Ten Times Queens, One Time Nation

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

Football, in all its poetic, tribal, and sometimes tragic drama, has long served as Nigeria’s most potent unifier. In a land of splintered identities – ethnic cocoons, political bunkers, and religious silos – football arrives like a public holiday nobody argues about. It doesn’t require fuel, or electricity, or permits. You don’t need to understand VAR to understand joy. Just one goal, one audacious dribble, and suddenly, neighbours who hadn’t spoken since the last election are hugging like long-lost cousins.

  Of course, this relationship is complicated. The national male team, the Super Eagles, have often flirted with greatness but are far more consistent at delivering high-blood-pressure therapy. From the sweet triumphs of the 1973 African Games gold, to the glories of the 1980, 1994 and 2013 AFCON wins, and those eye-catching Olympic medal runs – yes, we’ve had moments. But we’ve also perfected the art of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. With them, hope is like a rented apartment: occasionally comfortable, rarely permanent.

  Now shift your gaze, if you will, to our women’s national team – the Super Falcons. While the nation alternates between romance and regret with the Eagles, the Falcons have quietly built a dynasty. Ten-time winners of the Women’s Africa Cup of Nations. Ten! That’s not a fluke or a lucky streak. That’s dominance carved in granite. And yet, they’ve often had to celebrate in the shadows, with muted drums and half-hearted handshakes from the powers that be. Until now.

  This year’s campaign – the 13th edition of the tournament, staged in Morocco – was initially greeted with the usual Nigerian shrug. With a collapsing economy, a currency on life support, and inflation that needs an exorcist, many simply couldn’t spare the bandwidth to care. But then came the fireworks.

  In the group stage, most Nigerians barely noticed the scores. But once the Falcons walloped pre-tournament favourites Zambia 5–0 in the quarterfinals, the murmur began. Eyes widened, data was bought, Twitter (X) came alive. And when the team knocked out defending champions South Africa with a spirited 2–1 in the semis, the nation’s pulse aligned. Suddenly, “Mission X” was trending – not as a secret plan in a spy movie, but the audacious dream of our women to secure a record-extending 10th continental title.

 By the time Saturday, 12th June dawned, Nigerians were emotionally invested. Some, perhaps more than the Moroccan hosts, whose federation had spared no expense – hosting the tournament for the second consecutive season, rallying fans like a national election, and positioning themselves as inevitable winners, by all means… including chasing our girls with laser lights on their faces to distract them.

 The final did not disappoint. In true Nigerian fashion, the girls went two goals down in the first half. Cue collective eye-rolling, curses, tactical analyses from beer parlours to WhatsApp groups. “Dem don start again.” “No plan B.” “Coach dey sleep?”

  But this team wasn’t scripted for pity. They came out of the tunnel with fire in their veins. With grit, grace and sheer gumption, they clawed back to win 3–2 – snatching the title from Morocco’s manicured grip. The entire nation erupted in digital ovation. The same voices that had lambasted their “shambolic first half” were now composing odes. Memes of epic comebacks flooded the internet. Even the gods of inconsistency bowed in respect.

  Yet, beyond the glitz of the final score was something deeper. This victory arrived like an unsolicited miracle in a country wheezing under the weight of economic, security and leadership fatigue. In the face of hyperinflation, rising food insecurity, and an unrelenting dollar exchange rate that renders monthly salaries as pocket change, the Super Falcons gave Nigerians something rare: collective joy. Not just in the “we won” sense – but in the way that only national pride, properly earned, can soothe the battered soul of a people.

  Of course, this is Nigeria. Once the confetti falls, the opportunists come crawling out like termites at dusk. The federal government, true to type, didn’t wait for the sweat to dry. There were camera flashes, choreographed smiles, and a cacophony of accolades. Then came the announcements: each of the 24 players would receive naira equivalent of $100,000 (and $50,000 for each of the 11 officials), totalling around $3 million (approx ₦4.5b); national honours were conferred – Order of the Niger (OON); three-bedroom apartments promised at a Renewed Hope Estate. It was as if they had just returned from the moon, not a football tournament.

 We clapped, yes. Because these women earned it – every kobo. But as the drums rolled, a few sober voices raised questions. Was this sudden largesse sustainable? Was it morally sound to dispense millions of dollars in reward at a time when ASUU and health workers’ strikes linger like chronic ailments, and school children write exams under leaking roofs and flickering ‘torchlights’? Would the promises be fulfilled – or end up as just another bullet point in Nigeria’s pantheon of political unkept pledges?

  Ask the heroes of 1980 and 1994. Many are still waiting for their “promised lands.” Some have died waiting, their plaques gathering dust in homes built from hope deferred. That’s the thing about our system: we celebrate the moment with clinking glasses, but we fail to build institutions that remember, reward and replicate excellence.

  To their credit, private citizens also rose. A group of ex-internationals raised ₦30 million in solidarity. State governors, ever alert for media moments, isolated their “daughters” in the squad and showered them with gifts. The amorphous Nigerian Governors’ Forum chipped in ₦10m for each player. The wave of gratitude was nationwide – until someone reminded us about the match bonuses and camp allowances that were almost withheld before public outrage forced the NFF’s hand. The same NFF that now walks with puffed chests as if they laced the boots or scored the goals.

 Let’s be honest: we need a new approach to rewarding excellence. Not everything should end in bundles of cash or shiny medals. What about investing in grassroots female football? What about modern training facilities in every zone, scholarships for young girls from under-served communities, or endowments for retired players to transition into coaching or management?

The Falcons’ 10th triumph should be more than a parade and pay day. It should be a foundation stone. Let’s immortalise their names beyond Twitter trends and YouTube highlights. Build sports academies in their honour. Fund their post-career growth. Ensure the next generation knows that Nigerian excellence is not only momentary – but measurable, memorialised and magnified.

 Because the sad truth is: the cash will run out. The apartments will need maintenance. The medals will tarnish. But what will endure is the system we build – or fail to build – around this achievement. If we reduce this glory to a weekend carnival and photo ops at the villa, we have once again fed the moment while starving the movement.

 In a country where dreams are often lost in bureaucracy and brilliance is muted by mediocrity, the Super Falcons have reminded us – again – that Nigeria works, if you let talent lead. They didn’t wait for perfect funding. They didn’t play for headlines. They played for pride, for legacy, for country.

Now it’s our turn to ensure their story doesn’t end at the final whistle.