AFCON 2025: Flipping Content Creation From Coverage to Strategy 

By Toluwalope Shodunke

The beautiful and enchanting butterfly called the Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) emerged from its chrysalis in Khartoum, Sudan, under the presidency of Abdelaziz Abdallah Salem, an Egyptian, with three countries—Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia—participating, and Egypt emerging as the eventual winner.

The reason for this limited participation is not far-fetched. At the time, only nine African countries were independent. The remaining 45 countries that now make up CAF’s 54 member nations were either pushing Queen Elizabeth’s dogsled made unique with the Union Jack, making supplications at the Eiffel Tower, or knocking at the doors of the Palácio de Belém, the Quirinal Palace, and the Royal Palace of Brussels—seeking the mercies of their colonial masters who, without regard for cultures, sub-cultures, or primordial affinities, divided Africa among the colonial gods.

From then until now, CAF has had seven presidents, including Patrice Motsepe, who was elected as the seventh president in 2021. With more countries gaining independence and under various CAF leaderships, AFCON has undergone several reforms—transforming from a “backyard event” involving only three nations into competitions featuring 8, 16, and now 24 teams. It has evolved into a global spectacle consumed by millions worldwide.

Looking back, I can trace my personal connection to AFCON to table soccer, which I played alone on concrete in our balcony at Olafimihan Street—between Mushin and Ilasamaja—adjacent to Alafia Oluwa Primary School, close to Alfa Nda and Akanro Street, all in Lagos State.

Zygmunt Bauman, the Polish-British sociologist who developed the concept of “liquid modernity,” argues that the world is in constant flux rather than static, among other themes in his revelatory works.

For the benefit of Millennials (Generation Y) and Generation Z—who are accustomed to high-tech pads, iPhones, AI technologies, and chat boxes—table soccer is a replica of football played with bottle corks (often from carbonated drinks or beer) as players, cassette hubs as the ball, and “Bic” biro covers for engagement. The game can be played by two people, each controlling eleven players.

I, however, enjoyed playing alone in a secluded area, running my own commentary like the great Ernest Okonkwo, Yinka Craig, and Fabio Lanipekun, who are all late. At the time, I knew next to nothing about the Africa Cup of Nations. Yet, I named my cork players after Nigerian legends such as Segun Odegbami, Godwin Odiye, Aloysius Atuegbu, Tunji Banjo, Muda Lawal, Felix Owolabi, and Adokiye Amiesimaka, among others, as I must have taken to heart their names from commentary and utterances of my uncles resulting from sporadic and wild celebrations of Nigeria winning the Cup of Nations on home soil for the first time.

While my connection to AFCON remained somewhat ephemeral until Libya 1982, my AFCON anecdotes became deeply rooted in Abidjan 1984, where Cameroon defeated Nigeria 3–1. The name Théophile Abéga was etched into my youthful memory.

Even as I write this, I remember the silence that enveloped our compound after the final whistle.

It felt similar to how Ukrainians experienced the Battle of Mariupol against Russia—where resolute resistance eventually succumbed to overwhelming force.

The Indomitable Lions were better and superior in every aspect. The lion not only caged the Eagles, they cooked pepper soup with the Green Eagles.

In Maroc ’88, I again tasted defeat with the Green Eagles (now Super Eagles), coached by the German Manfred Höner. Players like Henry Nwosu, Stephen Keshi, Sunday Eboigbe, Bright Omolara, Rashidi Yekini, Austin Eguavoen, Peter Rufai, Folorunsho Okenla, Ademola Adeshina, Yisa Sofoluwe, and others featured prominently. A beautiful goal by Henry Nwosu—then a diminutive ACB Lagos player—was controversially disallowed.

This sparked outrage among Nigerians, many of whom believed the referee acted under the influence of Issa Hayatou, the Cameroonian who served as CAF president from 1988 to 2017.

This stroll down memory lane illustrates that controversy and allegations of biased officiating have long been part of AFCON’s history.

The 2025 Africa Cup of Nations in Morocco, held from December 21, 2025, to January 18, 2026, will be discussed for a long time by football historians, raconteurs, and aficionados—for both positive and negative reasons.

