneur. I went everywhere with her. She called me Shadow because I followed her around, and also because… well, my skin tone. One time, we were meeting Very Important Clients at a Very Serious Restaurant; high-stakes stuff. I even wore closed shoes. Everything was going smoothly until, mid-convo, my boss accidentally called me “babe.” Loudly. In her defense, she’d just gotten off the phone with her husband. Still, she looked like she wanted to crawl into the saltshaker and die. That was the most embarrassing moment of her life. Mine was being corrected by my wife on a Killer T misquote. I’ve never recovered.
Haupore has that classic Dancehall sound. The beat makes you think someone in the background is hitting a biscuit tin with a spoon. I miss that sound.
You know what else I miss? PTK.
Where did he go? Is he okay? Has anyone checked? Does he need airtime?
Track 3: Hauterere
Wait.
Has this always been the title of this song?
Because I know I didn’t call it Hauterere. I could’ve sworn with my chest that this song was called Chikorobho. We all called it Chikorobho, right? Or is this the Mandela Effect again? First it was Emmerson, now this?
I know I shouldn’t speak with confidence anymore, not since the Handigumbuke disaster, but this one I remember vividly. I’m almost certain this song was called Chikorobho. If I’m wrong again, then this joins the ever-growing catalogue of Zimbabwean songs whose titles actively sabotaged their SEO. Because why would you call this Hauterere?
Same issue with Sunday. No disrespect, Mugaratia, but that song is called Gangster Musalad. No one has ever searched “Sunday” looking for that track. Be serious. This happens so often I’m convinced some of these artists are just trolling us. Like if Jah Prayzah dropped Chiremerera and called it Hauone Katanda. Why are we doing this? For who? For what?
This brings me, unfortunately, to the film Joy (2015). It’s a Jennifer Lawrence biopic about the woman who invented the Miracle Mop. Did I like the movie? No. That’s not why I watched it. I watched it because I had a God-please-heal-me crush on Jennifer Lawrence at the time. I still do. But we’re both married now, so let’s not talk about it.
The thing that blows my mind is that an executive at 20th Century Fox greenlit this. They said, “Yes. Let’s spend $60 million telling the origin story of this mop. Of all the stories in the world, let’s make this one.” Surprisingly, it made over $100 million at the box office. Clearly, 2015 was a banner year for mops. Joy was in cinemas. Chikorobho was in the streets. No cleaning product has ever had a bigger cultural moment.
Lastly, there’s one extremely specific piece of survival trivia I’ve carried around for years. Allegedly—and I want to stress allegedly—if you’re ever caught in a chlorine gas attack, the first thing you should do is pee into a rag (chikorobho) or any absorbent cloth and use it to cover your mouth, nose, and eyes. The urea in the urine is supposed to neutralise the chlorine gas and give you time to escape.
Now, I don’t know where I learnt this. Maybe it was a Nat Geo documentary. Maybe it was a tweet. Maybe I invented it during a stress dream about chemical warfare. All I know is that I believe it deeply. More importantly, if a chlorine gas attack ever does go down, and someone finds me hunched over in the corner peeing into a towel, I need this to be true. I can’t have that be the final chapter of my life story.
Track 4: Kumanikidzira Rudo
Let’s start with the elephant in the mix:
“Bodyslam Records!!”
Why is it there? Why there specifically? Why then?
Who dropped that tag? Where do they live? It does not belong on this track. I don’t know who edited it in, or what they were going through, but they dropped it in the wrong session file. It just barges in; loud, unwanted, and offensively proud of itself. I’ve listened to this song countless times. It’s my favourite track on the album. I have a deep personal connection to it. But no matter how often I hear it, that rogue “Bodyslam Records!!” pisses me off like I’m being personally heckled.
I’ll try to move on for the sake of this review.
So why do I love this song?
I'm glad you asked. Get comfortable. Pour a glass of wine. Especially if you’re married, in a relationship, or recovering from one. This isn’t going to be funny.
Kumanikidzira Rudo is about forcing love. Romantic, platonic, familial—doesn’t matter. It’s the painful process of trying to plug a feeling into a space where it no longer fits. You know, like that “Bodyslam Records!!” tag.
I could give you a story about a forced friendship. I could absolutely give you one about family dynamics that felt like hostage situations. But for now, I’m going to focus on the one that cost me the most: forcing romantic love. Those relationships we try to salvage even after they’ve sunk into the ocean and grown coral.
