There’s something different in the East African sky. It’s not the familiar hum of boda bodas on dusty streets or the afternoon buzz of a Nairobi market. It’s a quiet pulse, like the rustle of drums before the dance begins.
It is the sound of anticipation, the breath of possibility, the coming of the 2024 African Nations Championship (CHAN), hosted for the first time by East Africa. Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania — bound not just by geography, but by language, struggle, and a shared footballing hunger — have been trusted to host the continent’s most honest tournament.
Honest, because this isn’t a show of foreign-based stars driving German-engineered vehicles. This is football played by sons of soil, by boys who once juggled polythene balls on gravel roads and chased cows before chasing dreams. But now the spotlight isn’t just on the players. It’s on us — the fans.
Not the painted-face, vuvuzela-blowing, flag-draped masses of a normal game. No, CHAN requires more. It demands that we show we can celebrate without chaos. That we can host without shame. That we can love football without breaking its soul.
This is not Afcon, this is homegrown glory
While Afcon parades Africa’s glittering exports, CHAN is a tribute to what remains — raw, hungry, authentic. It is a celebration of those who never boarded planes to Europe, whose jerseys are still hand-washed by their mothers, whose names are still being learned beyond their neighbourhoods. But the truest power of CHAN lies not in boots, but in bleachers. The power now belongs to the fans. And power, as we know, must be handled with grace. Because it takes just one reckless fan — one bottle thrown, one insult hurled, one gate stormed—to turn this gift into a tragedy.
We’ve been here before — and we fell
In 2018, Kenya was supposed to host CHAN. Instead, we handed it away — not because of a lack of talent, but because of a lack of preparation. Bureaucracy drowned ambition. Stadiums stood half-built. The dream collapsed like wet paper. We cannot afford to forget. Now, in 2025, we have the stadiums. We have the players. We have the chance. But do we have the character?
Rules Are Not Shackles, They Are Shields
Let’s be clear: the regulations set by organisers are not punishments. They are protections. No alcohol in stadiums. No flares. No racial slurs. No hate chants. No seat-hopping. No fights. No mob actions. These are not limitations — they are the foundation of dignity. For the world will be watching — not just the goals and tackles, but how we behave when the cameras aren’t zoomed in.
The continent comes calling
For once, Africa is coming to our doorstep. From Kinshasa to Conakry, Bamako to Bujumbura — the tournament will bring players and supporters who are strangers by passport, but kin in passion. Let’s welcome them as brothers. Let’s cheer without mocking. Let’s be proud without being arrogant. Because one day, when CHAN is played elsewhere, it will be our turn to knock on their doors. Let them remember how we received them.
Teach the people, or the people will fail
It’s not enough to simply issue rules. We must educate boldly, loudly, and repeatedly. Let every boda boda rider, every mama mboga, every teacher and TikTok star carry the message: “This is our chance. Let’s not ruin it.”
Let fan clubs become guardians of order. Let chants uplift, not incite. Let the pride of being Kenyan shine through kindness, not chaos.
What story will we write?
CHAN gives us the pen. We can script a story of honour — of East Africans rising to host Africa’s most intimate tournament with grace. Or we can scribble disaster in shame. This tournament will birth heroes. Some will wear jerseys. Others will wear t-shirts in the stands, cheering without cursing, guiding without shoving. And when the dust settles, and the last whistle blows, it won’t be just about who scored. It’ll be about how we all showed up— not just as fans, but as custodians of the beautiful game. Let CHAN begin. Let East Africa rise. But before we raise trophies, let us raise our standards.
