South Africa’s captain, Ronwen Williams, spoke with palpable emotion after Bafana Bafana’s 2-0 loss to Mexico in their opening match of the 2026 FIFA World Cup. However, it was not the loss itself that appeared to trouble him most. Football, after all, is a game of victories and defeats. Today’s winner may become tomorrow’s loser. What seemed to wound Williams more deeply was the realization that many Africans appeared to be supporting Mexico rather than South Africa, one of their own.
Special to USAfrica Magazine (Houston) and USAfricaonline.com, the first Africa-owned, US-based newspaper on the Internet
Agbedo, a Professor of Linguistics, University of Nigeria Nsukka, Fellow, Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study, Amsterdam, is a contributing analyst to USAfrica
To Williams, this represented a painful departure from a long-standing tradition. Historically, when an African team steps onto the global stage, the continent often sets aside national rivalries and rallies behind it. The Nigerian becomes Cameroonian. The Ghanaian becomes Senegalese. The Kenyan becomes Moroccan. The African flag rises above the national flag. It is a tradition rooted in a shared history of colonialism, struggle, resilience and aspiration. It is therefore understandable that Williams should ask why South Africa appeared to be an exception.
Yet, there is an old African proverb that may provide part of the answer: the man who brings ant-infested firewood into his hut should not be surprised when lizards come visiting. The lizards that appeared after South Africa’s defeat did not crawl out of the cracks overnight. They were summoned by memory. They were attracted by experiences, perceptions and unresolved grievances accumulated over many years. Football merely provided the occasion for those memories to reveal themselves.
Africa has always cherished moments of collective triumph. When Cameroon reached the quarter-finals of the 1990 World Cup, the entire continent celebrated. When Senegal stunned defending champions France in 2002, Africans from Cairo to Cape Town danced to the same rhythm. When Ghana came within touching distance of a World Cup semi-final in 2010, millions who had never set foot in Accra suddenly became ardent supporters of the Black Stars.
Those moments transcended football. They became symbols of African possibility. Every victory by an African team felt like a victory over centuries of marginalization. Every goal seemed to announce that Africa, too, belonged at the highest table of global competition. Why, then, did some Africans openly admit supporting Mexico? The answer may be uncomfortable, but uncomfortable truths often carry the greatest lessons.
For many Africans, the issue was not football. It was memory. Across the years, reports of xenophobic attacks against African migrants in South Africa have circulated widely throughout the continent. Images of foreign-owned shops being looted, migrants being assaulted, and communities being displaced have left lasting impressions. Nigerians remember. Zimbabweans remember. Mozambicans remember. Somalis remember. Ethiopians remember. Ghanaians remember. Whether every perception is entirely fair is beside the point. Public sentiment is often shaped less by statistical accuracy than by lived experience and collective memory.
As another proverb reminds us, the wound may heal, but the scar remains as a witness. Memory is one of the most powerful forces in human affairs. Nations possess memories just as individuals do. Communities remember kindness, but they also remember injury. The village may forgive the man who broke its pot, but it rarely forgets where the pieces fell. This reality helps explain why Williams’ appeal for solidarity generated such mixed reactions across Africa. While many agreed that Africans should support fellow Africans regardless of circumstance, others argued that solidarity cannot be demanded in moments of need while being neglected in moments of responsibility.
There is wisdom in the saying that the hand that gives is the hand that receives. Brotherhood is reciprocal. It is sustained by mutual respect and mutual obligation. One cannot spend years erecting walls and then express surprise when neighbours hesitate to open their gates. One cannot sow suspicion and expect to harvest trust. As the old proverb puts it, he who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind. This does not mean South Africa deserves hostility. Nor does it mean every South African bears responsibility for acts committed by a minority. Such conclusions would be both unfair and dangerous.
Indeed, one of the greatest mistakes in public discourse is the tendency to treat entire nations as though they were single individuals. South Africa is not a monolith. Millions of South Africans have welcomed fellow Africans, worked alongside them, defended them, and stood against xenophobia. Many South Africans have themselves condemned attacks against migrants and called for greater continental unity. To judge an entire forest by a few diseased trees is to misunderstand the nature of forests.
Nevertheless, perceptions matter. In politics, diplomacy and public relations, perception often becomes reality. A nation may insist that it values African solidarity, but if its actions—or the actions associated with it—suggest otherwise, the resulting image can become difficult to erase.
The elders say that a reputation is like an egg; once broken, it is difficult to restore to its original shape.
This is perhaps the deeper lesson concealed within Williams’ lament.
The World Cup did not create Africa’s divisions. It merely exposed them. The stadium became a mirror. In that mirror, Africa caught a glimpse of its unfinished project of continental integration. Beneath the chants and cheers lay unresolved questions about identity, belonging and Pan-Africanism. Beneath the score line lay an uncomfortable debate about whether Africans truly see one another as brothers and sisters, or merely as neighbours united by geography.
For decades, African leaders have spoken eloquently about continental unity. Summits have been convened. Declarations have been signed. Grand visions have been proclaimed. Yet, ordinary Africans often experience a different reality—one marked by restrictive borders, economic competition, mutual suspicion and periodic hostility. The result is a contradiction. Africa celebrates unity in speeches but sometimes struggles to practice it in everyday life.
The controversy surrounding South Africa’s World Cup defeat is therefore not merely a football story. It is a social commentary on the state of African solidarity itself. Yet the response should not be bitterness. Neither should it be triumphalism. Those who supported Mexico out of resentment should remember another African saying: when two brothers fight, a stranger inherits their father’s land. A divided Africa ultimately weakens itself. Every crack in the continental house becomes an opening through which external interests may enter.
Likewise, South Africa should view this moment not as an insult but as an opportunity for reflection. The wise farmer does not curse the harvest. He studies it. If the crop fails, he examines the seed, the soil and the season. Perhaps the cheers for Mexico are less important than the questions they raise. Why do some Africans feel alienated from South Africa? What can be done to rebuild trust? How can Pan-African ideals be translated from rhetoric into reality? These are the questions that matter. Solidarity is not a switch that can be turned on during a World Cup tournament. It is a relationship cultivated over time. It is built through hospitality, mutual respect, shared sacrifice and consistent goodwill. Like a tree, it grows slowly but can be felled quickly.
The ancestors understood this truth. They taught that a single broomstick snaps easily, but a bundle of broomsticks is difficult to break. Africa’s future depends not merely on the strength of its individual nations but on the strength of the bonds that connect them. Ronwen Williams is right to call for Africans to stand together. The continent needs more solidarity, not less. But solidarity, like trust, cannot be commanded; it must be earned. It cannot be demanded at the moment of crisis if it has not been nurtured during moments of calm.
In the end, the story of South Africa’s World Cup defeat is not really about Mexico, football or even Bafana Bafana. It is about memory. It is about reciprocity. It is about the long shadows cast by past actions. For the lizards that appeared were not responding to ninety minutes of football. They were responding to years of accumulated memory. And memory, like the village drum, never forgets who first beat it.