Let’s start with a quote I hate:
“If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.”
I’ve seen it floating around on Instagram, usually posted by people who make videos of themselves looking sad in cars. On paper, it sounds noble and loyal, the stuff of Pinterest wedding boards. But in practice, it’s usually delivered by someone who’s about to ruin your life. You might as well rephrase it to:
“I’m going to be insufferable, and it’s your job to endure it.”
In a perfect world, sure, the quote is fine. It just means “don’t dip when things get hard” or “don’t abandon me when I’m struggling.” Cool, right? We all want that. But the people who actually say it out loud are usually the worst humans you’ll ever meet (or maybe I just caught them at their worst?)
Another red flag is when someone never has an opinion. Ever. About anything.
You ask where to eat: “I don’t mind.”
What movie to watch: “Anything’s fine.”
What they want for their birthday: “Surprise me.”
I know they’re trying to be accommodating, but now I’m stuck guessing what to watch, where to eat, and whether or not they actually enjoy existing. The problem with that behaviour is it’s not actually about being chill. It’s about dodging responsibility. If they never make the call, they never have to own the consequences. You can’t blame them for a bad decision they never made. That kind of constant passivity kills relationships. You end up carrying the decision-making weight for two people, which is why I now celebrate even the smallest bits of input.
Earlier today, I asked my wife where we should eat. She said Victoria 22. Do I regret asking? Yes. I do not have Victoria 22 money. But you know what? She answered. She participated. That’s a relationship. That’s partnership. So we’re going to Victoria 22. I’ll just drink water and cry.
Kumanikidzira Rudo reminds me of a relationship I tried too hard to salvage. I wanted it to work so badly, I ignored every malfunctioning sign on the dashboard. I excused every behaviour and justified every silence. I stretched so far to reach her I lost touch with myself. I call such relationships pomegranates: difficult to peel and messy to eat. At first, the work feels worth it. You’re unlocking something precious. You’re romanticising the effort. But eventually, you realise: “Wait. I could just buy strawberries and be happy.”
Lastly—this needs to be said—if someone breaks up with you, that doesn’t make them a villain. It doesn’t give you the licence to drag them or weaponize your hurt. Sometimes people leave. Sometimes things don’t work. That’s life. You don’t get to abuse someone just because your storyline didn’t pan out.
Accept that sometimes things don’t align. You could be trying to process it all, to finally find the words, to understand what went wrong, and then—
“BODYSLA—”
Track 5: Maisafanira Kundirega
Killer T needs to pick a struggle. What exactly does he want from us?
On this song, he’s crying to us—the audience—about why we didn’t stop him from dating a woman he now describes as Delilah. He’s in his feelings, begging to know why no one sat him down. Why no one counselled him. Why no one said, “My guy, this woman will break your heart, wallet and spirit.” He’s wounded and heartbroken and asking why we let him go through it. Why!
Now hold on a minute. Something’s not adding up. Isn’t this the same man who made Kana Ndanyura and Ndamuda? Help me understand, please. Because “Maisafanira kundirega ndichiperera paari” is the exact inverse of “Munenge muchingonditi ari kundiitisa, ko kana ndanyura?”
Do you want advice or not, Kelvin Kusikwenyu? Which is it? Because the last time your own mother tried to talk sense into you, you said:
“Kana ndichinge ndamuda, mhamha musandirambidze”
No. this one’s on you, my boy. You chose this. Your mother tried. We all tried. You’ve told us multiple times, with harmonies and dance routines, that you do not want our input. You’re heartbroken because you actively rejected the warnings.
To make matters worse, Kana Ndanyura and Ndamuda aren’t just minor album tracks. They are Killer T’s two biggest songs by far. Kana Ndanyura basically soundtracked the entire nation in 2024. The man wrote two platinum-certified anthems about actively ignoring red flags can’t have another song asking why no one stopped him from running headfirst into traffic.
Frankly, I wish Killer T more heartbreak. I wish him all the Kae Chaps energy in the world. I wish him the type of women who reply “hmm” to emotional paragraphs. I want him blocked mid-voice note.
He deserves it.
Track 6: Misodzi Yangu
Guys… we’re cooking with gas here.
Six tracks in, and Chairman is six-for-six. No skips, no filler. No “maybe it’ll grow on me.” Just straight-through quality and back-to-back excellence. And somehow—somehow—he’s made me emotional. That’s not easy. Reggae rarely moves me. I respect it, sure, but it usually makes me feel like I’ve accidentally walked into the Herbs and Spices aisle at Food Lover’s.
