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AFCON Was Meant to Unite Africa. So Why Did It Do the Opposite?

BYOmarr Belhaj

January 26, 2026

“I’m issuing a call to our general assembly (…) that Africa is one and indivisible, that we work towards the unity of Africa together… That we condemn superstition, tribalism, all forms of discrimination within our football and in all domains of life. We do not accept the division of Africa into Francophone, Anglophone, and Arabophone. Arabs from North Africa and Zulus from South Africa, we are all authentic Africans. Those who try to divide us by way of football are not our friends.” — CAF President Yidnekatchew Tessema, 1974

The Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) was introduced in 1957, following the establishment of the Confederation of African Football (CAF) in Khartoum that same year, with Egypt, Ethiopia, South Africa, and Sudan comprising the founding members. Emerging at the height of decolonization, the tournament became a symbol of liberation and Pan-Africanism designed to showcase the collective unity of a continent divided and exploited by European powers.

The modern-day perception of football as a universal language is one that was equally as pertinent in the mid-20th century. Historian Peter Alegi argues the inaugural competition was a vehicle for political idealism, providing “a Pan-African stage for the performance of new national identities in a way that most people supported and even embraced.”

As a British-Moroccan born and raised in London, AFCON offers a chance to reconnect with the motherland, igniting passion, patriotism, and inevitable frustration. For many Africans, those based on the continent and the many generations of diaspora scattered across the globe, the anticipation of the tournament looms large.

The 35th edition of the tournament took place in the Kingdom of Morocco, for only the second time in its history since 1988, and concluded with an epic showdown between two of the most acclaimed footballing nations on the continent: Morocco v Senegal. The heavyweight clash took place on Jan. 18 at the Prince Moulay Abdellah Stadium in Rabat, and while it promised to be a good watch, I doubt many would have expected the sequence of events that unfolded. Nonetheless, one could argue that the 120 minutes of action that unfolded were a microcosm of the value of AFCON as a vehicle for unification across the continent, but equally the fragility of that unity.

As I made the journey to the stadium along with my father, having taken him to Morocco’s semi-final match against Nigeria– his first Morocco game since the 1998 World Cup in France, against Brazil– there was a jovial spirit amongst fans. Both Moroccan and Senegalese supporters shared a mutual respect, with the phrase bonne chance (good luck) being a prominent feature of the pre-match discourse. This amicability continued in the stadium, and as the Senegal national anthem reverberated around a cauldron of passion, Moroccan fans rose to applaud and vice versa.

Despite a promising opening 90 minutes, with both teams vying for the win, it was in extra time that tensions began to boil over. Claims of injustice, incompetence, and corruption culminated in chaos both on the field and in the stands. While Senegal emerged victorious following a thunderous strike by Villarreal midfielder Pape Gueye, the events that took place marred what was considered by many to be the best AFCON ever.

The fraternal relationship between the two nations was one that I myself was not particularly aware of. Not only do they share strong economic, political, and social ties, but both nations recognize each other as a “second country.” A bond entrenched by a special convention dating back to 1964, which grants citizens of both countries special rights regarding freedom of movement, residence, and access to employment. Yet despite the modern context, the brotherhood is one that dates back centuries.

Deeply rooted in spirituality, a shared belief of Sufi Islamic traditions, the foundation of the relationship dates back to the Tijaniyyah Order— a Sufi brotherhood founded in Fez by Sheikh Sidi Ahmed Tijani in the 18th century. Not only is this order the most subscribed to in West Africa, but the mausoleum of Ahmed Tijani in Fez still serves as a permanent pilgrimage site for Senegalese followers, reiterating the continuous spiritual ties between the two nations.

It is precisely this historical context that makes the discourse and fitna (division) in the aftermath of the final all the more disheartening, as it undermines the core principles that inspired the creation of the tournament.

Looking back at the infamous speech by former CAF President Yidnekatchew Tessema in 1974, he passionately rejected “the division of Africa into Francophone, Anglophone, and Arabophone. Arabs from North Africa and Zulus from South Africa.” Yet after the final, social media became dominated with divisive discourse, not just between Morocco and Senegal. Many across the continent chose to question the validity of Morocco’s participation in AFCON itself, with much of the discourse drawing upon the argument that North Africans aren’t really African, dividing the continent between North Africa and West, East, and Central Africa.

Not only does this undermine Tessema’s assertion that “we are all authentic Africans,” but it also draws upon a colonial ideology historically used to divide the continent, suppressing collective rebellion against the European powers.

Yet for all its messy and disheartening moments, AFCON continued to reveal flashes of the values it was built on, reminding us why the tournament existed in the first place.

This is best shown by the iconic DR Congo fan, Michel Nkuka Mboladinga, who rose to prominence on social media for his powerful tribute to former Prime Minister of the DRC Patrice Lumumba. At every game, he would stand on a small stool motionless with his right hand raised for the entirety of the match, perfectly mirroring Lumumba’s statue in Kinshasa.

