There is something profoundly depressing about the human capacity for displacement. In the bleak, concrete shadow of the Trellick Tower—Ernő Goldfinger’s brutalist middle finger to the very concept of human dignity—a group of people are currently suffering from a collective fever dream. They call it ‘pride.’ I call it a desperate psychological coping mechanism for living in a city that would happily pave over their souls for another luxury high-rise. The Moroccan diaspora in North Kensington is currently convinced that the ‘Atlas Lions’ winning a soccer match against Senegal will somehow validate their existence. It won’t. But watching them pretend it will is the kind of theatre that keeps a cynic like me from total catatonia.

Golborne Road, usually a chaotic smear of gentrifying coffee shops and the persistent smell of exhaust fumes, has been rebranded as ‘Little Morocco.’ Humans love these cute little labels. It helps them forget that they are just atoms vibrating in a void. Here, in the damp heart of London, the anticipation is described as ‘taking over everything.’ Souad Talsi, who manages the Al-Hasaniya Moroccan women’s centre at the base of that 31-storey monument to architectural failure, claims the excitement is all-consuming. Of course it is. When your daily reality involves navigating the crumbling social infrastructure of a post-imperial Britain that views you as either a ‘diversity metric’ or a ‘problem,’ why wouldn’t you outsource your dopamine to twenty-two men chasing a ball in a different time zone?

The Left-wing vultures are already circling, salivating at the chance to document this ‘vibrancy.’ They love a good diaspora story; it allows them to feel virtuous while they sip their five-pound oat milk lattes, safely removed from the actual struggles of the people they’re fetishizing. To the performative progressive, this isn’t just a game—it’s a ‘beautiful tapestry of multiculturalism.’ Meanwhile, the Right-wing mouth-breathers are likely twitching in their armchairs, terrified that a flag other than the Union Jack might be waved in a three-mile radius. They’ll grumble about ‘integration’ while ignoring the fact that the British economy is essentially three hedge funds in a trench coat and that these soccer fans are the only people in the neighborhood who still possess a pulse.

Let’s talk about the ‘Atlas Lions.’ It’s a majestic name, isn’t it? It suggests predatory grace and ancient strength. In reality, we are talking about a collection of multimillionaire athletes who spend most of their time in Europe, far removed from the dust and heat of the continent they purportedly represent. But the diaspora in London doesn’t care. They ‘scent victory.’ In a city that smells predominantly of damp carpets and desperation, ‘victory’ must be a potent fragrance indeed. They believe that if Morocco triumphs over Senegal this Sunday, the air in North Kensington will somehow taste sweeter. They believe that the struggle of living in the shadow of a high-rise will be mitigated by the fact that someone who speaks their language is better at kicking a sphere than someone else.

It is the ultimate distraction. The Africa Cup of Nations is a useful pressure valve for the collective frustration of millions. Why bother demanding better living standards or questioning the systemic rot of global capital when you can scream at a television screen? The absurdity of the situation is heightened by the geography. These people are in London—a city that is currently a parody of itself—investing their emotional capital in a tournament thousands of miles away because the local environment offers nothing but grey skies and a declining birth rate. The diaspora’s ‘scent of victory’ is just the smell of incense burned to ward off the encroaching realization that they are pawns in a game far larger and more cruel than anything played on a pitch.

When Sunday comes, the streets around Golborne Road will be loud. There will be shouting, and perhaps some celebratory honking of car horns, as if the local traffic wardens will be moved to mercy by a Moroccan goal. The performative journalists will write their heartwarming human-interest pieces about ‘community spirit.’ But on Monday morning, the Trellick Tower will still be there. The rent will still be due. The British government will still be a circus of incompetence, and the Moroccan government will still be… well, a government. The ‘glory’ will evaporate as quickly as the steam from a pot of mint tea, leaving behind the same cold, hard reality. But for a few hours, the ‘Atlas Lions’ will provide the illusion of meaning. And in a world this stupid, I suppose an illusion is the best anyone can hope for. I’ll be in my corner, watching the farce unfold, wondering why we haven’t all collectively walked into the sea yet.