I haven’t cried like this since I invested in e-Creator. (Don’t ask. We all thought we were early.) Misodzi Yangu is for anyone going through it, whether it’s work stress, home chaos, academic breakdowns, toxic family, or just the general pain of being alive in a capitalist society. This one’s for you. There’s something raw about it, like it was recorded while blinking back tears. It’s a song that just sits with you.
It reminded me of a time when my wife and I were still living in Sandton. We had this fancy restaurant we used to go to every week. Same booth, same waitress, same overpriced still water. It became our thing, our little ritual. I won’t name it directly because I’m not in the business of free advertising (especially not when I’m still paying for that Victoria 22 dinner), so let’s just call it Emmerson’s.
One day, we walked in, and our favourite waitress looked genuinely heartbroken. She told us the branch was closing. It truly felt like the end of something. A few months later, we saw her again. She was working as a parking attendant at a strip club. We greeted her and she smiled, but it wasn’t the same smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. It didn’t lift the room. That spark she used to carry, the one that made Emmerson’s feel like a second home, wasn’t there anymore. She looked like she hadn’t laughed in weeks.
Whatever she's going through, wherever she is, I hope she’s okay. I hope joy finds her again. I want to dedicate this track to her.
This album, man. This is a masterpiece. A stunning, emotional, soul-wrecking masterpiece. It’s a cla—okay. Let me not jinx it.
Track 7: Mweya Yestina Ndisiye
Okay. I jinxed it.
Who approved this mix? Who sat in the studio, pressed play, and said, “Yeah, this sounds good”? No, genuinely—who? Because this doesn’t sound like it was mixed in a studio. This was mixed using Killer T’s laptop speakers. In a kitchen. During loadshedding.
The vocals sound like they were imported via YouTubeToMP3, and not even at 320kbps. The 144p of audio. And before anyone blames my headphones, I’m wearing Sony WH-1000XM6s, which my wife got me after I wrote my first Riddims & Raps article. These are Marques Brownlee-certified. They are real headphones. So no, it’s not my setup. This is not on Apple Music. This is not on Bluetooth interference either. It’s just bad. PTK, if you’re reading this, I take back my “I miss you.” What the hell is this, bro? What happened?
As if the mix wasn’t painful enough, they couldn’t even get the title right. Mweya Yestina Ndisiye. Come again? It's supposed to be Yetsvina. You know. As in “filth.” Dirt. Disgust. The exact mood of this song. I’m a writer, and errors like this offend me on a cellular level. Just take a minute, bro. Proofread. Read it out loud. Open Word. Run a spellcheck. Ask a friend. Text your English teacher. Something.
Earlier today, I watched a Chillmaster video directed by Joanthan Samukange. Read that again. Not Jonathan. Joanthan. That’s how it appeared in the final export. 4K resolution, unashamed. Mistakes happen. Zviriko. I’ve learned to let some things go. Was I happy when Synik’s Chenjerera kept being mislabelled as Chenjerere, or sometimes Chengerera, on streaming platforms? No. But I forgave it, because the music was good. I still twitch every time I see Kae Chaps’ Its Not Me, Its You. Such an unforgivable grammatical error in the title, but I let it slide. I can forgive typos if the music is phenomenal.
But I cannot forgive this song. It fails on every measurable level. The mix is trash. The vocals are mud. The title is botched. I don’t even have a musical comparison. I can’t say it “sounds like X” because nothing this bad has ever been recorded. My ears physically hurt. You know that specific agony of getting hit in the balls? That soul-deep, stomach-collapsing, prayer-inducing pain? That’s this song.
For those unfamiliar: when you get hit in the balls, it’s not even the balls themselves that hurt. No. The pain shoots upward into your abdomen. Imagine someone taking a blunt butter knife and slowly, methodically, wedging it into that fragile no-man’s-land between your testicles and your anus. I’m not saying it’s like this song. Because with ball pain, you at least know it’ll pass after thirty seconds. You breathe. You wait. It’s hell, but it ends. This song is three minutes and fifteen seconds of that same pain.
This is trash. Stina.
Track 8: Ndoda Mundinzweo
I don’t wanna lie; I could genuinely fart a better beat than this.
