By: Trevor Madondo’s Nephew, Former Backyard Opener, Still Waiting on a Call-Up
Let me say this upfront: Zimbabwe didn’t just return to Test cricket against England at Trent Bridge after 22 years. We reappeared from the fog of memory, myth, and many mediocre Twitter threads. And somehow, we held our own.
You see, to understand why this mattered — really mattered — you need to know that Zimbabwean cricket is not just a sport. It’s a metaphor, a punchline, a political football, a WhatsApp rumour mill, a tale of lost innocence, and, recently, a redemption arc that would make Hollywood blush.
And I’ve been watching it unfold since 2003 — the year I became obsessed with cricket. Ironically, that was also the year we began falling apart at the seams. I was 11 years old, walking around quoting Andy Flower’s batting average and trying to bowl off-spin like Murali with a tennis ball that had been chewed by my first dog – Bingo (a glorious Rhodesian ridgeback with some Rottweiler in it)
I wanted to play for Zimbabwe. My uncle, the late Trevor Madondo, did. He made it to the big stage, became the first black Zimbabwean to make a Test fifty, and looked like he was about to rewrite history before tragedy cut his innings short. But that’s Zimbabwe’s story, isn’t it? Glimpses of brilliance, just before the lights go out.
Act I: The Golden Child (1980–2000)
Let’s rewind.
1980: Zimbabwe is born. A brand-new nation, bursting with optimism, Bob Marley concerts, and the vague idea that socialism and cricket can co-exist peacefully.
In the 80s and 90s, we were the nerdy overachievers of African cricket. We won our first ODI at the 1983 World Cup — against Australia, no less — with a team that looked like it had just stepped out of a farmer’s union AGM. Duncan Fletcher wore his pads like he had a tobacco farm to get back to.
But it worked. And by 1992 — when yours truly entered the world — Zimbabwe became a Test-playing nation. Think of it as graduating from university early, while still doing your mum’s laundry.
Through the 90s, the team was a glorious blend of blue-collar grit and highbrow technique. Andy Flower was the Rolls Royce. Grant was the workhorse. Heath Streak was the guy, both with the ball and — later — some unwise WhatsApp messages. We punched above our weight, regularly making bigger teams sweat. And all the while, cricket was becoming Zimbabwe’s accidental unifier — one of the few places where black and white, rich and broke, Bulawayo and Harare could all shout at a TV together.
Act II: The Fog Rolls In (2001–2010)
Now, I’m not saying the fall of Zimbabwean cricket was a direct result of me hitting puberty, but the timelines do line up suspiciously.
The 2003 World Cup was our last hurrah before the rot really set in. We beat Namibia and almost beat England, but the real drama was political. Andy Flower and Henry Olonga wore black armbands to protest the “death of democracy”. That was the moment cricket in Zimbabwe went from being a sport to a geopolitical soap opera.
The 2004 walkout was the final straw. Fifteen players — mostly white — walked out after Heath Streak was sacked as captain. The reasons were complicated: selection politics, racial tensions, the alleged “quota system”, and interference from Zimbabwe Cricket (ZC) board members who were about as trustworthy as expired bleach.
What followed was a decade-long cricketing wilderness. Players disappeared. Fixtures dried up. Results became meme-worthy. We became that team you schedule for a warm-up match before a real tour.
I still watched, of course. I watched us get all out for 54. I watched Bangladesh surpass us. I watched my friends move to and become fans of Australia and India and England because “Zimbabwe doesn’t really have a team anymore, boet.”
And yet, I held on.
Act III: Resurrection and Realism (2011–2025)
We came back to Test cricket in 2011 like someone returning to a party they were kicked out of: shy, broke, but hoping no one would notice the smell of trauma.
We beat Bangladesh. We scared Pakistan. We even took a Test off Sri Lanka. It wasn’t a golden age, but it was cricket, and that meant something.
The problem was always inconsistency. Financial mismanagement. Boardroom buffoonery. Players not being paid. Coaches quitting mid-tour. At one point, we had more coaching changes than net sessions.
But beneath the chaos, something was building.
Domestic cricket got a reboot. Logan Cup became competitive again. Schools like Churchill, Peterhouse, and Prince Edward were producing exciting kids — and now so were schools in Masvingo and Kadoma. Cricket was no longer a monocultural import — it was becoming Zimbabwean.
And now in 2025, at Trent Bridge — the same hallowed turf where Brian Lara scored 145 in a floppy hat and Shoaib Akhtar gave people PTSD — Zimbabwe walked out to face England in a Test match.
No walkouts. No political protests. No headlines about chaos.
Just cricket.
And we competed, well not really!
England fielded a full-strength team, bringing their best to Trent Bridge. The Test wasn’t fiercely competitive, but it did showcase some moments of brilliance and resilience. Despite a heavy defeat, Zimbabwe proved their mettle with Brian Bennet, Ben Curran, and Sean Williams stepping up to demonstrate skill, determination, and pride for their team.
Was it a win? No – not even close. But it wasn’t a whitewash. It was a statement. We’re not charity cases. We’re not cannon fodder. We are back.
Why This Matters More Than Just Cricket
Here’s the thing. This Test wasn’t just a cricket match. It was a national metaphor.
Zimbabwe the nation, like its cricket team, is slowly finding its feet again after years of decline, interference, and exile. We’re not a paradise. There’s still bureaucracy, bad roads, dodgy politics, and a currency system more confusing than Duckworth-Lewis. But there’s momentum. There’s youth. There’s hope.
Just like the team.
It’s not about pretending everything is fixed. It’s about recognising growth — in a country and in a cricket team that were once written off as hopeless.
And maybe that’s what I’ve learned, as a fan and a failed backyard prodigy: sport, when done right, doesn’t distract from the truth — it reflects it.
Final Over: My Uncle’s Bat and the Long Game
I still keep my uncle Trevor Madondo’s name close. He was more than a cricketer. He was a symbol — of what could be. Of what was starting to become. Of what we lost.
But now I see kids — black, white, Shona, Ndebele, mixed, diasporan — playing cricket again in the parks and schoolyards of Zimbabwe, and I believe it: the story isn’t over.
We are building again.
And yes, we’ll still lose Tests. Our middle-order might collapse more often than the power grid. But we’re here. And we’re playing.
Through the fog — there is a field.
And Zimbabwe is batting again.
Now someone please give me a call-up. I’m 32 and can still run twos if there’s a drinks break in between.