Michel Nkuka Mboladinga

A celebrated flagbearer for Congolese independence, Patrice Lumumba was assassinated in 1961 with the assistance of the governments of Belgium and the United States, for his Pan-African ideology. And it wasn’t until September 2020 that the last of his remains, a single gold-capped tooth, was returned to his family.

Since the beginning of AFCON, global Google searches for Patrice Lumumba have surged, reaching a 100% search trend peak. The impact of Nkuka Mboladinga’s tribute has not only educated a generation on the brutal legacy of colonialism in the DRC, but it also symbolises the broader significance of the tournament as a vehicle for African solidarity and unity.

Following Algeria’s win over DR Congo in the round of 16, Algerian forward Mohamed Amoura seemed to mock Mboladinga by turning to face him in the stands, raising his hand and then dropping to the turf. Social media was critical of Amoura, and, in some corners, extended the criticism beyond the individual to accuse Algerians more broadly of racism.

What this discourse overlooked, however, was Algeria’s own historic relationship with Lumumba and the Pan-African ideals he represented. Algiers is home to a street named in Lumumba’s honor, and it was Algerian authorities who arrested and detained one of his assassins in the years following his killing, an often-forgotten chapter in the continent’s shared anti-colonial struggle.

Amoura later issued a public apology, explaining that he was unaware of the gesture’s significance and had no intention of being disrespectful. The Algerian Football Federation followed suit, inviting Mboladinga to present the forward with a national team jersey bearing the name “Lumumba.”

While this incident culminated in an educational experience for Amoura and those unfamiliar with the history of Lumumba, it reveals the broader tensions between African solidarity and the legacy of colonial division within the continent. Football, which began as a means of protest, has evolved into a proponent of division amongst nations, despite a shared history of oppression and conflict. The heightened emotion and patriotism that often characterize African football can be traced back to the historical fight for statehood and self-determination.

Ironically, it was football which emerged as a vehicle for change long before the inception of the tournament. The beautiful game in Africa has historically been intertwined with the fight for independence, despite its introduction by the same colonial powers that sought to preserve their dominance over the continent.

Renowned historian David Goldblatt, in his book The Age of Football: The Global Game in the Twenty-First Century, argues that despite its colonial origins, football in Africa “served widely as an instrument of the independence movement”– this was especially pertinent in North Africa.

The formation of Egyptian club Al Ahly can be traced back to the Denshawai Incident, the unfair trial and brutal execution of four Egyptians accused of causing the death by heatstroke of a British official, which resulted in the resignation of the British consul general Lord Cromer in 1907. At the height of the nationalist movement sparked by the incident, Egypt’s student movement founded the team based on the core principles of national pride, unity, and resistance to British colonial oppression.

Wydad Athlétic Club de Casablanca.

Similarly, in May 1937, a group of Moroccan elites led by Mohamed Benjelloun Touimi founded Wydad Club in Casablanca as a direct resistance to French occupation. Eleven years later, in 1949, Casablanca would also become home to Raja Club Athletic, founded by a group of working-class youth equally opposed to French colonial rule in the region.

There is arguably no greater example of the role football played in the fight for independence than Algeria. At the height of the War of Independence, Algeria’s National Liberation Front (FLN) not only created its own national team, but it also infamously persuaded thirty footballers of Algerian descent plying their trade in France to gather in Tunis. One of whom was Saint-Étienne striker Rachid Mekhloufi, set to be part of the French squad for the upcoming World Cup.

And so, it was in 1958 that the Onze de l’Indépendance (the Independence Eleven) was born– marking the first time a national team was created before a nation’s established independence. Not only was the team fundamental to Algeria’s eventual independence in 1962, but according to the nation’s inaugural president, Ferhat Abbas, it “advanced the cause by ten years.”

Transcending the conventional confines of sport, football became a powerful vehicle in the fight for African sovereignty, offering newly liberated nations the opportunity to assert their national identities.

Nonetheless, despite European colonialism being a thing of the past, there remains a glaring hypocrisy when African football is discussed in the West. Granted, the scenes in the final between Morocco and Senegal were unsavoury at best. But the manipulation of the events by Western media reveals a double standard that aims to undermine the region. In the aftermath of the game, many were quick to condemn the events as an indictment of African football more broadly, rather than an isolated infraction point.

The enduring legacy of colonialism rears its head when the incident is compared with the chaos of the Euro 2021 final at Wembley Stadium, as fans without tickets stormed the stadium, injuring other supporters and members of staff. Not to mention, the chaos at the 2022 Champions League final in Paris when French police unleashed tear gas on supporters who lamented the rough treatment they received from authorities. Neither of these was an encompassing reflection of European football; they were limited to isolated incidents.

So my question is, why is the same courtesy not extended to AFCON?

And more importantly, as Africans, why has football evolved into a catalyst of division, rather than what it has historically always been, a medium of unity and Pan-Africanism?

AFCON Was Meant to Unite Africa. So Why Did It Do the Opposite?

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AFCON Was Meant to Unite Africa. So Why Did It Do the Opposite?

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