It was the Friday night before Christmas. Gaggles of girls clutched bottles of beer and stumbled up the steps at New Cross Gate station. A bloodied man in Shoreditch looked worse than I did at four in the morning. I pulled my bag around trickles of urine underneath the railway arches. It was a dark start to my journey to Stansted Airport to take the Ryanair red eye to Rabat and my fourth Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON).
“We play different” was the tournament’s tagline. AFCON is always different. The European Championships are fan-friendly if slightly flat. The World Cup remains the pinnacle of the sport, yet it is unachievable for many to watch and even harder to win. This AFCON was the first festive international tournament since the Copa America in 1959. Unlike in Ecuador, Christmas Day was designated a rest day, sensible given the Christian beliefs of many African footballers. It was not a difficult decision to attend, less than two years since Ivory Coast hosted the 2023 edition in 2024 and won their third title in one of the great tournament stories.
AFCON likes to keep you guessing. This was the seventh consecutive AFCON where either the host country, the timing or both had changed. The tournament was due to be held in Guinea, a decision that looked highly optimistic even before a military coup in 2021. The West African nation was stripped of hosting rights two years later and Morocco were announced as their replacement. Guinea, and even more surprisingly Ghana, did not even qualify for Morocco. As in Ivory Coast, the tournament was moved from its original summer slot. But instead of avoiding the rainy season, as in Ivory Coast, the decision led to this AFCON coinciding with what turned out to be a very wet winter in Morocco. And all to prevent African football clashing with FIFA’s bloated World Club Cup and UEFA’s expanded club competitions.
I sat next to Sammy, an ebullient Nigerian from Abuja, on my flight. “AFCON is about the parties not just about the football” said Sammy, who showed off photos of him lording it in Abidjan with African greats such as Jay-Jay Okocha, Didier Drogba and El Hadj Diouf. I have a robust stomach but suffered from food poisoning on my last visit to Morocco in 2002. Sammy was taking no chances, flying in his own chef from Nigeria and buying her match tickets. We talked for hours and posed for a selfie in front of the AFCON decorations at Rabat Airport. This Africa Cup of Nations had got off to a fine start. 
Morocco, with its developed tourist industry and numerous air routes, was supposed to be an easy AFCON. However, the ticketing launch failed twice before finally spluttering into action last October alongside an unwieldy Yalla app used to approve fan identification. I spent four days looking at a green line on a screen. Morocco’s national rail website, ONCF, is blocked in most countries and, even with a VPN, took a dislike to the first five UK credit and debit cards I tried. I finally had a breakthrough with a card from a disused Virgin account, presumably permitted because Richard Branson owns a villa in Marrakesh.
Morocco matches, and those likely to involve the hosts, sold out in minutes, long before I would access the ticketing portal. I drew on my football network and Greig, a Manchester United fan I only knew from an online groundhopping group, bought my ticket to the opener against Comoros. I transferred him the best £12 I am likely to ever spend. Others were less successful. Sammy was trying his contacts, including Roger Milla’s sister-in-law who he also met on a plane. Pete, a Geordie who I met in my riad, successfully joined the Comoros Football Federation in a valiant attempt to gatecrash the party. He even secured tickets but had to visit their headquarters in the Comorian capital of Moroni to pay for them.
Pete wasn’t keen to visit an Indian Ocean archipelago for his match tickets. However, I was pleased to hear that Sammy somehow managed to gain entry and witness a majestic start to the tournament. I met Comoros fans outside the fabulous Prince Moulay Abdellah Stadium in Rabat. Many had travelled from their adopted homes in France. This would be the diaspora AFCON as good links with Europe encouraged thousands of Algerians, Tunisians, and others to support their native lands. I settled down to watch a stunning opening ceremony that harmoniously brought together visuals drawing on Moroccan and African heritage. I felt the clever use of flashing wristbands and an engaging soundtrack brought the audience closer to the mesmerising performance. My spine shivered. “As a Moroccan, I am choked” said the Paris-based neighbour to my right.
I enjoyed sitting between two Moroccans. Mohammed, on my left, was a massive Lionel Messi fan and had been at the World Cup Final in Qatar. Our conversation flickered to Morocco’s centre backs after Romain Saïss, a stalwart from that World Cup semi-final side, limped out of the tournament. Nayef Aguerd, who had lined up alongside Kurt Zouma at West Ham, was now the hosts’ senior centre back. I remarked that Zouma was convicted for kicking his cat and subsequently hounded by fans. “This would never happen in Morocco” said Mohammed. Indeed, Moroccans loved their cats and looked after them impeccably. I even saw a Moroccan wait patiently behind a cat in a queue to use an ATM. 
