Monty Gagomokgwa’s Mic Retires

There are some voices that become part of the weekend or let alone the week through sports updates. Part of the dust that rises from village grounds. Part of the echo that lingers long after the final whistle.

And then, one day, the voice goes quiet. The announcement of his passing, made on Duma FM this week, travelled with the same clarity he once reserved for team sheets , analysis and tactical breakdowns. But this time there was no build-up, no post-match analysis, no opportunity for one last question in the mixed zone.

Just silence. Monty was not drawn to the glamour of football. He was drawn to its heartbeat.

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While others angled for the bright lights of the Premier League, he would be found at dusty lower-league grounds, chronicling stories many considered too small to tell. He followed football in its purest form — the kind played before dozens, not thousands. “Monty had a deep love for the game, especially at grassroots level,” said Tariq Babitseng, President of the Botswana Football Association.

“He believed that every player, no matter the league, deserved to be seen and heard. His coverage of lower leagues gave visibility to talent that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. Botswana football has lost a true advocate.” That word — advocate — feels right.

Monty did not simply report scores. He argued, gently but firmly, for recognition. He saw potential in teenagers playing on uneven pitches and told their stories as if they were already internationals.

He treated first andsecond-division derbies with the reverence others reserved for cup finals. Mosimanegape Tshoswane, spokesperson of the Botswana Football League, remembers him as a constant presence. “You could always count on Monty to be there, even for fixtures that did not attract big crowds.

He understood that the strength of our league lies in its depth. His reporting brought credibility and consistency to our competitions.” There is something beautifully stubborn about that — the decision to show up, again and again, when few are watching. It is easy to celebrate champions.

It takes patience to chronicle those still dreaming. Off the pitch, Monty carried an equally colourful charm. Friends often joked about how firmly he believed in muti— traditional medicine — especially when it came to football fortunes.

If a striker was on a goal drought, Monty would laugh and suggest, half-serious, that perhaps a visit to the right traditional healer might sharpen his boots. It was part of his humour, part of the folklore he loved about the local game — that beautiful blend of tactics, talent, faith and superstition that makes football in Botswana uniquely its own. For Duncan Kgangkenna of the Sunday Standard, Monty was more than a colleague.

He was a friend. “Monty was authentic,” Kgangkenna said. “What you heard on air was who he was off it — passionate, humble, and genuinely invested in people.

He loved the game, but he loved the people in it even more.” And perhaps that is what will be missed most. The warmth behind the questions. The quiet encouragement to a nervous coach.

The way he could make a struggling striker feel like the story still mattered. Now the stadiums will feel different. The lower leagues will roll on, as football always does. But somewhere between kick-off and the final whistle, there will be an absence — a space where a familiar voice once narrated dreams.

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