BY PHENIAS SADONDO I HAD travelled from Cape Town to Harare, seeking a hideout from the gruesome months that I had endured at the University of Cape Town. While the vice was still on me and very much inescapable, I had been given a little relief when the examiners were going through my thesis. I took the opportunity to travel back home and rest a bit. Although naturally I should have travelled directly to Mutare and my beloved and exquisite Honde Valley — to breathe the fresh mountain air — I, instead, made a stopover in Harare to catch-up with friends. It had been a long 16 months after all. A good friend, Jonathan Nyakotyo, was staying in the Avenues area. The somewhat notorious Avenues, along Herbert Chitepo Avenue near Enterprise Road, just a few minutes’ walk from the Portuguese Restaurant. Typical of someone recharging, I would spent most of my time indoors. The balcony would give me the ideal panoramic view, an unmerited favour for someone with vertical restrictions. From car crashes at the intersection of Herbert Chitepo Avenue and Seventh Road, when the traffic lights malfunctioned, to vendors selling everything. Some wore reflective vests with the brand of airtime juice cards they were selling, while others had miniskirts and tight shorts meant to showcase their trade. At the balcony, I would see it all. Cars would stop and pick. Others would stop and drop. Some would be stationary for hours with dark tints forbidding some prying eyes from seeing beyond the glasses. Sisters would accompany their guests out of their apartments or escort them in. Such was the vantage of the balcony. Then one day while scanning my environs from the elevated balcony — as it had become a routine — something caught my attention. Not something I was seeing, but something I was hearing. I never really concentrated on listening to anything from the balcony. But that day was different. There was something booming from the speakers at the Portuguese Restaurant. There was always something playing old classics, RnB, reggae, blues, sungura and many more. But nothing caught my attention the same way. “Ndomutenda Changara, Mwari baba ndovakaita agouya pedyo neni”. Who is this guy? There was no one to ask because I was home alone. All I did was to stand still and stretch my ears a bit. “Ndini uya uya wamaigara muchingotuka nemashoko”. I had many questions. I wouldn’t call myself a Zimdancehall disciple but I had heard a fair share of that genre’s previous offerings headed by the ninja president, Winky D. We played Location and Musarova Big Man. Killer T announced his arrival with Makarova Gunners and Vanobosher MaSuspect. King Labash was fading. Chillspot was rising. King Shady and Makorokoza paMusawu, outta Gazaland, was also engraving his name. It was a genre on the rise, even elders were now paying attention. “Ndini uya uya, ndini uya uya…” The song kept on going. I tried to place it to familiar voices, but couldn’t. Perhaps because I had lost touch with some developments due to the overwhelming load that I was carrying. I barely had tim