Morocco forward Soufiane Rahimi scuffed a fortuitous penalty, the first action of the tournament and a premonition for what would follow in the Final. Real Madrid’s Brahim Díaz lightened up the atmosphere with the first goal before a brilliant Ayoub Al Kaabi overhead kick sealed a 2-0 win over Comoros. The aftermath was a wet mess. Rabat’s Riad station struggled to cope with hordes of fans disorientated by a new stadium, new terminus and renewed downpours. Heavy rainfall would define this tournament. Every time I spoke to a Moroccan they extended their “this has been the most rain since … ” statistic by several years. The end of a seven-year drought was welcomed by many in a country where a quarter of employment is in agriculture, but flash floods in the coastal city of Safi led to dozens losing their lives.
The next day I ventured to Raja’s stadium in Casablanca, an hour south from Rabat, where the blue skies and easy access were appreciated after the opener’s damp crush. There was no difficulty getting a ticket to Mali’s 1-1 draw with Zambia as only around 6,000 were attracted to this match between two sub-Saharan sides. Generally, attendances were very good at this AFCON. North African teams were well supported and only three of my fourteen matches were played in stadiums below half capacity. But the minimum price of £8 was too expensive for Moroccans to watch the likes of Botswana against Benin. Some people were let in for free around twenty minutes after such matches had started, but the organisers should have given away more free tickets to local schools or community groups. 
Rabat is a relatively sleepy city. I admired the sweeping ocean views from the kasbah. Storks flapped around lazily at Chellah, the oldest part of the city, and settled on their roosts in an almost rural scene. The Moroccan capital is somewhat under-visited by foreigners, although not during this tournament. Rabat was the location for four of the nine AFCON stadiums and other smaller grounds are dotted around the city. Even locals were royally confused, and not just by many of the stadiums being named after the ruling family. “We keep building them” said a Moroccan fan from Kenitra on the train back from the opening match. I would end up staying eight nights in Rabat. 
The Africa Cup of Nations has relied on playing consecutive matches in the same stadium during the group phase since Tunisia hosted in 2004. These ‘double headers’ were novel and exceptional value but often a wearying experience in searing temperatures. I will not easily forget six hours spent in the steamy Alexandria stadium without any food or drink on sale. The abundance of Moroccan stadiums made these endurance tests unnecessary, but the third matchday saw two offbeat ties played in different Rabat stadiums in very different climates.
Cats basked on car rooves outside the Al Madina stadium before I watched a lively 1-0 win for the Democratic Republic of Congo against outsiders Benin. This was the first match I had ever been to where the attendance was announced twice. An early count of 6,700 was revised to 13,100 after the gates were opened to all. The heavens then opened and the felines fled. I found a generous pub in downtown Rabat to shelter and refuel in. But, with umbrellas banned, there was no hiding from torrential downpours on the way to Tunisia’s straightforward 3-1 victory over Uganda. My lowest priced Category 3 ticket at Rabat’s uninspiring Olympic Stadium at least had a slither of a roof, whilst those in the more expensive Category 2 seats were soaked. Sometimes it is good to be cheap.
Security was pleasingly low key for most matches. Stewards were smiley and helpful, unsurprising given I found they were paid around £100 per match at the main Prince Moulay Abdellah Stadium. However, the Moroccan authorities were on high alert for the first match involving neighbours Algeria, played on Christmas Eve at the Stade Prince Moulay El Hassan in Rabat. Officials checked every banner for illicit slogans and disposed of covert cigarettes. I refrained from using any French and Arabic to make it clear I was as English as Harry Maguire.
This compact stadium was normally home to FUS Rabat, the smaller of the two main local sides and where Aguerd started his career. “We’re like West Ham or Fulham” said Mohammed, a FUS fan I met at a Morocco match, without knowing my London allegiance. Unfortunately, the sold-out stadium was reminiscent of recent West Ham matches, with swathes of empty seats. This was partly due to many fans being stuck in the snake-like security queues but also, sadly, due to touts over-estimating demand for over-priced tickets for Algeria against Sudan. Footage of Zizou in the stadium, watching his son Luca Zinedine Zidane play in goal for Algeria, prompted cheers as loud as those that followed Algeria’s three goals. “Season Greetings” was plastered on the big screen, although the Christmas tree icon felt incongruous in a country that does not really celebrate.
