By Felix Daniel Mupariwa NganjoMutemi
There are moments in life that leave you suspended in time. For me, that hour on a crisp autumn Saturday morning in London, headphones on, waiting for Classic263 to go live at 10 am London time, was exactly that.
I wasn’t just listening to the radio; I was stepping back into a golden era of Zimbabwean sound, and into the aura of a man whose voice once shaped the rhythm of our lives: James Makamba, affectionately known as JCJ, the King of Radio.
I’ve been a die-hard listener since the late 1980s. Back then, seeing him from afar was enough to make my heart race.
Today, hearing that voice again after decades, it was as if time had folded in on itself—the same awe, the same thrill.
I remember him clearly: charcoal-grey trousers, a navy-blue double-breasted jacket, Brylcreemed Afro glinting under the studio lights.
Immaculate. Commanding. Effortlessly stylish. And when JCJ spoke, he didn’t just play music; he transported you into its story.
This was more than a radio show. It was a homecoming. For Zimbabweans who grew up when one radio station controlled the airwaves—the only source of entertainment, news, and culture for Black listeners—JCJ’s return after more than forty years was an event steeped in nostalgia.
By 10:05 a.m. Zimbabwean time, the unmistakable voice boomed through the airwaves. Social media erupted.
The Sounds on Saturday WhatsApp group buzzed with excitement. Memories poured back—his confident swagger, effortless charm, and that signature style that made the 1970s unforgettable.
The hour unfolded like a masterclass in nostalgia, curated by the skilled hands of Otis Fraser, whose contemporary mixing added polish while honoring JCJ’s timeless magic.
Voices from broadcasters of the late 80s and 90s—George Munetsi, Joe Hussien, and myself—joined in paying homage, alongside businessman Chester Mhende, celebrating a return that transcended radio waves.
And then came the music. But it wasn’t just music—it was storytelling, memory wrapped in melody. Four tracks stood out for me:
The Bee Gees — Staying Alive
From the first pulse, I could see JCJ in my mind: stepping out of his Datsun 140Y, head high, confidence unmatched. He didn’t just play the song—he made you feel alive, strutting through life with disco-fueled pride.
Oliver Mtukudzi — Dzandimomotera
Tuku’s voice, warm and unpolished, spoke of home, love, and resilience. JCJ lowered his tone in reverence, reminding us of the sound that defined Zimbabwe, a heartbeat that reached across continents.
Zexie Manatsa and the Green Arrows — Chipo Chiroorwa
JCJ’s voice carried a smile as he introduced this one. The rhythm rolled like a sunlit afternoon in Mbare, bringing back weddings, laughter, and the dancing dust. It wasn’t just a song; it was a communal memory, alive again.
Carl Carlton — Bad Mama Jama
When the funky bassline hit, laughter and smiles lit up homes. JCJ had that rare magic: he could make flirtation sound elegant, confident, and joyful. For those of us who grew up on his style, it was pure comfort—timeless, charismatic, unforgettable.
Each track was more than music; it was memory revived, a mood reawakened. JCJ didn’t just spin records—he spun magic. And for that hour, Zimbabwe was bathed once more in the golden sound of the 70s.
This magical reunion wouldn’t have been possible without John “The Boss” Matinde and Terence Mapurisana, Head of Classic263—the visionaries who orchestrated a moment that reminded us all why JCJ earned the title King of Radio.
For those 60 unforgettable minutes, we didn’t just listen.
We remembered, we smiled, we relived a time when music was more than sound—it was identity, style, and heart. And we were grateful.
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