These include Morocco’s world-class facilities, the ravenous hunger of ball boys and players (superstars included) for the towels of opposing goalkeepers—popularly dubbed TowelGate—allegations of biased officiating, strained relations among Arab African nations (Egypt, Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco), CAF President Patrice Motsepe’s curt “keep quiet” response to veteran journalist Osasu Obayiuwana regarding the proposed four-year AFCON cycle post-2028, and the “Oga Patapata” incident, where Senegalese players walked off the pitch after a legitimate goal was chalked off and a penalty awarded against them by DR Congo referee Jean-Jacques Ndala.

While these narratives dominated global discourse, another critical issue—less prominent but equally important—emerged within Nigeria’s media and content-creation landscape.

Following Nigeria’s qualification from the group stage, the Super Eagles were scheduled to face Mozambique in the Round of 16. Between January 1 and January 3, Coach Eric Chelle instituted closed-door training sessions, denying journalists and content creators access, with media interaction limited to pre-match press conferences.

According to Chelle, the knockout stage demanded “maximum concentration,” and privacy was necessary to protect players from distractions.

This decision sparked mixed reactions on social media.

Twitter user @QualityQuadry wrote:

“What Eric Chelle is doing to journalists is bad.

Journalists were subjected to a media parley under cold weather in an open field for the first time in Super Eagles history.

Journalists were beaten by rain because Chelle doesn’t want journalists around the camp.

Locking down training sessions for three days is unprofessional.

I wish him well against Mozambique.”

Another user, @PoojaMedia, stated:

“Again, Eric Chelle has closed the Super Eagles’ training today.

That means journalists in Morocco won’t have access to the team for three straight days ahead of the Round of 16.

This is serious and sad for journalists who spent millions to get content around the team.

We move.”

Conversely, @sportsdokitor wrote:

“I’m not Eric Chelle’s biggest supporter, but on this issue, I support him 110%.

There’s a time to speak and a time to train.

Let the boys focus on why they’re in Morocco—they’re not here for your content creation.”

From these three tweets, one can see accessibility being clothed in beautiful garments. Two of the tweets suggest that there is only one way to get to the zenith of Mount Kilimanjaro, when indeed there are many routes—if we think within the box, not outside the box as we’ve not exhausted the content inside the box.

In the past, when the economy was buoyant, media organisations sponsored reporters to cover the World Cup, Olympics, Commonwealth Games, and other international competitions.

Today, with financial pressures mounting, many journalists and content creators seek collaborations and sponsorships from corporations and tech startups to cover sporting events, who in turn get awareness, brand visibility, and other intangibles.

As Gary Vaynerchuk famously said, “Every company is a media company.” Yet most creators covering AFCON 2025 followed the same playbook.

At AFCON 2025, most Nigerian journalists and content creators pitched similar offerings: on-the-ground coverage, press conferences, team updates, behind-the-scenes footage, analysis, cuisine, fan interactions, and Moroccan cultural experiences.

If they were not interviewing Victor Osimhen, they were showcasing the stand-up comedy talents of Samuel Chukwueze and other forms of entertainment.

What was missing was differentiation. No clear Unique Selling Proposition (USP). The result was generic, repetitive content with little strategic distinction. Everyone appeared to be deploying the same “Jab, Jab, Jab, Hook” formula—throwing multiple jabs of access-driven content in the hope that one hook would land.

The lesson is simple: when everyone is jabbing the same way, the hook becomes predictable and loses its power.

As J. P. Clark wrote in the poem “The Casualties”, “We are all casualties,” casualties of sameness—content without differentiation. The audience consumes shallow content, sponsors lose return on investment, and creators return home bearing the “weight of paper” from disappointed benefactors.

On November 23, 1963, a shining light was dimmed in America when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.

As with AFCON today, media organisations sent their best hands to cover the funeral, as the who’s who of the planet—and if possible, the stratosphere—would attend. Unconfirmed reports suggested that over 220 VVIPs were expected.

While every newspaper, radio, and television station covered the spectacle and grandeur of the event, one man, Jimmy Breslin, swam against the tide. He chose instead to interview Clifton Pollard, the foreman of gravediggers at Arlington National Cemetery—the man who dug John F. Kennedy’s grave.