I took the train to Fes on Christmas Day. This was a novelty and I enjoyed the antidote to the prolonged annual winter celebration. I ate the city’s famed chicken pastilla, a delicious sweet and savoury pie, rather than traditional turkey. It rained in Fes, of course, but when the clouds cleared its reserved charm remained. The lasting appeal of one of the world’s largest medinas could not tempt Chuka Iwobi, father of Nigeria midfielder Alex, out of his hotel in the Ville Nouvelle. I had worked and played football with Chuka over two decades ago. A mutual friend put us back in touch after I had blundered into the Abidjan hotel that hosted Nigeria’s players at the last AFCON. Alex had since become a key player for Fulham, replicating his deeper central midfield position from the Nigeria national team.
I arrived at Chuka’s hotel sodden from a day trip to the UNESCO World Heritage site of Volubilis, where hardy Tunisia fans posed for photos amidst rainy Roman ruins. He was happy to listen to my travel stories from Morocco. Chuka preferred a simple beach holiday and to support Alex from the stands. Since Ivory Coast, I have enjoyed the banter with someone who knows a Fulham regular better than anyone. Elite football may be a closely guarded beast, but when I asked who would play in goal for Fulham should Bernd Leno be sent off or injured and all substitutes used, it clearly would not be Alex. “Steven Benda (Fulham’s third choice goalkeeper) has a better chance of winning the Ballon d’Or than Alex pulling off a save!”
I have been gifted several Iwobi shirts including a grass-stained kit from Fulham’s first derby win at Stamford Bridge for over forty years. This was too precious to take to AFCON so I wore an over-sized Alex Iwobi t-shirt, £4 in the Fulham clearance sale, to Nigeria’s clash against Tunisia. The pre-match excitement arose from seeing how many helpers it would take to fit a giant Confederation of African Football logo in its slot. It was hard to control and so were Nigeria as they
glided into a three-goal lead before a stirring Tunisia comeback. A late Tunisia header nearly made it 3-3, but Nigeria held on in what proved to be my most exciting match of the group phase.
The seven-hour train journey from Fes to Marrakesh was my longest. Rail travel was the only affordable way to access Marrakesh when I last visited in 2002, but the desert city has become a bustling hub since Morocco opened its skies to budget airlines in the early 2010s. The ancient medina is now overthrown by the worst trappings of mass tourism, with packed attractions and tacky trinkets. I watched an expat motorcyclist wearing a black Liverpool shirt as he charged through a throng of tourists in the narrow streets. Marrakesh still boasts epic views of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains, but the drugged snakes and chained monkeys in the main Jemaa el-Fnaa square look even more desperate now. Fortunately for me, the famous carpet shops have been replaced by stalls selling faux replica football shirts. I bought an Achraf Hakimi shirt and asked if a Comoros shirt was in stock. The shopkeeper opened countless plastic packets, but Cameroon was the nearest he could find, at least alphabetically.
Most tourists were probably not even aware a major football tournament was taking place. The Marrakesh stadium, located in the northern suburbs, is a sand-coloured take on Genoa’s Luigi Ferraris, but this is where the similarity ends. Morocco’s revamped stadium infrastructure included four without athletics tracks, the first AFCON to embrace such fan-friendly designs since Gabon in 2015. But the Marrakesh pitch looked as if it was unceremoniously plonked on a tile in the middle of the arena. And the action was far from the 35,000 fans attracted to a heavyweight contest between Ivory Coast and Cameroon. The game, an entertaining 1-1 draw, finished at 11pm but the clogged access roads were unsuited to such large crowds, and I returned to the medina, frozen, in the early hours. 
There were few such problems at a surprisingly entertaining derby between South Africa and Zimbabwe the following day. Zimbabwe and Motherwell forward Tawanda Maswanhise scored one of the goals of the tournament after an exciting slalom run. South Africa edged the match 3-2 and the Bafana Bafana’s biggest fan celebrated wildly by running the width of a stand housing both sets of fans. “Zimbabwe go home” chanted the fan. You would be ill-advised to try something similar at the Old Firm derby.
