To start the project in a country which, at the time, condemned those of darker hue to hewers of wood and fetchers of water, is something to be saluted.
Voetsek Verwoerd, memories of images of resistance against apartheid are conjured up in the mind.
To water the project as you strove to make it thrive in conditions that were not conducive for someone of your colour to spread his wings and soar, is something to be celebrated.
For, frolicking in the fountain of abject poverty was supposed to be the staple diet of our collective lot, we people who are darker than blue.
Scraping at the bottom of the barrel. Scurrying for crumbs from the master's table. That was supposed to be our lot. That was supposed to be our destiny.
As the Afrikaners and their fellow travellers feasted in a festival of racism and apartheid, all your kind could get was something, a whole lot of nothing.
But you, black man, Kaizer Motaung, were indeed on your own.
Yourself, inspired by the doyen of black business, ntate Richard Maponya, broke free from the shackles that were designed to subjugate you.
Ironically, the celebrations of your club's 50th anniversary kicked off in a week that began on the back of tidings that the larger- than-life Maponya breathed his last on Monday.
From the brain of the boy nicknamed Boy Boy, the project started from scratch. Scratch Daddy by the Crusaders is playing in the background as the fingers are dancing on the keyboard.
You became so big way before it became fashionable for soccer stars to be.
Spotting an Afro, wearing flare bottoms, rolling in Mustang wheels, shirt buttoned down to the chest and shoes shining, the epitome of style you were.
Scratch Daddy by the Crusaders is playing in the background as the fingers are dancing on the keyboard
You became the poster boy of Lifebuoy soap with an image of yourself and later Nelson "Teenage" Dladla adorning the pages of many a magazine of my childhood.
I doff my cap off to you Baba ka Bobby, no Thabo, no Jessica, no Kaizer junior no Kemiso for making Kaizer Chiefs a home for many stars whose names have, in the half a century of the club's existence, become part and parcel of the folklore of South African football.
For many, Chiefs is a tear-jerker of blood, sweat and tears.
Blood in that when Ewert "The Lip" Nene, the late sweet-tongued, sometimes towel-waving director whose gift of the gab was so smooth he could sell fire to the devil and ice to the Eskimos at astronomical prices, lost his life in service of the club. Dladla, as captured soulfully by Sam Mathe in Friday's edition of the Sowetan, tells a tale of how he gave his all for Chiefs in honour of Nene, a man he knew from a distance, whose life ended in the hands of hoodlums whose knives bore holes in his body as though they were poking needles in a voodoo doll.
Sweat because an array of stars drawn from within and without the borders of the republic, past and present, young and old, dead and alive have worn the black and gold badge on their pride-filled chests.
All because you, Chincha Guluva and the people around you, 50 years ago, as blind as bats, ventured into the unknown, where angels fear to thread.
One day the epitaph on your grave should read: Here lies a man who refused to be reduced to a hewer of wood and fetcher of water. Voetsek Verwoerd!
Twitter: @bbkunplugged99
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