The moment I stepped into Dakar, I felt a flicker of unease. The Africa Cup of Nations (CAN) final was still fresh in everyone’s mind—a rivalry that had festered into something far more bitter than a sports match. The tension wasn’t imagined; it was real.
Amadou, the taxi driver—a man in his fifties with a warm smile—knew I was Moroccan. Our conversation meandered through small talk until he dropped the line that changed everything: «Despite everything, Senegal and Morocco are brothers…» Those words carried an unspoken weight. Had a football game truly fractured a bond that once felt unbreakable? Or was it merely the spark that ignited long-simmering frustrations?
The CAN final loomed over every interaction, like an unwelcome shadow. In the bustling markets of Plateau, haggling over fabric took an unexpected turn. The vendor quoted a price, and when I countered, he remained firm. «13,000 XOF per meter,» he insisted. Ten thousand? No. Eleven thousand? Still no. Then, I tried the classic tactic: «We’re brothers from Morocco!» A shared faith or cultural kinship usually softened negotiations, but not here. His demeanor shifted instantly. «Ah, if it’s Morocco, then it’s 20,000 XOF,» he snapped, shutting the door on further discussion.
«Hopefully, these lingering tensions will fade on their own—both in Senegal and Morocco.»
The message was clear: We’re not doing business here. We were subtly urged to leave, as if we’d overstayed our welcome. Later, a human rights activist—fighting against female genital mutilation—voiced another concern: «Please, free our brothers detained in Morocco. What’s taking so long?» The demand to release Senegalese fans arrested after the final echoed through conversations like a recurring refrain.
Some admitted to boycotting Moroccan-owned shops, speaking bluntly without the usual diplomatic filters. They’d add, almost as an afterthought, «We really do like Moroccans in Senegal…» But those trailing words—like—hinted at deeper emotions: anger, disappointment, and even pain. The truth is, these words paint an incomplete picture. The unspoken feelings linger, heavy and unresolved.
Diplomatic ties will eventually mend—interests and reason always prevail. But personal wounds heal slowly, if at all. My brief stay in Dakar was intense, colored by these tensions, yet it wasn’t ruined. The people of Dakar, with their warmth, joy, and genuine kindness, left a lasting impression. Their friendship, free of hidden qualms, reminded me that beneath the rivalry, there’s still much to cherish.
