Ray of Light

I first met Raymond Mupfumira at Book Café in Harare. He was part of the group of young, talented musicians who played in up-and-coming bands around town; a collective which included artists such as Sylent Nqo, Tina Watyoka and Humpfrey Domboka – all of whom would go on to become prominent members of Zimbabwe’s music scene.

Ray and I didn’t know each other particularly well until fate brought us together on board a bus to the Chimanimani Festival in Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands, where we were both performing, but in different bands. I had been looking forward to playing our first big festival appearance with my mbira-punk outfit chikwata263, but at that precise moment we were in crisis: our bass guitarist had quit the band via text message just as our drummer Blessing Chimanga and I were climbing onto the bus. After an emergency band meeting, with our mbira player Hector Mugani phoning in from Chimanimani, we agreed that we needed to recruit Ray, who was rated highly by Blessing, into the band.

When we asked Ray we made it clear that we were not just asking him to cover one gig, we wanted him to join our band. Hector, however, was adamant that Ray should audition if he wanted to join full-time, and this audition should be his appearance with us on stage at the festival. I didn’t know it at the time, but Ray was familiar with our band and liked our music, so it took him all of three seconds to agree to join us. For the rest of the bus journey, Ray listened to a live recording of one of our shows a couple of times over – that was all he needed, he said. Later that day, having never rehearsed with Ray, we walked onto the stage in Chimanimani to face 6,000 festival-goers, and played a show for the ages. Hector often says that the real chikwata263 was born that night: Ray was the missing piece to our jigsaw puzzle.

We would only get to feel Ray’s real impact on the band in the months and years that followed. As something of a musical prodigy, Ray started out by tweaking chords and rearranging the songs that Hector and I had composed. For us, this was an exciting time as we could feel the band’s sound really beginning to take shape. But then Ray started coming through with his own ideas for songs. “Bhutsu”, still one of our most popular tracks, came from Ray almost fully formed one afternoon while we were rehearsing in Harare’s Mannenberg jazz club.

With Ray’s presence we could feel the momentum of the band growing. We were delighted to learn that legendary Zimbabwean guitarist Andy Brown was a fan, and even more delighted when Andy joined chikwata263 on stage as lead guitarist for a few of our shows. He said he liked our egalitarian ethos (we always shared whatever money we made equally between the band) but he laughed and told us it would never last. Before we got our chance to prove him wrong, or even play together again, Andy passed away.

In Zimbabwe, when someone dies, mourners gather at their house almost immediately, staying there around the clock to remember the departed. They console the family and keep vigil until the body finally returns to spend one last night at home before being buried the following day. But when a musician dies, along with all the usual traditions there’s also music. Songs they made and played will be heard throughout the neighbourhood as their musician friends come through to pay their respects in the most powerful way they know: to honour them through a performance.

This is a tradition I first experienced when Andy died. Having been on stage with him only a few months before he passed, chikwata263 naturally went to pay our respects and play our part. But this time, instead of Andy being with us, it was only his guitar on stage: it stood untouched – no one dared. It was an epic gig, though: a send-off befitting Andy’s musical legacy. Just over a year later when singer-songwriter Chiwoniso tragically passed away too, her tribute was just as legendary, if not more. Having played several shows with her, Hector, Blessing, Ray and I were there to honour our friend and celebrate her through music.

In late May 2025, our dear friend Ray died.

A year before, after feeling dizzy while playing a performance in Namibia, Ray had been diagnosed with an enlarged heart – a condition caused, in his case, by the hearts’ valves not opening properly. We joked with him that we always thought he had a big heart – but of course we knew Ray’s condition was serious. Ray remained upbeat and optimistic about his recovery; only a couple of months later he was proudly telling us how much he was improving.

When Ray was first given the diagnosis, we mobilised a group of musicians to play a show to fund his medical bills. So numerous were his musician friends that the gig was completely oversubscribed and we ended up extending the show by an hour in order to include all the bands and musicians who wanted to play a part. In early 2025, when Ray’s recovery was taking a little longer than was originally predicted, we set up a WhatsApp group called “Friends Of Ray” and organised two more fundraisers for him. Once again we had to turn bands away because we simply couldn’t accommodate everyone.

The list of performers at these fundraisers was incredible, as if we had been asked to come up with the greatest festival line-up ever assembled. Mokoomba, Victor Kunonga, Alexio Kawara, Hope Masike, Dudu Manhenga, Transit Crew, Bantu Spaceship, Freedom Manatsa and Tina Watyoka were just some of the fantastic artists involved. Those unable to attend sent money and messages of support. I was honoured to be one of the many musicians who rallied round to play those benefit gigs for Ray.

