BY SPECIAL MATARIRANO

Part 3- I was initially deployed first at Kabalo River Bridge in Katutu on the Eastern Front during Operation Sovereignty Legitimacy in the Democratic Republic of Congo in June 1999. The Congo River, with its gigantic-looking frame, lay like a quiet ghost, with a steady water currency that never showed any hurry. The bridge, in its aging ghostly white color, resembled a tired, worn-out but resilient piece of immortal artifact, never to be forgotten and or taken for granted. The river divided the warring parties.
The SADC Allied forces had dug trenches in the sloping open swamp that steeped into the river. The Rwandese-backed Banyamulenge rebels, on the other hand, had perched their field defences in the ground rise that exuded from the river towards an abandoned airport of Kabalo.
It had only taken two weeks after graduating from the Zimbabwe Military Academy when I found myself aboard A Russian Illusion cargo aircraft to Katutu. The Officer Cadet Course that I had just finished had prepared me well for war but what awaited me went beyond imaginable.
I arrived in the DRC just after the signing of the Lusaka Agreement for the cessation of hostilities and the accord of peace. But at our defensive posts, we received daily doses of bombs in the morning, afternoon, and evening. It was a routine we all got used to, a form of greeting. Each morning our 81/82mm mortars, 120mm howitzers and BM21s would post some venomous greetings to the enemy and an exact number of salvos would be sent back. That was war. That was its nature.
There was not any sport to play. It was dangerous to play in the shadow of bombs. But my friends and I made up a plastic ball competition for ups and scores into a water bucket. It was funny, very funny. It was also refreshing and physically upgrading. We would celebrate such scores as if we were in a stadium. Such an activity would mean that we wouldn’t be playing ludho like others. I hated ludho, a game played by throwing dice like a sangoma.
Then things changed. I was transferred from Kabalo to Bujumai-Kananga. We were guarding the Kananga Airport. The airport had no football pitch, and we had to make one. One engineer, Kenny Ndlovu (now late) quickly used his engineering knowledge. We had all developed a nostalgic lack for football. Kenny Ndlovu, Patrick Chada (now late), Mufaro Takarutya, and I were real football enthusiasts.
Kananga formerly known as Luluabourg, the capital city of the Kasai-Occidental Province, was the 4th most populace urban area with a population of 1. 524. 000. Football was in its DNA too but there was a general lack of infrastructure in the country torn by war. Most sectors of the economy were in great decline. Production and incomes were falling, and the modern sector virtually disappeared.
Physical infrastructure was in serious disrepair, financial institutions had collapsed, and public education and health had deteriorated. Annual per capita national income fell from an estimated $115 in 1998 to less than $100 in 1999.
Subsistence activities, a large informal sector, and widespread barter characterized much of the economy; the insolvent public sector could not provide even basic public services. External economic assistance remained limited, and the State’s revenues from diamond exports, its leading source of foreign exchange were in marathon decline. Public sector employees, including most soldiers, routinely went months without pay, which caused several strikes. And here we were, trying to use football to mitigate the effects of a deteriorating community and people. Football is powerful. It goes beyond language and culture, religion, and or faith.
Village Mulombochi which was located near the airport had a lot of football-loving youngsters who came to help manually. It took two weeks for us to finish building or constructing the Kananga-Mulombochi football pitch. It stood where trees and shrubs had once taken residence. It stood as the only face of development over a long period. It became our pride, a place to share laughter, emotions, and hope.
A dust road separated the airport area from the village. The first games to be played pitied our military inter-company competitions. We then selected a Battalion team that had renowned players who went on to play for the military division one team, United Lions Football Club, after the war ended such as Lonely Mahala, Ngosilathi Gumpo, Bhinya, Lazzie Dzingira, and myself.
Each match day, old Magogos and Madhalas would carry their zvituro to sit and watch football. If there is a country whose people support football, it’s DRC. Regardless of the threats of war, of bombs falling from the skies, or ballistic salvos lighting the skies at any moment, the people of Mlombochi could not fail to come. I loved their wows, their cheers and whistles. That became part of a war, a war to excite and incite, a war of giving hope to a war-torn country. No matter what circumstance I find myself in now, there is no hope for cessation of development. Our Kananga-Mlombochi stadium still stands today.

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