Africans Palavering Over the Football World Cup

I dedicate this piece to every African who, with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, suddenly discovers a long-lost European ancestor the moment the utterly corrupt jamboree known as the World Cup commences.

The results of the so-called World Cup have become a phenomenon as predictable as the sunrise, and far more perplexing. What no one expected was the audacity of this year’s cheating officials to throw every caution to the wind to advance their favorite teams.

The fellow beside me at 'The Colonial Hangout,' a sports bar on popular Obom Road in Kasoa, looked as though he'd just received a summons from the taxman - troubled, deeply troubled. He hugged his big tumbler of lager with a morose expression splattered on his face.

On the gargantuan screen, mounted on a side wall, two African nations were locked in a gladiatorial struggle over the round ball.

Yet, this gentleman, a veritable walking billboard of misplaced allegiance, was draped head-to-toe in the colors of a European principality. His scarf, his cap, his jersey, all aggressively European. Even his beer, a pale lager in a Max Pro Tumbler, seemed to hum a Teutonic anthem.

My journalistic curiosity stirred. "My brother," I inquired with a politeness usually reserved for diplomats and elders in the village, "which African country are you gracing with your esteemed support?"

The man recoiled as if I'd suggested he donate a vital organ. "African country?" he repeated, his voice laced with indignation.

"Yes," I affirmed.
He frowned. "Of course, I am supporting the Dutch."

"The Dutch?" I echoed.
"Yes, yes, indeed, yes." He bellowed like an affronted Pastor. "What is wrong with that?"

"But, my dear fellow," I pressed, gesturing at the screen, "neither team currently engaged hails from the Netherlands."

He looked profoundly offended. "Football," he declared, with the gravitas of a philosopher, "is complicated and, for your information, is global."

I nodded sagely. For what else could one say to such impeccable logic?

Just then, a primal roar erupted from a distant corner. A Ghanaian maestro had scored. Half the Africans in the room groaned, a collective lamentation as if someone had just announced a great calamity. A Nigerian slapped his forehead in overdramatic theatrical despair. A Kenyan buried his face in his palms as if witnessing the slow demise of a beloved. A Ugandan stared mournfully into the middle distance, like someone who just received a summons from Museveni.

"The VAR has been particularly wicked this year," the South African beside me muttered into his drink, shaking his head sadly.

"What problem?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Africans," he sighed, as if uttering the name of a particularly virulent, dangerous disease.

I signaled for another drink. "What," I ventured, "have Africans done now?"

The waitress sauntered as they do in Nigerian movies, her skirt a little bigger than a Nigerian postage stamp, revealing as much as they covered, took my order, and departed with her rear engines jiggling provocatively. Allahu Akbar!

The South African leaned forward. "They refuse to support one another. And now, the world is laughing at us."

"You saw what happened to Egypt?" he asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Ah. The Egypt-Argentina debacle. The match that had every African in the bar suddenly become a constitutional lawyer, a human rights activist, and a FIFA regulations expert all at once.

I had read about it, of course. The entire continent had been in an uproar. Mostafa Zico's goal for Egypt had been disallowed after a VAR review for a foul in the lead-up, a foul so minor it would not have stopped a determined mosquito. Argentina, meanwhile, went on to score three goals in the last fifteen minutes. Lionel Messi, the eternal darling, advanced. Egypt went home.

"Football is now all about money," the South African declared. "They want Messi to stay in the tournament to satisfy their sponsors." Hossam Hassan, Egypt's coach, had said precisely that, vowing never to watch another World Cup match due to the "injustice".

"And then there's the American situation," he continued. "You heard about Trump?"

Who hadn't? The American president had intervened to overturn a red card suspension for Folarin Balogun, a decision so brazen that even FIFA, masters of opaque decision-making, insisted it was taken "independently". Even Uefa warned that the "integrity of the game is at stake".

"After the Balogun affair," I murmured, quoting Simon Chadwick, the professor of Afro-Eurasian sport, "who knows which decisions are legitimate and can be trusted, and which can't? Coming from a man clad in the colors of the House of Orange," I said to the South African, "that, my friend, is a truly remarkable observation."

He ignored me. "Europeans support Europeans. South Americans support South Americans. Asians support Asians. But Africans?" He spread his hands. "Africans support whoever is playing against another African."