Ray came to one of the last shows, watching from the sidelines as Zimbabwe’s best bands played in his name. The gig was called “Ray Of Sunshine”: quite apart from his outstanding musical genius, Ray was also an outstanding human being. Always happy to help, several musicians literally owe their careers to Ray’s selfless assistance; each and every one of us there at that gig had similar stories about his kindness and generosity. As chikwata263 took to the stage, Ray beckoned for the microphone and, in what now seems like a prophetic moment, sang, “Hakuna mushana kana aenda” – a Shona translation of the lyric “Ain’t no sunshine when he/she’s gone”. Yet even then, I never considered that we wouldn’t share the stage again.

After the initial shock of hearing of Ray’s passing, I quickly realised that we had to make Ray’s send-off as epic as we could. It’s hard to explain how, even as you are still dealing with your immediate grief, it’s possible to even think about putting together what is essentially an impromptu festival in their memory. Maybe it’s musicians’ therapy – when the pain is so great that it’s difficult to put the loss into words, we can say through our instruments and our performances what we cannot yet articulate. A guitar gently weeps, the drums speak, and through the melodies and harmonies and syncopated rhythms we can express our true, unfiltered emotions. Music is, after all, the common language that unites us.

We heard the news on Friday night, and by Saturday morning we were already discussing which PA system we would be able to get over to Ray’s house. But Ray, always the joker, had one more trick up his sleeve: he had booked a gig at Gava’s restaurant in Harare for that very afternoon for a band which was not even in the country. Hearing of Ray’s passing, the venue called us to ask if the show was still on – so we hatched a plan. The gig would now be a line-up of musicians playing a tribute to Ray, and we would offer the performance fee to his family to help with funeral costs. The tragic prophetic poetry of Ray inadvertently organising his own farewell gig was not lost on any of us.

That Saturday afternoon, the music at Gava’s soared but our hearts were heavy. I tried to keep myself in check by recalling all the happy shows Ray and I had played there together. It’s not often that a restaurant will tolerate a punk band, but Gava’s was kind enough to humour chikwata263 a couple of times a year. At our first gig there, I remember watching bemused sadza eaters react to Ray’s trademark punk bass solo: a deliberately bad rendition of “Mary Had A Little Lamb” which soon deteriorated into a jarring selection of random notes. The audience were not ready.

I also thought back to the times I had watched Ray on that same Gava’s stage with some of the other bands with which he played. He had been there with Transit Crew, Zimbabwe’s legendary reggae band, alongside our mutual friend Pablo Nakappa with whom I had thrown together this last-minute tribute; Ray had gigged with Namibia’s Vaughn Ahrens Band who were regulars at Gava’s when they were in town, and for whom Ray had become a integral member of the group. I think it would be almost easier to make a list of the artists who did not consider Ray a close personal friend.

We finished up Ray’s tribute at Gava’s and headed over to his house. There we talked and laughed and cried as we celebrated his life and mourned his passing. Then we took to the stage.

Over the next three days we made sure to give Ray the musical send-off he deserved. As band after band took to the stage, the music changed from traditional mbira music to gospel, to reggae to punk rock to Afro-pop – the variety reflecting the wide range of bands that Ray had been a key part of, and which held him in the highest esteem.

The third morning after his passing, a team of mourners went to collect Ray’s body from the funeral parlour to drive it back in convoy to his house. Another group on foot met the hearse at the main road and walked Ray back the last couple of blocks to his house, singing traditional funeral songs as they went. Ray would have truly appreciated seeing how big the turnout was: the convoy reached from his gate at the far end of his road, all the way to the end of the road and halfway down the next. It was an epic gathering.

That night we stayed at Ray’s house to be close to him one last time, honouring the tradition that a person should spend the night at their house before they are buried the following day. Members of the church arrived with an enormous PA system and the music began once again. I remember looking in on the gathering at about midnight as yet another talented ensemble channelled their grief through music. The crowd of mourners had now become a throng of dancers unable to sit as the power of the music moved them. Such was the frenzy that another friend, Arthur Timbe, who had also for a time played with Ray and me in chikwata263, remarked that if anyone was to walk in at that moment, they might confuse the funeral for a party – but for the lack of a bar. We laughed, and then we cried some more.

That night we made enough noise to alert the ancestors so that they would be ready to greet our beloved friend when he arrived at that big concert in the sky. We were not playing for the mourners, nor for each other, nor even for ourselves. No. We played for Ray.

We did not sleep.

The following day, the huge procession drove solemnly behind the hearse to the cemetery in Chitungwiza where Ray would be buried. I smiled through the tears as Mangoma, another of Ray’s friends, played Ray’s own djembe drum to accompany a crowd of church singers as our friend was laid to rest. Hector and I stood silently with our band’s drummer Madhiwali, bearing witness until the grave had been filled, and then it was time to return to Ray’s house for one last goodbye.

Four months after Ray’s passing, having had some time to think and process, I will add only this: when it’s my turn, I hope and trust that my friends will honour me with a similarly fitting musical send-off.

Farewell, Ray. See you in the next life.

RAY OF LIGHT