Ah, the halcyon days of yore in rural Mberengwa during the 80s and 90s! Life then was as leisurely as a summer's day when the Zimbabwe dollar held such weight that even the mere blue $20 note with Kombo Moyana’s signature could suffice for dowry, with ample change to spare.
Our faithful companion, the radio, was but a humble servant, brought to life by the noble Eveready transistor battery, tied with a black rubber band round the radio to keep it in position, with a long extended aerial held on top of a tree to catch the frequency. Yes, indeed, we adored our radios and our DJs.
Radio was as rare a treasure—a piece of art that adorned our living rooms. It’s surprising that now you can place a radio tight in your pocket through a smartphone. If you had a radio in those days, you had an extra vein in your body, let alone the DJs that lit the mood of the day with their personal connection with listeners.
Ezra “Tshisa” Sibanda, Simon Pashoma Ncube, The Hitman, Peter Johns, Eunice Goto, Eric Knight, Tich Mataz, Esnath Chauke, Brenda Moyo—just to mention a few—were seen as friends and companions, their voices becoming a comforting and familiar presence.
Unlike some current DJs who thrive on suggestive language, our parents would entrust us to these DJs to learn languages and moral values. I remember listening to a programme by Mbuya Mlambo or Esnath Chauke called “Marungula,” even though I was not familiar with the language.
No one would dare allow a paedophile on the radio. Radio was not a place where our children would be turned into sex interns, where DJs are seen as sex symbols or agents of notoriety. It was a clean, peaceful a place. Like a church, maybe.
DJs in the 80s and 90s were known for their expertly curated playlists. Of course, with the help of music from maestros like Leonard Dembo, Brenda Fassie, Fanyana Dube, Michael Lanas & Talking Drum, Anita Baker, and James Chimombe, what would you expect?
Without the aid of computers, yesteryear DJs relied on their deep knowledge and passion for music to create engaging and memorable line-ups. Today, one would wonder how a song about the colour of dad’s underwear can now top the charts, more so with the aid of some rogue DJs.
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I hear suggestive content is selling like hotcakes in our ghettos, and management loves the numbers—followers and money. I hear drug pushers and addicts love these DJs too. Radio can be a place where most youths are crucified, buried, and never resurrected.
Most modern-day DJs, despite having technology with them, still act like they are tapes of failed auditions mistakenly gone live.
Past DJs were skilled storytellers, weaving narratives and anecdotes between songs that added depth and context to the music. This created a richer listening experience.
In the pre-digital era, radio was a primary source of entertainment and information. DJs played a crucial role in shaping musical tastes and cultural trends, making their influence more significant for the betterment of our society. Who can forget Simon Pashoma Ncube and Sam Sibanda, Peter Johns, Kelvin Sifelani etc, whose knowledge of music and how they handled the language would make one mistake them for being in a furnace of art where gold is melted?
The programmes the DJs churned out were top-notch, like Kwaziso, Engilikhethele zona, Radio 2 Top 20, and Chakafukidza Dzimba Matenga, Swerengoma—just to mention a few. I don’t know if social media and technology could have killed these programmes—blow for blow.
Fair enough, there are DJs, or let us say radio journos, who are so talented, who have unwillingly shelved their expertise for a masterclass in ideological inclination. You can feel it—palpable in the ear—that there is hopelessness intertwined with fear, hate, and confusion when they read the scripts.
Radio in the 80s and 90s created a sense of community, bringing people together through shared listening experiences. Past DJs were central figures in fostering this communal atmosphere. Weekends were a symphony of communal gatherings, with villagers huddled around the radio to catch the fervent commentary of football matches. The names Evans Mambara, Stanley Ndunduma, Joel Shambo, Moses Chunga, and Madinda Ndlovu reverberated through the speakers, stirring the souls of all who listened.
I could be wrong. Is there lack of talent and content?
My devotion to the radio was of a different hue. A solitary figure by nature, I found in the radio a confidant, a companion. The music that flowed from its speakers was a balm for my soul, dispelling the shadows of loneliness and filling my heart with joy. I marked the hours with precision, awaiting my favourite DJ's presence as one might await the dawn.
I can remember vividly up to now. Should you play "Anytime Baby" by Pat Shange, the sound transports me back to that sombre moment when the death of former Mozambique leader Samora Machel was announced despite the lyrics being of a different meaning, “Hoza Friday” by Johnny Clegg & Juluka and "Vimbai" by Marshal Munhumumwe conjure a poignant memory, their notes etched indelibly in my mind.
All these melodies, gifts from the radio, were the soundtrack to my life. True, we lacked the marvels of modern social media—no Spotify or YouTube to spoil us—but this should not excuse today's radio DJs from honing their craft. They must blend music with the same artistry and flair.
Past DJs often had distinctive voices and larger-than-life personalities that made them memorable and beloved. Their unique styles and charisma set them apart.
Even when it came to news readers—who can forget the deep, commanding voice of Joseph Madimba, the velvet one of Grace Tsvakanyi, the witty and yet captivating script read by Alson Mfiri, or the imposing voice of King Dube?
Radio grew even more crucial to my existence after I completed my O-levels. In my solitude, I found comfort in one of my favourite DJs of all time, who graced the airwaves of Zimbabwe’s former Radio 3—and I don’t even know what it’s called now.
Her name was Eunice Goto. I sought her out, only to discover she had relocated to Canada. I just wanted to say thank you, Eunice, for being such a trusted friend all those years. A friend that still has a special place in my heart.
Every morning, I eagerly awaited Eunice’s show, her musical selections and cherished voice healing my soul and bringing joy to my days. As a music enthusiast, I began collecting tapes early on, yet Eunice’s playlists hold a special place in my archives to this day. Her line-up was predictably top-notch. She would spin "There'll Be Sad Songs" and "Suddenly" by Billy Ocean, "Nikita" and "Sacrifice" by Elton John, Wet Wet Wet and many more songs and bands.
Then, in 1995, I hit the jackpot. I acquired a double-decker radio that, by some serendipitous twist of fate, tuned and stumbled into Jacaranda 94.2 Radio—a South African radio station. The station plays contemporary music and classic tracks. Jacaranda Radio left an indelible mark on my life even up to this day.
Despite the DJs speaking in Afrikaans interspersed with English, it was the music that captivated me coupled with the DJs that were able to transport full of mint and charm. Jacaranda introduced me to an unparalleled line-up—Neil Diamond, Air Supply, The Pretenders, "Every Road Leads Back to You," by Bette Midler and "Streets of London" by Ralph McTell, “Walking on the Milky Way” by Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark. I still listen to that station online to this day.
Yet, as with all good things, the golden era of radio in Zimbabwe came to an end—or did it? Possibly it happened when someone thought replacing gold with iron bars in the vault works for the market.
If you ask me when was the last time I listened attentively for a couple of seconds to local radio, possibly in the 90s was when Comfort Mbofana did his usual sign-off on former Radio 1 with Kate Bush’s track called "Wuthering Heights."
I hear there are still some DJs that pull crowds—in the right way—like Bhozhongora, Tete Tilda, and Nicky. I still believe there are many good DJs out there I have missed—better enough to kill this perspective after I had stumbled on sex mongers on air.
If you ask me why I have a car radio licence, I’ll frown like a charging bull and say, “Ask the car, not me.” If it's the law that mandates it, well, let the law keep on puffing.