I was glad to leave the tourist chaos of Marrakesh on New Year’s Eve for Casablanca, the urbane commercial capital of Morocco. I love walking to matches and my hotel was just a short hop from the Stade Mohammed V. Sammy from the Ryanair red eye predicted that there would not be any fireworks at Sudan against Burkina Faso. He was spot on as the Stallions, backed by a fan holding a horse’s head, cantered to an easy 2-0 win over Burkina Faso in a low stakes race. However, good French food, Moroccan wine and live music were accompanied by sparklers and smoke in downtown restaurant L’Octave. My photographs of indoor New Year’s Eve fireworks became more poignant after news of the tragedy at a Swiss bar unfolded.
I started 2026 aboard Al Boraq, the speediest train in Africa that covers the 200 miles between Casablanca and Tangier in around two hours and is named after a mythical horse. My £14 first class ticket was roughly the same price as the Stansted Express and three times as fast, It secured me a comfortable seat and access to a lounge where I spotted El Hadj Diouf sporting a Senegal cap and carrying designer bags. The former Liverpool and Bolton Wanderers striker stopped for some gentle banter and a selfie with a Sudan fan. This encounter is not likely to be repeated on the Stansted Express.
I also met Damas Ndumbaro on the train, a former politician who wore a large Tanzania scarf. He presented me with a natty training top and tried to sell me a safari. We had both stayed in the same Korhogo hotel in northern Ivory Coast, memorable for when I helped the president of Tanzania’s Football Association order a fish. These were the sort of moments that seemed scarcer in a tournament where the wet weather and dry culture forced many into smoky cafes to watch the tournament on television. I liked listening to Damas. He had a way of commanding attention through his knowledge and passion, and I was not surprised to read he had trained as a lawyer.
Tanzania is poised to co-host the next AFCON in summer 2027 with East African neighbours Kenya and Uganda. Damas said that Tanzania were hoping to be awarded the opening match as “we like to put on a show”. The weather should also be perfect for watching televised football outside on plastic chairs with an excited local population. And, whilst the only lion in Morocco was mangy tournament mascot Assad, Damas promised fly-in fly-out safaris to view wild lions on non-match days, activities that might stretch wallets more than match ticket prices. At least, travel arrangements will be legally binding with Damas organising them.
I arrived in Tangier after two hours of buzzy conversation with Damas and Sam, a former Hong Kong expat who had recently returned to London. These were some of the rogue meets that seemed appropriate in Tangier, a port that still retained some of its bohemian, slightly seedy, past. It was one of my favourite host cities, one where tourism and local life seemed well balanced. This was a coastal AFCON, with four of the six host cities on the shores of the Atlantic or the Mediterranean. I visited blustery Cap Spartel, the most north westerly point on the African continent, where you could see the ocean and sea meet. 
Sam and I headed to London’s Pub the following evening, a hostelry smokier than anything I recall from before the 2007 ban in London pubs. Sam said it had a Hong Kong expat feel. I was not surprised to see so many foreigners, but I was taken aback when Helge, a German I met at the Egypt tournament in 2019, walked in and greeted me. AFCON is that sort of tournament. I travelled with Stu and Allan from previous editions. My partner Mischa was a veteran of the blackout match between Mali and Benin when Ghana hosted in 2008. Paul and Jennifer, who I met in Ivory Coast, both got in touch. Even Monsieur Bamba, my driver from Abidjan, sent typically noisy WhatsApp messages about the prospects of les Elephants.
I had low expectations as I saw Sudan line up, for the third time this AFCON, at the impressive Stade de Tangier stadium in the first Second Round match. There opponents were fancied Senegal and I wore my Papa Bouba Diop shirt to support the first African player to have an impact in Fulham’s modern history. ‘The Wardrobe’ was best known for his goal in Senegal’s historic 1-0 win over France that opened the 2002 World Cup. He had a barnstorming first season at Fulham, but injuries took their toll and he left for Portsmouth after three years.
Sadly, Diop died of Motor Neuron Disease in 2020. My Diop shirt is nearly half the age that Papa Bouba reached. A Senegal fan correctly identified the iconic shirt as Diop’s just from the number 19 on the front. This was perhaps less of shock than when Sudan forward Aamir Abdallah curled in a brilliant opener that belied his modest career in regional Melbourne leagues. It added an element of jeopardy, but Senegal ended comfortable 3-1 winners in a stadium that will be a worthy World Cup setting in 2030. 
