FIFA World Cup 2018 has come and gone. Unlike the past tournaments in South Africa (2010) and Brazil (2014) I did not travel to Russia to be part of the celebrations. That was a very conscious decision. You can say I’m still traumatized from my ordeal with THE BOYS. But the thought of going to Russia solo never excited me. Nor do I care to go to Qatar for the 2022 tournament for that matter.
I didn’t give the tournament much thought until last year when I realized it would really be terrible to have to watch World Cup matches in the United States, a country that barely cares about football. After the United States failed to qualify, I knew I absolutely needed to be elsewhere to enjoy the games. But, I don’t have the luxury to take a month off on holidays. For the past two tournaments I took my holidays during the first two weeks of the tournament, knowing that expenses for the games and for accommodations would be lower than during the last two weeks. Now that I wasn’t going to Russia, I decided I would let my holidays coincide with the last two weeks of the tournament. That meant I would just have to suffer watching the group and the round of 16 matches while “working”.
But where to go? Germany (my favourite to win the tournament…again, since Netherlands didn’t qualify), Belgium, France, England were all very easy options. But that meant visiting family and that was not what I wanted to do. Also, these options didn’t afford me the opportunity to experience a new country. Then Croatia came to me. Croatia. Eastern Europe. Why not? Croatia struggled to qualify but after they did, I was set. History, culture, Adriatic Coast, beautiful waterfalls, … and football? Done! I did lament though that my decision to go on holidays for the second half of the tournament would mean I wouldn’t have the opportunity to be in Croatia when they played any of their games.
How delightfully wrong was I? World Cup 2018 became as memorable as any other the second Croatia beat Denmark in the Round of 16. When Croatia beat Russia in the Quarterfinals, I was in Salzburg, en route to Zagreb. I had to leave my cup of tea (not a coffee drinker) and my Sacher torte that I was enjoying in the bar of the Hotel Sacher Salzburg, and go out for a walk during the penalty shoot-out. I was that nervous.
My nerves were better behaved in Dubrovnik where I watched Croatia beat England (sorry England) to advance to the Finals. It was easily one of the best experiences of my holiday. The celebrations that night felt like Croatia had won the World Cup itself. Hrvastka! Hrvastka! Hrvastka!
Was I disappointed that Croatia didn’t in fact win the World Cup? Yes. But France as the World Cup Champions is a good consolation. Allez, allez, allez les Bleus! Throughout the tournament I had seen Team Africa in Les Bleus. I have always joked that when it comes to football, the African continent becomes a single country. This year, Team Africa (Senegal, Egypt, Morocco, Nigeria, Tunisia) were all so disappointing. One after the other, each broke my heart. In the adopted Team Africa, France, it felt good to see people like myself, children of African parents but with European identities. Watching Paul Pogba and his teammates sing and dance along to Séka Séka by the Congolese DJ Marechal on their plane after beating Argentina was so heart-warming. Seeing more videos of them singing and dancing along to other African songs, dancing the latest African moves, was marvelous. I felt included. That the official fan song is “Magic in the Air” by Ivorian Magic System only made it obvious that these were my African brothers.
I know why Trevor Noah, an African himself, joked that Africa won the World Cup. Every African I knew was rooting for France because they recognised themselves in Team France. That was at the heart of the joke. And while I’ve always been partial to the French men’s football team, I can’t deny that I had other thoughts in my mind that would have made me happy if France had lost to Croatia. For one, the five constituents of Team Africa ought to have done better so that Africans didn’t have to transfer our hopes to a European team (albeit one full of children of the African continent). We should be acknowledging how utterly disastrous we actually were. There is no pride in that.
Yes, most of the French players are our African brothers, but imagine if each were playing for their respective ancestral countries. Right! They would have been maltreated and disrespected like the Ghana Football Association did their players. Let’s not pretend. Some like to say that so-and-so should have played for their parent’s country instead of for France. They say it the way they tell me I should go to Ghana to practice my profession. But Ghana has nothing to do with where I am in my career just like the ancestral countries have nothing to do with the players winning the World Cup for France.
At the same time, I did not like the criticism of France’s ambassador to the United States whose stance is the players on the French team are French not Africans. Sure. My families in France are French. My family in Belgium is Belgian. That does not erase their Ivorian/Ghanaian parentage. We are not even talking about an ancestry several generations removed. We are talking about children of African people. As beautiful as it is to aspire to a world where no-one sees colour, those of us who are of colour are actually not given the luxury of just being. I would love to just be but the world does not give me an opportunity to be without colour. France may not hyphenate those of African descent among them, but that doesn’t erase their experiences of racism and xenophobia. And this I speak of with authority. Furthermore, denying French people of African descent their Africanness which they live and indeed flaunt is part of the problematic white-washing of history that Africans have to endure no matter which country they happen to be citizens of.
“When people like me, they like me “in spite of my colour.” When they dislike me; they point out that it isn’t because of my colour. Either way, I am locked in to the infernal circle.”
Frantz Fanon, Black Skins, White Masks
A lover of mangoes. A woman - smart, without pretense, lefthanded, Afropolitan - navigating this thing called life. An unapologetic believer in social justice and karma. Choosing to radiate positive energy and be true to myself. Here, my musings.
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