Track 9: Ngoma Ndaimba
I don’t know why artists do this to themselves. Naming a song after the album is a dangerous game. Title tracks are like thesis statements. They're meant to be the emotional anchor and the grand unifying theory of the album. So why pile that pressure onto one song?
It’s the same energy as naming your child after yourself. It almost never works. Outside of Martin Luther King Jr, who else has actually delivered on the promise of the "Junior"? O’Shea Jackson Jr.? He’s doing his best. But let’s be honest: unless Ice Cube drops four more War of the Worlds movies, his son is forever going to be “the guy who looks a lot like his dad.” Muku Jr.? I’ve got faith in him. But you see the problem now: expectation. The shadow is long. Every time Robert Mugabe Jr. trends, a liberation struggle rolls in its grave.
Jah Prayzah has made this look easy. Sungano Yerudo, Tsviriyo, Kumbumura Mhute, Jerusarema, Mdhara Vachauya, Kutonga Kwaro, Hokoyo, Chiremerera, and Ndini Mukudzeyi are all title tracks that, at worst, were solid, and at best, seismic cultural events. He made it standard practice. The title track was the banger.
Even the less celebrated ones like Maita Baba, Gwara, and Chitubu still carry artistic weight. They serve a purpose. They hold. They complete the album like the final brushstroke on a mural. So when Killer T names a song Ngoma Ndaimba, you think, “Ah, this is the crown jewel. The banger of bangers.” But it’s not. Not really.
Ngoma Ndaimba is… fine. It stands out, sure. But not because it’s a standout track. It’s only because it’s following two absolute war crimes (Mweya Yetsvina Ndisiye and Ndoda Mundinzweo) that were mixed on a calculator. Next to those two, it feels like a masterpiece. It’s not great, but you start to appreciate it once you’ve adjusted for inflation.
If this song had come right after Haupore or Itai Ndione, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d smile faintly, maybe hum it once, then forget it existed by lunchtime. It benefits entirely from proximity to disaster. It’s the sonic version of finding a slightly above-average house in a really bad neighbourhood. You start convincing yourself it’s charming. Or like auditioning after Mai Tanaka, Captain Britain, and Greatman at a talent show. No, you’re not that talented, but compared to what just happened before you, you’re Adele.
It’s a decent track. The hook works. It grows on you. By the time it loops around after the second verse, it settles in. You start nodding. You’re not mad at it. It’s fine.
Track 10: Tikufamba Naro Bhora
I like this one. It made me smile. It’s a clean, simple groove with bounce. One of those effortless bops that an album needs. Something to lower your shoulders and nod your head to without having to overthink the lyrics or decode socioeconomics. Every album needs at least one song like this. Not every track has to carry a thesis.
For me, it hits a little deeper.
“Famba naro bhora” is a phrase that holds weight for me because my father used it religiously when we watched football together. He knew next to nothing about the game. To this day, I’m not entirely sure he understands what a goal kick is. But he wanted to be part of the moment. To say something. To feel included. So “Famba naro bhora” became his mantra. The phrase itself means “keep pushing.” But in my dad’s hands, it meant “I’m here. I may not know much, but I’m here.” That catchphrase was his ticket into the conversation.
I remember back in 2012 when the Chipolopolo—Zambia’s national team—won the Africa Cup of Nations. It was a moment. The whole region lost its mind. My dad responded the only way he knew how: with a dad joke.
“If I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her Chipo. Short for Chipolopolo.”
We laughed. Not because it was funny, but because we loved him. He was so pleased with himself. But then…he never stopped.
Champions League: “If I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her Chipo…”
EPL: “If I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her Chipo…”
Copa America, Bundesliga, even friendly matches between countries we’re not even sure exist: “If I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her Chipo…”
He was relentless. He rode that one joke until the wheels fell off, then carried the chassis on his back and kept going. Fast forward a few years. My fiancée (now wife) and I had just gotten engaged. My dad had since relocated to Canada, and since I don’t have “fly to North America just to say hi” money, I introduced her to him over FaceTime.
It was afternoon in Harare.
“Dad, this is Chipo.”
They smiled and waved—those exaggerated waves people do on glitchy video calls where the pixels lag but the enthusiasm doesn’t.
And then I saw it: that look in his eye. He remembered the joke. My stomach dropped. He leaned forward slightly. My legs started shaking. I slid my hand onto my wife’s knee, bracing her for impact. My heart was sprinting. Please don’t say it, Dad. Not this time. Not here.
