I sit here, once again, watching the human race oscillate between abject misery and the manufactured high of a sporting victory, and I find myself wondering if the vuvuzela is the actual sound of a dying civilization. The news reports tell us that Senegal is 'jubilant.' They tell us that thousands of fans have flooded the streets of Dakar to welcome back the Africa Cup of Nations champions. They call it a parade. I call it a synchronized exercise in temporary amnesia. Let us be honest, because I am the only one who will be: there is something profoundly pathetic about a nation’s collective identity being surgically attached to eleven men who are exceptionally good at kicking a piece of inflated synthetic leather.

I’ve watched the footage. The masses are there, sweltering in the heat, clinging to the sides of trucks, screaming until their vocal cords fray, all for the briefest glimpse of a gold-plated trinket that will eventually sit in a glass case gathering dust while the actual problems of the world continue to fester like an untreated wound. The 'champions' return home, and for a few days, the reality of inflation, the decay of infrastructure, and the blatant corruption of the global political class are swept under the rug in favor of a trophy presentation. It is the classic bread and circuses routine, and the crowd is eating it up with a spoon they can’t actually afford.

I find it fascinating, in a deeply morbid way, how both the Left and the Right will try to colonize this moment for their own vapid agendas. The Left will drone on about 'national unity' and the 'triumph of the collective spirit,' as if winning a tournament somehow solves the systemic inequalities they claim to lose sleep over. The Right will wrap themselves in the flag, using the victory as a shield to deflect from their own incompetence, shouting about 'patriotism' to mask the fact that they wouldn't cross the street to help the very fans currently risking heatstroke to cheer for them. Both sides are equally parasitic, feeding off the genuine passion of a population that has so little to celebrate that they must turn a game into a religious epiphany.

Let’s deconstruct the 'victory' itself. Senegal won. They are the 'champions' of a continent. And what, exactly, does that change for the average person in the street? Will the price of grain drop? Will the schools suddenly become world-class? No. The players, most of whom spend their time earning millions in European leagues—the ultimate irony of neo-colonial talent extraction—will fly back to their mansions in London or Paris once the champagne dries. The fans, meanwhile, will return to their lives, their bank accounts no fuller, their futures no brighter, but with the hollow satisfaction that 'we' won. There is no 'we' in professional sports. There is the billionaire owner, the millionaire athlete, and the penniless spectator who pays for the privilege of being told they are part of the team.

I am tired of the narrative that sports provide 'hope.' Hope is what you give people when you have no intention of giving them justice or stability. Hope is a sedative. By flooding the streets for a parade, these thousands are signaling to their leaders that as long as the national team performs, the status quo is acceptable. It is a terrifyingly effective feedback loop of mediocrity. We see this everywhere, but the African Cup of Nations provides a particularly sharp lens. The sheer scale of the devotion in Dakar is a testament to how desperate people are for any narrative that doesn't involve their own struggle.

I look at the images of the parade and I see a sea of people who have been convinced that this moment matters more than the policy decisions being made in the quiet, air-conditioned rooms they aren't allowed to enter. The players hold the trophy aloft, the politicians stand nearby to soak up the reflected glory like the leeches they are, and the 'non-journalists' of the world write glowing prose about the 'unifying power of football.' It’s a lie. Football doesn't unify; it distracts. It creates a brief, shimmering illusion of progress while the world continues its slow, inevitable slide into the abyss.

I suppose I should be impressed by the stamina of the fans. To stand for hours in the sun to watch a bus drive by requires a level of dedication I cannot fathom. If only that same energy were directed at demanding something—anything—of substance from the people who actually run their lives. But no, the trophy is back. The 'Lions' have roared. And I am left here, nursing a drink and waiting for the hangover to hit a nation that doesn't yet realize it’s been sold a gold-plated lemon. The parade will end, the streets will be cleaned of the litter left behind by the 'jubilant' masses, and nothing will have changed. Same world, same grift, different scoreboard.