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Tafadzwa Zimoyo, Harare Bureau
Go well Mr C, my counsellor!

To the nation, he was a great sports administrator and a larger than life character.

To tennis players and local sports administrators, he was more than a leader and a coach.

There were many titles ascribed to the name Paul Chingoka, the former International Tennis Federation board member and ex-Tennis Zimbabwe president.

To me, he was just an uncle with whom I could drive around, read newspapers and watch news channels.

To Aunty Abigail (his wife), he was a loving and caring husband.

But on July 13 this year, I got a phone call from Aunt Abi, as we call her. She asked me to bring my mother, her blood sister, to the Avenues Clinic in Harare.

Aunt Abi, is such a strong character in the family, always cheerful, but this time her voice sounded different. It was hoarse, as if she had a sore throat.

We rushed to the clinic with my mother panicking, and one could almost hear our heartbeats in that deathly silence.

I figured out that all was not well and then started praying silently.

When we arrived at the clinic, I only saw my elder brother Gwinyai Chingoka seated by himself in the car park. It all looked ominous.

My mother was instructed to go upstairs, straight to the Intensive Care Unit where Chingoka had been admitted for three weeks. We used to call him Mr C, shortcut for Mr Chingoka

Heartbroken, my brother Gwinyai just said to me, Mudhara aenda (the old man is gone).

I was speechless and I thought of Aunt Abi and mama.

I remember well the last visit when we spoke to him. As usual, he would ask about the latest news be it political or entertainment, he was a man who always kept abreast with news.

Each time I visited him at home even when he was in hospital, if I found him awake, he would smile and ask: “Where are my newspapers, Mr Editor?’

He referred to me as Mr Editor because of the nature of my job.

On this particular visit on July 13, there was no Paul to confront me with that question as Mr C was no more.

Mr C, was a humble, fun-loving and supportive uncle and he loved his sport and newspapers.

Because of sport, back in the 90s he wished for me to play tennis and I tried it at Old Hararians Sports Club but you know as they say, you can take the horse to the river but can’t force it to drink.

Besides, it wasn’t in me.

Each time I visited his house, he would always compliment my smartness and encouraged me to always love my job.

Every morning before I left for work, he would ask what the news was on television. I later figured out that, it was some form of training that due to the nature of my profession, I should be well versed.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a sportsperson, so each time he tried to force me to watch soccer or tennis news, I would divert and instead ask to get him a drink.

Paul was a man I could turn to for advice, each time I was stressed or had something that bothered me.

One good thing, I am definitely going to miss are his rich counselling sessions. The way he counselled and supported me made me feel whole again.

He did it amicably.

I was so excited in 2014 when I travelled on my first European trip to Germany. I went straight to him and showed him the invitation letter.

He congratulated me and two days before I left for Germany, I was surprised when I received a small suitcase from him and as always he would lecture me:

“Continue making us proud. Listen and listen very carefully, Editor, please don’t accept any gifts or look after anyone’s bags at the airport. This is where the high drug criminal rate is found,” he warned.

Mr C had turned to farming in Marondera.

“Tave madhara isu, taneta hatina chatichada, let me go to the farm ndinovaraidzika hangu. I have noticed you don’t want to go with me, let me call Tichaona (my other brother). Zvekurima hazvisi zvako, you are too smart for that,” he would say.

Mr C groomed me and was a pillar of strength. He was a Catholic and would wake up every morning to attend the 6AM mass. By the time he returned, I would have prepared for work and he would jokingly say, “Goodbye Mr Editor. I have prayed for you so you bring the newspapers.”

It is our family tradition that every Christmas we gather at one residence, drinking and partying. Unfortunately this year’s Christmas won’t be the same as uncle will be celebrating it with the angels. His voice, however, still echoes in my ears… “I know Mr Editor one day you will write my obituary’’.

Here we are, I am happy to write to you and I wish you could read this.

Rest in Peace Mr C, may you continue watching over us, Aunt Abi, Gwinyai and Patrick.