This act of upended thinking differentiated Jimmy Breslin from the odds and sods, and he went on to win the Pulitzer Prize in 1986.

Until journalists and content creators stop following the motley and begin swimming against the tide, access will continue to be treated as king—when in reality, differentiation, aided by strategy, is king.

When every journalist and content creator is using Gary Vaynerchuk’s “Jab, Jab, Jab, Hook” template while covering major sporting events, thinkers among them must learn to replace one jab with a counterpunch—and a bit of head movement—to stay ahead of the herd.

Toluwalope Shodunke can be reached via tolushodunke@yahoo.com

“Christian Genocidization” of the Kaiama massacre, By Farooq Kperogi

Kperogi is a renowned Nigerian columnist and United States-based professor of Journalism

Descending from Fela’s Afrobeat to Wizkid’s Afrobeats

Tunde Odesola

(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, January 30, 2026)

Three occupants of a black Mercedes-Benz were heading to work on a good Friday morning. One was the driver, another was the aide, and their oga patapata. They came to crawling traffic on George Street in Ikoyi, Lagos, en route to Obalende, their office. The Federal Secretariat was at a touching distance.

Suddenly, a hail of gunshots rained on the black Benz like a hundred stones from the devil’s sling. Then the tyres screeched away. Then silence. Rivulets of hot blood trickled from the heads and torsos of the driver, the aide and General Murtala Ramat Mohammed. This was February 13, 1976, the first bad Friday I knew.

The second bad Friday was on February 18 of the following year. I had bounced off to St Paul’s Anglican Primary School, Idi-Oro, Lagos, in the morning, having celebrated a quiet birthday a day before. Except for the khaki-wearing planners of sorrows, tears and blood, no one else had a foreboding of what lay ahead in the day.

My class was in full session on the middle floor of the school’s two-storey wing when the news broke and shattered peace and learning. “Soldiers are attacking Fela’s house! Lagos is on fire!”

Yeepa! Fela’s house was a stone’s throw from my school. Before the teacher finished passing the information to the class, she had grabbed her bag, just as the school bell sounded, summoning everyone to the assembly ground. Exhibiting no emotion, a fair-complexioned, slim and fatherly teacher, Mr Mayungbe, disclosed the reason why the school was closing abruptly, strictly warning pupils to head straight home.

He said pupils whose homes were around Fela’s house in the Moshalashi area should wait behind for their parents and guardians to come and pick them up. Subsequently, our class teachers brought out the registers containing pupils’ addresses, calling those whose houses were not around Fela’s house to head home. My name was called. I jumped out, my bag slung across my back and headed towards the gate.

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At the school gate, I thought it was a betrayal to go home and not witness the injustice soldiers were inflicting on the beautiful white house of my hero; the house located by a bend, the house whose architecture I beheld and ogled at during incessant truancy trips. So, I headed to Fela’s house located on No 14 Agege Motor Road, Idi-Oro, where thousands of soldiers were deployed to destroy a harmless civilian, his family and livelihood. Yes, livelihood, because the house had a recording facility. It also had a free health clinic. This was during the military regime headed by General Olusegun Obasanjo, an Egba man like Fela. The barbaric soldiers threw Fela’s 78-year-old mother through the window of the storey building. And she died.

To weigh in on the supremacy fire raging between Fela’s son, Seun, and Afrobeats star, Ayodeji Balogun, popularly known as Wizkid, the aforementioned background from the eyes of a little boy sheds light on the indomitable spirit of the Abami Eda, and why his legacy as the founder and father of Afrobeat is forever encased in gold.

Without ever meeting Wizkid, I wrote a two-part article titled “The god that cut soap for Wizkid” in THE PUNCH more than two years ago. The articles, published in the month of September 2023, extol the humility of Wizkid’s mother, Mrs Morayo Balogun, and the grace upon the life of her superstar son, Ayodeji.