I bumped into a Potters Bar fan on the efficient shuttle bus back to the centre of Tangier. We talked non-league. AFCON previously had the profile of non-league football. But it is, quite rightly, growing in prominence, and Morocco’s accessibility and affordability meant this tournament helped grow its appeal. Morocco’s border police collected statistics on the numbers of football tourists. They might not have reached the one million foreigners predicted by Ghanaian officials in 2008 (subsequently revised down to 7,000), but it would not be outlandish to claim that more Western European football fans visited this AFCON than all the previous editions combined.
The following day, I took Al Boraq to Rabat for two matches in stadiums five miles apart, with just an hour in between the games. Nothing gets groundhoppers as passionate as stadium logistics. There was fervent online debate about transport options. And when to leave the match between Morocco and Damas’ sturdy Tanzania. I virtually never leave a match early and certainly not when the result is in the balance. Tanzania, with one of the top leagues in Africa, clearly had not read the Groundhoppers’ Guide to the Galaxy, and defended robustly in a 5-2-3 formation, albeit with little attacking threat. Morocco’s star man Díaz conjured up a second half winner and the disappointing hosts survived a late penalty shout. Tanzania’s bench was irate. I was watching from next to the exit and more concerned about getting to my second match.
I bumped into Helge and the Potters Bar fan on the way out of the stadium. I walked in the vague direction of a roundabout. Somehow, through the inDrive app, I secured the best taxi driver in Rabat. He knew my mission and the back roads to ensure I made it into the Al Madina stadium for my second Second Round match of the evening whilst the South Africa and Cameroon anthems were booming. The Potters Bar fan was delighted and paid most the fare.
South Africa failed to convert several excellent early chances. Cameroon adjusted their defence and both right wing-back Junior Tchamadeu and left wing-back Mahamadou Nagida were involved in their two goals. South Africa substitute Evidence Makgopa poked home a goal that, despite a lack of evidence, was credited to the Bafana Bafana goalkeeper Ronwen Williams. “It’s a premonition” said my friend Stu. But it wasn’t, and Cameroon won 2-1.
Cameroonians cheered big screen footage of the legendary Samuel Eto’o, now president of their Football Federation. Moroccans jeered at big screen footage of South Africa coach Hugo Broos. The boos for Broos were because he claimed this tournament has no AFCON vibe. Monsieur Bamba, my Ivorian driver, asked me to compare local enthusiasm between the tournaments held in Ivory Coast and Morocco. I replied that “Morocco is well organised and has beautiful stadiums, but I miss the passion and warmth of Ivory Coast”.
My final day challenged my travel pre-conceptions. A morning flight from Rabat, packed full of football tourists, took me to Agadir. This was the only host city not yet connected to Morocco’s impressive rail network and a place that I had never wanted to visit. My Egyptian neighbour on the plane, Ahmed, noticed my Dulwich Hamlet t-shirt. I instantly liked his easy disposition and passion for football. We discussed books and blogs and mutual contacts. I was enjoying a good run of meeting people on planes and trains.
After endless soakings, warm sunshine greeted me in this southern seaside resort. A cat lounged outside a beachside KFC waiting for it to open. There was a likeable pace to Agadir and a retrospective AFCON feel to my last Second Round match, Egypt against Benin. Trézéguet, who I had seen score in the opening match of the 2019 tournament, started for Egypt. More tenuously, winger Rodolfo Aloko started for Benin and reminded me of the fried plantain, or alloco, I had eaten on the streets of Ivory Coast. The Adrar Stadium is even shaped like a giant open pyramid, which is perhaps why the Pharaohs played their first four matches in Agadir.
Benin showed good discipline in a first half where there were more chants than chances. After the break, the Pharaohs took the lead through a brilliant Marwan Attia strike from 25 yards. Jodel Dossou poked in a deserved equaliser for Benin as the sun set over the west stand and my first stint in Morocco. A large flock of seagulls flew over the scoreboard, heading towards the Atlantic. The direction of extra time felt inevitable. Egypt central defender Yasser Ibrahim headed home and Mohammed Salah sealed victory with the last kick of the match. I noticed a disconsolate Benin player slumped on the bench whilst his team-mates clapped their fans. This was the nearest the knockouts would come to a shock.
Still, the languid atmosphere and sea breeze put me in a good mood before my journey home. I went for breakfast in my hotel where everything tasted of nothing. An Eastern European couple in communist-era clothes decided to sit next to me despite there being several dozen spare tables. Perhaps this was their table, their tradition. I certainly felt like an intruder in a way that I never do at AFCON. I finished my coffee and flew back to London. 