“You know… I’ve always said if I have a daughter, I would name her Chipo.”
Oh no.
No no no.
Chipo, ever the sweetheart, leaned in.
“Oh, really? Why?”
Jesus.
My soul was hovering above the call, ready to fake a connection error. I’ve heard this joke a thousand times. It has never landed.
Silence.
“Because Chipo means gift. I always thought a daughter would be a gift from God. So I guess he heard my prayer.”
My man. He came through. When it counted most, he came through. Chipo melted. She felt that line in her sternum. After all these years, Dad finally read the room and stuck the landing. Saunyama, if you’re reading this, thank you for exercising restraint when it mattered. Thank you so much.
And shoutout to Ontario. Hope you’re treating the old man right.
Track 11: Vachaona Moto
Boys, I want you to put the word out there that we back up. Understand me? We back up.
Emmerson loved this song. It was always playing when he dropped me off to catch kombis. He had a car; I didn’t. We came from different tax brackets. But for those few minutes in the car, we had Vachaona Moto. That was the bridge. When that one played, we were equals.
It’s funny the places music can take you back to.
In our bathroom growing up, my dad had framed quotes perched above the cistern. They were the first thing you’d see when squatting for business. Most of them were dad jokes; low-tier puns with high-level commitment.
The most memorable one was:
“We aim to please. You aim too, please.”
That was my father’s brand of humour. He didn’t have deep philosophical insight, no. He had toilet puns. I never cared much for the quotes. I preferred going in with a magazine. Read a bit. Do a crossword. Stare at Jennifer Love Hewitt. Eventually, I graduated to making toilet playlists; songs specifically curated for either the shower or a solid number two. That era of my life was focused. And Vachaona Moto was on every single playlist.
I adored it. The beat. The message. The defiance. It was “watch me win” music. The kind of song that makes you feel tall, even while sitting on porcelain. I still like this song. Maybe a little less ferociously, but the love’s still there. It reminds you that you can still rise. You can still get back up. You can still walk out of the bathroom feeling like you’re him.
PTK…. yeah, I miss you again. Forget what I said before. We good.
Track 12: Vanoda Kuvhiringa Pattern
We’re officially in the victory lap section of the album now. That stretch where the artist knows they’ve survived the storm, buried the ops, and now it’s time to glide.
This is usually my favourite part of a project, especially on rap albums. Because rappers know how to flex, stand on business, and make you believe they’re richer, faster, better-looking, and more morally justified than anyone who’s ever wronged them. They will suddenly remember they have a pool in their lounge and five women named Yolanda.
Take my best friend, Holy Ten:
“Maida kunyepedzera kunge haityise ka Range?
Yakazoti yati bvrrrr, vakati ‘Mapombi!’”
The man knows how to flex. You feel the energy in that. Chairman doesn’t quite have that braggadocio gene. He doesn’t flex. He just mentions things. Killer T, same situation, will say:
“Ndane Range Rover mapombi
Imi vamwe vese muri mukombi”
No tricks. No wordplay. Just plain honesty and class consciousness. It shouldn’t work, but it absolutely does.
Also, isn’t it hilarious that Killer T reportedly curved Holy Ten’s request for a feature? This allegedly inspired this masterpiece:
Makandinyima feature, mukoma ka imi
Mukati tichalinker paInsta, mukoma ka imi
Here’s how I imagine the actual conversation went down:
Holy Ten: Mukoma.
Killer T: Holy Ten. (I don’t imagine Killer T calls him Mujaya.)
Holy Ten: Mukuita sei?
Killer T: Ndirikubaya kutown kunoservicer mota.
Holy Ten: Chakabatana chiBeamer ichi, Chairman. Munenge muri panzvimbo.
Killer T: Yakuda oil filter.
Holy Ten: Ndoyacho. Munofanira kuitreater semutreatiro wamunoita manice. Hamufanire kusaservicer manice.
Killer T: Ehe. Tobatana muchiround.
Holy Ten: Chairman, pane kazhet katiri kufanira kupinda.
Killer T: Ngatitaure paEaster. Ndenge ndadzoka muZimbabwe.
Holy Ten: Insta bho manje.
Killer T: Ehe, paEaster.
Holy Ten: Ndaisaketa kuti munotobatika paInsta zvekutodaro. Rega ndibva ndaisa follow.
Killer T: Ha, Easter yese ndogara ndiripo manje. Tichimbopembera Kristu.
