By Sports Reporter
Scottland F.C., affectionately known as “Mabviravira,” is the PSL’s very own Netflix drama that no one subscribed to, but everyone’s now binge-watching, whether they like it or not.
What was supposed to be a glittering debut season, complete with Khama Billiat backflips and Walter Musona screamers, is spiraling faster than a kombi doing a U-turn on Samora Machel.
Behind the Insta-worthy signings and choreographed goal celebrations, Scottland is starting to look less like a club chasing “Champions League dreams” and more like a “soft life gone wrong”—a reality TV show no one signed up for but can’t seem to turn off.
True Patriots have been digging—and boy, it didn’t take much.
Scratch the gold-plated surface and you find a club where egos are bigger than match attendances, contracts vanish faster than ZESA power, and even the water boy might need a lawyer soon.
At the center of this Elephant-sized mess?
The man, the myth, the gold-flashing legend himself: Pedzai “Scott” Sakupwanya.
One minute he’s building squads like he’s playing FIFA Career Mode, the next he’s scolding professional footballers like motormouth ZimHip-Hop rapper Holy 10 on Instagram Live.
After a spicy 1-0 loss to Ngezi Platinum Stars, Uncle Scott was spotted fuming: “How do we lose with star players in every position.
Turns out buying players like you’re in a Pick n Pay sale doesn’t guarantee playing football like the current Barcelona squad.
Sources say coach Tonderai Ndiraya is basically a glorified team manager at this point—forced to field players handpicked by The Boss, whether they can trap a ball or not.
“Imagine being told to start a striker who thinks ‘offside’ is a new energy drink,” muttered one exhausted insider.
Morale? Somewhere between “You’ll get your salary, promise!” and “Actually, who told you to dream that big?”
Scottland’s current crisis is basically a combo meal, add a side of public humiliation.
After his second-tier side, N’ombeyawora, thrashed PAM FC, Sakupwanya couldn’t resist firing shots: “This is the type of football we should be seeing. Maybe I gave the wrong team the name Scottland.”
Ouch. That’s not a pep talk—that’s a WWE finishing move.
Meanwhile, backstage, the paperwork situation is pure circus.
Some players are reportedly signing one copy of their contracts instead of the required four. The missing three?
Allegedly, being “adjusted” by backroom magicians inflating salaries quicker than ZWL inflation.
One insider spilled: “Imagine signing a $2,000 contract but somewhere there’s a $5,000 version floating around.
Mazuva ano you need a prophet just to understand your own paycheck.”
With Scottland hemorrhaging around US$120K a month on wages and bonuses, Sakupwanya might be bankrolling half of PSL’s nightlife without even realizing it.
And just when you thought the vibes couldn’t get any worse—staff are deserting ship faster than rats on starving civil servant’s home.
Scottland’s digital media guru, Thulani Javas Sibanda, dipped so hard he announced his new job as Bulawayo Chiefs CEO before Scottland’s management even knew he had updated his LinkedIn.
Whispers are growing louder: another executive is packing up too.
Probably smart—at this rate, the last one left will have to double as coach, waterboy, kit manager, and DJ.
On the pitch, things aren’t much prettier.
After an unconvincing 1-1 draw against F.C Platinum, Coach Ndiraya repeated his favorite line: “We’re improving, but we need consistency.”
Currently sitting five points behind the mighty MWOS after seven games, the “title favorites” are starting to look more like “mid-table survivors.” And Ndiraya’s seat? Hotter than a Mabvuku December afternoon.
Bottom line is that Scottland F.C. promised Mabvirabira (a raging fire), but they disappointingly delivered a reality TV.
At this point, even the prophets in Zimbabwe are looking at Scottland and thinking, “Eish, I’m not touching that one.”
