Living Conditions as a Random Photo Journal entry made me question the meaning of it, the cost of living, of struggle, of the difficult economy we’re all navigating today. But when I connect it with the Africa Cup of Nations, an entirely different word comes to mind: pride.
AFCON is one of those rare moments when, whether you love football or not, you just know the whole nation is going to vibrate together. And it keeps growing, more global every year. With AFCON comes something we Africans don’t often experience on a large scale: representation. For a few weeks, families gather. We shout, we sing, we laugh, we tease, we argue, we cry, together.
I was never a big football fan, but AFCON and my X feed reeled me in. Every nation got roasted, with love, and somehow that made it even better. That’s why I love AFCON! It feels like home. It reminds me of how we joke, how we embrace our identities through humour, how every match became the perfect excuse to tease a work colleague. AFCON matters because it’s one of the few times we feel truly seen. Platforms invest, people move and migrate, and whether on the continent or across the diaspora, we’re out in the streets celebrating.
Last year, while I was in Morocco, during the Women’s Africa Cup of Nations and AFCON, I saw true pride glowing in people’s eyes. It felt like a World Cup, just with a taste of home. In the north of Paris, local viewing scenes bring entire neighbourhoods to life, whether we’re gathered at Union de la Jeunesse Internationale or following the Paris African Cup hosted by Mamoudou Camara and his crew. Anyone who’s experienced it says the same thing: they’ve never felt energy like that. And in Rabat, I remember arriving during the women’s tournament, cafés were overflowing, every screen tuned in. Ninety-eight per cent of the viewers were men, which felt like a first. That’s the power of football! We watch our people on the field with full attention. It’s their moment, but it’s ours too.
That’s why so many of us felt heartbroken when we heard the Confederation of African Football’s decision a few weeks ago, asking Senegal to return the cup they had won with pride. No matter who you supported, Morocco or Senegal, it felt absurd, deeply disappointing. When Édouard Mendy stopped that penalty, you could feel it; everyone, except Moroccans, believed. That’s what faith looks like. AFCON is one of the only spaces where we all dance together. And in that moment, it felt like something was taken from fans of African football. They disrupted that shared feeling, our connection. For what? After months, what was anyone expecting to change? Still, I won’t lie, though, it made me smile to see the Senegalese team parade in France with the trophy; despite everything, it felt bold.
To end this AFCON Journal Entry, I think about this often: we breathe our love for African nations. We argue, we debate, sometimes intensely, but we love football, and we love our people. Together, it makes us proud to be African. And I hope that the red carpet we roll out for this competition is, one day, the same one we extend to every moment that belongs to us.