I took the same red-eye flight from Stansted to Rabat. Four weeks on, Christmas cheer had faded into January fear. But I smiled at the smattering of hardy 4am revellers at Liverpool Street Station, some even recognised and cheered my Morocco shirt. A lone man sat at Stansted with a beer at 6am. I grabbed a coffee with sixty-something Scottish football fan Roy and went to the wrong gate.
It did look like Gate 03 on the dot-matrix departures board. There were even football fans on the shuttle to the low-numbered gates travelling, as it turned out, to Casablanca for the pointless and goalless third-place match. Our fight actually departed from Gate 93 which, as we found out, is a long way from Gate 03. We bumped into a young Moroccan who had made the same mistake. “I’ve got a ticket to the Final” he wailed. So did we.
The Moroccan was calmer than us, even when his Ryanair app flashed up “Gate Closed”. We took the shuttle to another stop and waited for what felt like a century whilst an airport worker slowly unlocked several doors for us. We then ran. Well, Roy ran, until he pulled up with a torn calf muscle. The Moroccan was even slower than their striker Al Kaabi. Roy and the Moroccan fell behind my hardly searing pace. I piled down some stairs and nearly hugged the smiling Ryanair woman at the gate. Roy limped towards me and the Moroccan followed, a distant third in the Stansted Airport race none of us want to repeat.
In life, you really appreciate the things you have never had before. Or had to work hard to achieve, like taking a flight from Stansted. My 50th year has a soft challenge of fifty new experiences. It was fitting that my debut international final, Morocco against Senegal, was the first tick. Arguably, this was also the most important match of my life, given Morocco had not won an African title since my birth year. The atmosphere in Rabat was phenomenal, full of noisy expectation and proud admiration towards a successful tournament.
After a restrained closing ceremony, Morocco clapped the Senegal anthem and whistled the Senegal team as the West Africans edged a tight, but quite open, first. All the booming local predictions of an easy Morocco win quietened. Morocco missed second half openings and the balance switched with attacking Senegal substitutes. Extra time looked inevitable until a ridiculous VAR intervention. Senegal fans rioted during and after the penalty review decision, throwing seats, photographers’ chairs and flag poles at stadium officials. Moroccans whistled and threw bottles at the Senegalese fans. Women fought. Senegal walked off.
I had sympathy. Host bias was becoming too obvious. After a lengthy delay, Brahim Díaz chipped a Panenka at Édouard Mendy with his weaker right foot. My neighbour thought it was a deliberate penalty miss, but the ghost-like face of the midfielder suggested otherwise.
There was no break before an exhilarating extra time. Pape Gueye thundered in a goal worthy of winning any match. Díaz, bewildered like Morocco, was withdrawn. There were chances for both sides in a frantic last half hour, but Senegal showed the physical and mental strength to secure a deserved second title. I will never forget their scattergun celebrations. Sadio Mané, brilliantly cool, was pumped like never before.
Moroccans around me were slumped in their seats, resigned to defeat long before the final whistle. Few stayed to see goalkeeper Yassine Bono, Díaz and the Moroccan team win various meaningless awards. Senegal’s Teranga Lions bathed in the golden glitter and the golden voice of Youssou N’Dour as his 1989 hit “The Lion” boomed around the near empty arena. A tournament that had seemed rather too business-like had a chaotic and memorable end. 
I walked through Rabat’s deserted medina at 1.30am and took a final photograph. “It looks like the set of a horror film” said Mischa, safely at home. I was bedraggled from the torrential rain and it was late, but I could not sleep. I was still trying to process one of the craziest finales in footballing history. I messaged Uri, a journalist I had met in Tel Aviv during my Europe United travels and who was covering the Final. “Bit of a dull game. Surprised you’ve got anything to write about”. Uri laughed. He never made it to his hotel that night and travelled straight from the stadium to the airport.
It took me the four-hour train to Marrakesh and four-hour flight to London to recover. Life is about memories. And there were more memories packed into the final than my previous thirteen games. The next AFCON will be the first to be hosted across three countries and the first East African edition since Morocco triumphed in Ethiopia in 1976. It promises to be a memorable, magical and more chaotic tournament. And perhaps the Atlas Lions of Morocco will pull a rabbit out of the hat and win a trophy amongst the largest lion population in the world.