At that precise moment, another patron, a man who had clearly undergone a rapid geopolitical transformation, approached. He was Nigerian, or perhaps he had been Nigerian earlier. At this juncture, he appeared to be Brazilian, his canary-yellow jersey screaming allegiance to the Samba Kings.

"My friend!" he announced triumphantly. "Today, I am Brazilian!"

The South African offered a thin, knowing smile. "You were Portuguese yesterday."

"Football," the Brazilian-Nigerian declared, "evolves."

"And before that?"
"Argentinian."
"What precipitated such a dramatic shift?"
"The circumstances," the beaming Nigerian explained, "changed." He didn't explain.

The Brazilian-Nigerian, sensing a challenge to his fluid patriotism, looked offended. "I support quality."

"And where did you unearth this elusive 'quality'?"

"In Europe."
The South African nodded gravely. "Of course. Where else?"

"The problem," the South African continued, "is that an African can watch an African team defeat a European team and become profoundly depressed. If a French team wins, everyone celebrates 'football excellence.' If an African team wins, everyone suddenly becomes a political scientist."

"Suddenly," he elaborated, ticking off points, "they remember historical grievances. 'I cannot support them because of immigration policies.' 'I cannot support them because of trade imbalances.' 'I cannot support them because their president once said something vaguely impolite in 1987.'"

The Brazilian-Nigerian interjected. "Those are valid concerns!"

"Yet somehow," the South African countered, "all of these miraculously disappear when Germany, Spain, France, Portugal, or Holland are playing. A European country colonized your ancestors, looted your minerals, partitioned your continent, and imposed structural adjustment programs. But a disputed goal? Ah! That is where you draw the line!"

The Nigerian retorted sharply: “You should have seen the online reaction when Mexico beat South Africa in the opening match. Social media was aflame. “Why are South Africans not attacking the Mexicans?" one user wrote. "Or they have used so much energy attacking their fellow Africans they have none left to attack Mexico! Instead of attacking the Mexicans on the pitch, your team sat back because your coach started saying 'go bek go bek'; he thought he was pursuing immigrants," another observed.

The irony was thick enough to slice. Africans supporting Mexico, not because of any affinity, but because South Africa's xenophobic reputation had finally come home to roost. We can forgive the colonizers, but we cannot forgive our neighbors for being neighbors.

"I'm supporting Mexico," one Kenyan declared, "because they gave us maize sometime back. Even if South Africa were playing against themselves," another declared, "I would rather support the stadium than that amapiano nation".

A goal flashed across the screen. The African team had scored again. The room became strangely quiet. One gentleman immediately announced his unwavering support for Croatia. Another became an instant expert on Belgian football, a third discovered deep, hitherto unknown emotional connections to Denmark.

The South African sighed. "There they go again."

"The Continental Department of Self-Sabotage," he replied, his eyes twinkling with dark amusement.

"Will an African team ever win this thing?" I asked.

He shrugged. "If it happens, half the continent will claim they supported the team from the very beginning."

"And the rest?"
"They," he concluded, "will claim their television signal was interrupted."

My South African brother declared mournfully, “Africa possesses gold, oil, diamonds, fertile land, young populations, strategic minerals, and ancient civilizations. What it still lacks, it seems, is enough Africans capable of cheering for another African without first consulting a lawyer, a historian, a political scientist, and an immigration officer. Until Africans develop both Black Consciousness and wisdom, Europe can relax. The colonizers knew what they were doing, you see. They didn't just steal our resources; they stole our ability to see ourselves in each other. They replaced solidarity with suspicion, unity with tribalism, and pan-Africanism with a desperate desire to be acknowledged by the very people who enslaved us. The VAR may have disallowed Egypt's goal, but we have been disallowing each other's humanity for generations. The Trump intervention may have been a scandal, but the real scandal is that we need the colonizer's approval to validate our own existence. Africa, in its infinite, paradoxical wisdom, remains the only continent where some spectators reserve their loudest applause for the fellow trying to defeat their neighbor, a truly unique contribution to globalism. Until we learn to chant for each other, we will forever be on the outside, looking in—not because FIFA rigs it, not because VAR hates us, but because we have forgotten how to believe in ourselves. Such is life on our beautiful continent. Europe can sleep soundly. We are too busy cheering for them to notice we are losing ourselves.

©️ Fẹ̀mi Akọ̀mọ̀‌làfẹ̀ (1st Dan)

Blog: https://femiakogun.substack.com

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