Holy Ten: PaInsta?
Killer T: [Already reversing out of the parking lot] Rega ndimbonoservicer mota.
I can’t lie; this is the kind of nonsense I live for.
Track 13: Vanofanira Kutendwa
I’ll say it plainly: this is a classic album. I’ve tried everything in my hater’s toolkit — scoffing, squinting, replaying it hoping to find a flaw — but we lost, comrades. Let’s regroup and try again on the next album.
I’m also willing to look past the song’s title. Vanofanira Kutendwa wouldn’t have been my first pick. I still believe Vaonei would have slapped harder, but I’m not fighting this one. It works. It aligns with the chorus, it makes sense thematically, and it matches the sentiment. We’ve seen worse after all. I just watched Mugaratia’s new video directed by my guy Blu Mordecai. The song is called Mambo Solomon, but for some reason, the title card boldly reads Danda Ndibereke, a phrase that appears nowhere in the lyrics.
I haven’t confirmed this with Blu, but I suspect the video was already rendered and someone in Mugaratia’s camp finally came to their senses right before upload. The title got changed, but the card stayed. Personally, I still think the song should’ve been called Bob Marley, especially given the direction of the video, but Mambo Solomon is a decent compromise. Much better than the impending catastrophe that was Danda Ndibereke. What were we doing there?
And while we’re here, can we claim Mugaratia for Zim Hip-Hop? He’s one of us, right? Because if we’re counting him in, then I’ve found my nomination for the Handsome Olympics. He’s objectively a good-looking young man. Let’s just be honest with ourselves. Deep down, I know he’s not a rapper though. So I guess, by default, we’re still stuck with Denimwoods. Am I proud of this? Not in the slightest. Am I bitter? Deeply. But I’m learning to accept all my Ls in this section. It is what it is. It’s Denimwoods, guys, and that’s our cross to bear.
This is the man who will represent us in global rap crush lists. We really have no one in Zim Hip-Hop who looks better than Killer T? I say this with all due respect to Killer T, but that is deeply concerning. Is this what we’ve been reduced to? This is what the streets are offering? I’ve never been more ashamed of a gene pool in my life. I used to believe in us. And no, Emmerson doesn’t count just because he once battled me in Form 3.
God, please. In your divine mercy, when you hand out rap talent next time, could you also throw in a jawline? That’s if you’re still in the business of making rappers. Please consider our application for a new batch. We don’t even need better beats. Just give us better-looking rappers.
Track 14: Tavakuda Kumbofarawo
Are there any features on this album? Was this before or after Killer T launched the “Isu hatiite zvemagroup” movement? Because this is a hell of a way to stand on business. The only other voice I’ve heard that isn’t his is that cursed “Bodyslam Records” tag.
This is how you close an album: you go out on a high, with a song that feels like a victory lap and a recap rolled into one. Fittingly, it’s the biggest hit the album produced. And thank God I listened to the Apple Music version of this album, because there are about twenty other versions floating around with atrocious sequencing. Spotify and the CD editions start with Tavakuda Kumbofarawo. How do you lead with your big finale? Whoever made that call, I wish every hair on your body would grow inward. That sort of decision should carry a minimum penalty of public castration. The only upside is that Chikorobho actually got the title right on those versions.
Yes, I’m writing faster now—you can probably feel it—because my wife is now standing in the doorway. Good Lord, she’s glowing. How did I even pull this woman?
Before I wrap this up, let me leave you with a relationship tip I might have skipped earlier: don’t marry someone you wouldn’t be excited to be platonic friends with. If she wouldn’t make your boys’ WhatsApp group in an alternate universe, don’t do it. I have no better friend than the gorgeous woman currently glaring at me, twirling the car keys, and asking whether this review is more important than our date. That’s my absolute best friend. My person. And I hope you find someone who makes you that stupidly happy.
Wait. There’s still one more song? Oh, for f—
Track 15: Vanongovenga
All good things must come to an end, and Tavakuda Kumbofarawo was the perfect curtain call. Why on earth is this song sitting after it? It feels like someone walking back on stage after a standing ovation to announce the parking situation. Let’s all agree to pretend this was Track 14 and close the album the way God intended.
Anyway, I genuinely can’t keep my gorgeous wife waiting any longer. She’s still at the door, car keys spinning like a warning. Pray for me. Pray harder for my wallet.
Till next time.