On Friday, May 19, 2023, in a public show of shame, Seun slapped a police officer on the Third Mainland Bridge. I penned “Seun Kuti’s double-edged slap” to criticise Seun’s arrogance and stupidity. Seun’s action on that day exposes the impunity men and women of power and influence inflict when relating with people they consider lower on the social rungs. Fela, despite his avowed stance on human rights advocacy, reportedly fell short on that account on a number of occasions. Neither is Wizkid a saint in this regard. Nigeria’s big men, more often than not, exploit the weakness in law enforcement to get away with any crime. A power monger called Wasiu Ayinde disrupted a flight and attempted to stop a plane from taking off; instead of a time in jail, he was given an award. Because he was close to President Bola Tinubu.

Let’s be clear from the outset, please. This article is not a magisterial judgment on who is right or wrong in the Seun-Wizkid fight. Mark my words – Seun-Wizkid fight, not Fela-Wizkid fight. To place Fela on the same pedestal as Wizkid is to compare the storm in a teacup with the roar of the Atlantic. Igi imu jinna si ori, the distance between the nose and forehead is far. It is arduous for the fingerless fellow to thread the thread through the eye of the needle. Fela is the creator, Wizkid is the creation.

A product of the University of Ibadan and the Imperial College, London, where he specialised in Sound Processing, octogenarian music producer, the legendary Odion Iruoje, is renowned as the producer of Nigeria’s first true pop music with his collaboration with the teenage sensation band, Ofege. Iruoje, who produced a series of Fela’s first hits, including ‘Jeun Kooku’, ‘Beautiful Dancer’, ‘Alijonjokijo’, and ‘Ojuelegba’, gave an insight into how Fela created Afrobeat.

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In an interview on popular online media, Agbaletu TV, Iruoje, who read Industrial Electronics and Control Systems, said Fela came to one of the foremost recording companies in the country, E.M.I, upon returning from England, where he recorded an unsuccessful album, ‘Won Fe Gba Aya Wa’, with E.M.I. in London. The sound guru described Fela as a troublemaker whom E.M.I London didn’t want to deal with.

“When he came to me, he said, ‘Mr Iruoje, I have a new sound now, and it is called Afrobeat’. I told him what sound do you have that I have never heard before? I didn’t understand what he was saying. I told him there’s no sound you are going to play outside Highlife. So, I went to audition (him). Goodness! I couldn’t believe it when he started the horns. I have never heard such a horn arrangement in my life. No one ever did that – plenty of horns – the arrangement, ha! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I have never heard such a sound before. I said we have to go to the studio.

“In fact, the MD (a white man) came to my audition, he was listening to it, he said, ‘Mr Iruoje, please, can you get this man into the studio before he changes his mind?’ I said no, I have not finished with the rehearsal, he (the MD) said no, no, please, Mr Iruoje, you know he is very unstable, he could change his mind. I told the MD that Fela would not change his mind on me.

“The MD and I did not believe him when he first came to announce that he had a new sound. But he said, ‘Odion, come to the Shrine and listen to it, and see what few changes you want to do to it, and I went, we did a few changes. His rhythm guitar was (new), and first-time of his time, then he added tenor guitar and lead guitar. So, Fela had more guitars than the regular Highlife band. The regular Highlife band had only one guitar and bass, but Fela had all four. Fela influenced Juju bands because they started introducing tenor, rhythm and other guitars.”

On Fela’s flip side, Iruoje described the political activist, culture advocate and social crusader as a troublemaker, whom recording companies did not want to touch with a long pole. Because he gave E.M.I. London troubles over royalties, Iruoje was told by the authorities of the E.M.I branch in Nigeria not record Fela.

“If he signs a contract which states that his royalty would be so much (amount), that is what he signed before going to the studio, once he goes into the studio and the song starts selling and becomes a hit, he would say, “That song is no more N80 o, he wants to get N100 or N200. At times, he would snatch the master tape,” Iruoje said.

If told he signed a contract, Iruoje said, “Fela would say, what is contract? Contract is ordinary paper. That music is more than what is in the contract. He would snatch the master tape now, (and say) he was not going to release it. He (would say) we had to change that. Maybe, at times, I may not be in when he’s making the trouble, when I come back, they would say, “See what your man is doing o. He has taken (the master tape). Then I would send somebody to call him. He would come to my office because he respects me.”

To be continued.

Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com

Facebook: @Tunde Odesola

X: @Tunde_Odesola

Descending from Fela’s Afrobeat to Wizkid’s Afrobeats