When Senegal beat host nation Morocco to win the Africa Cup of Nations final, the reaction across much of the continent was immediate and unmistakable.
From Dakar to Dar es Salaam, from Harare to Lagos, the mood was less about Senegal’s triumph and more about Morocco’s defeat.
On social media, a blunt verdict trended: African football won. Morocco lost.
I called one of my friends from the relatively small nation of Lesotho, and he was ecstatic. Yes, he is a football fanatic, but this time his happiness was rooted in something more than just love of the game. It was personal. He uttered the words, "Real Africans have won.”
I paused. What did he mean by "real”? Aren’t Moroccans Africans, too? After all, the reigning African Footballer of the Year is Moroccan, Paris Saint-Germain (PSG) star Achraf Hakimi.
At face value, the statement comes across as blatant racism. Moroccans may be light-skinned, but let’s be honest, it can’t be that simple. A pause for perspective is advised before rushing to judge the sentiment behind his words.
It quickly became clear there was far more to unpack. Many others shared the same sentiment. I decided to explore it further. Morocco’s relationship with African football, it turned out, has long existed in a state of tension, admired for excellence, resented for distance, and mistrusted for motive. The AFCON final did not create that hostility. It merely exposed it.
Long memory in African football
African football, perhaps more than any other regional game, carries history on its back. Results are remembered, but so are absences.
Morocco’s withdrawal from the Organization of African Unity in 1984, in protest of the admission of the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic, marked a turning point. For more than three decades, Rabat removed itself from Africa’s primary political forum, sending a message many countries never forgot.
When Morocco rejoined the African Union in 2017, it returned not as a prodigal son but as a powerful outsider seeking influence. Fifteen member states openly opposed its readmission. In football corridors, that skepticism translated into quiet resistance, in CAF politics, hosting votes and regional alliances. Morocco had come back. Trust had not.
The Ebola episode
Few moments hardened opinion against Morocco more than its refusal to host the 2015 AFCON.
Citing fears over Ebola, which was devastating parts of West Africa at the time, Morocco asked CAF to postpone the tournament. CAF refused. Morocco withdrew. Sanctions followed.
Across sub-Saharan Africa, the move was seen not as caution but as rejection, a stigmatizing act that treated African bodies as a risk rather than a responsibility. For countries already marginalized in global health narratives, it cut deeply. That incident lingers. In African football, memories are not erased by apologies or appeals.
Western Sahara: The political undercurrent
No issue has done more to politicize Morocco’s presence in African football than Western Sahara.
The African Union recognizes the Sahrawi state. Morocco does not. That contradiction plays out repeatedly, in diplomatic votes, hosting bids and increasingly in football controversies.
When Moroccan club RS Berkane was sanctioned for displaying a map that included Western Sahara, the ruling was legal.
The reaction, however, was emotional. To many Africans, it confirmed a long-held suspicion: Morocco uses football not just to compete, but to legitimize political claims.
For supporters of Sahrawi self-determination, cheering against Morocco is no longer simple sporting rivalry. It is symbolic resistance.
Europe, identity and the question of belonging
Morocco’s deep economic and political alignment with Europe adds another layer to the resentment.
Its failed attempt to join the European Community in 1987, its "advanced status” partnership with the European Union, and its upcoming co-hosting of the 2030 World Cup alongside Spain and Portugal have fueled perceptions that Morocco looks north for validation and south only for competition.
During moments of success, including its historic 2022 World Cup run, Morocco was embraced as African. But when tensions rise, the old question returns: If you don’t fully claim Africa, why should Africa claim you? That identity tension is not universal, but it is persistent. It resurfaced loudly at AFCON.
Hosting without harmony
AFCON 2025 was Morocco’s chance to reset the narrative. Instead, it magnified every fault line. Opposing teams complained of hostile stadium atmospheres, inadequate treatment and subtle advantages tilted toward the hosts.
Refereeing decisions, particularly in knockout matches, were scrutinized with unusual intensity. Social media revived a familiar accusation: MAROCCAF.
Whether fair or not, perception mattered more than evidence. By the time Senegal reached the final, Morocco had stopped being just the host. It had become the symbol of everything many Africans felt excluded from in their own game.
The towel incident(s)
Then came the moment that crystallized everything and unfortunately, it did not help the already tainted Atlas Lions' image.
In rainy conditions, opposing goalkeepers repeatedly lost access to their towels, removed by ball boys, stewards and eventually players. In the final, cameras caught Hakimi throwing Senegal goalkeeper Edouard Mendy’s towel away. On its own, it was petty. In context, it was devastating.
Across Africa, the image spread as proof of a deeper accusation: that Morocco was willing to win by any means, however small, however undignified.
Senegal’s reserve goalkeeper physically guarding the towel became an unlikely folk hero, a symbol of resistance against perceived manipulation.
Remember, this wasn’t an isolated incident. Moroccan ball boys pulled the same stunt on Nigerian goalkeeper Stanley Nwabali, who was clearly not having any of it. He fired back with a bold counter-gesture aimed at the stands. Football rarely turns on towels. Narratives do.
Uneasy leadership
Morocco’s dominance in CAF infrastructure is undeniable. It hosts tournaments because it can. It influences decisions because it invests. But leadership without trust breeds suspicion.
To supporters, Morocco is modernizing African football. To critics, it is controlling it.
AFCON 2025 ended with Senegal crowned champions and Morocco isolated, not defeated for lack of talent, but rejected for what it represents to many on the continent.
A team, a nation, a mirror
Morocco is not universally opposed. Its footballing rise is real. Its players are elite. Its ambition is legitimate.
But African football is not played in a vacuum. It reflects history, politics, identity and memory.
Until Morocco confronts those layers with the same seriousness it applies to facilities and results, it will remain African football’s most uncomfortable paradox: successful, powerful and profoundly divisive.