Every four years, the FIFA World Cup is staged with a familiar script for African football. Hope rises, talents shine, and for 70, 80, even 88 minutes, the continent representatives usually show strength and belief. Then the final whistle comes, and what we take home is heartbreak. The story is no longer just about losing. It is about how we lose.
This is the “Nearly Syndrome.” African teams are now known for. They do not just get beaten. They lead;they raise hopes, they control; they dominate, and then they let it slip. They come agonizingly close to history, only to watch it evaporate in the dying minutes.
The question that keeps resonating in the minds of people is painful but necessary: Is this a failure of coaching, or a deeper issue of self-belief?
This is not a new wound. We have been here before. In Italia ’90, Cameroon’s Indomitable Lions, led by the iconic Roger Milla, were 2-1 up against England in the quarterfinals and eight minutes from a World Cup semi-final. The dream of an African team in the last four was alive. Then came defensive errors, and the dream died when Gary Lineker buried the hopes of an expectant continent with two well-taken penalties. That was the very first time I cried after a football match. Four years later in USA 94, Nigeria led Italy 1-0 in the Round of 16 with two minutes to go.
A famous victory was seconds away. Then Roberto Baggio happened and plunged a dagger into the heart of every Nigerian watching. Extra time, elimination. I am yet to get that defeat out of my head three decades later. That Super Eagles team was unbelievably smooth in its movement, and it was in that game that Okocha set a dribbling record in the FIFA World Cup which still hasn’t been broken: 15 successful one-on-one dribbles.
The 2026 World Cup has brought out the worst of this “Near Success Syndrome.” This was the tournament we thought our continent would use to tell the rest of the world that we had arrived. Nine out of 10 African teams, with the exception of Tunisia, made it past the group stage — the best record of any continent. South Africa began the capitulation in the Round of 32 by losing to Canada, an ice hockey nation with a lesser footballing pedigree than Bafana Bafana.
Look at Senegal. Against a broken and disjointed Belgium team, they were cruising. The structure was sound, the midfield was winning duels, and the attack looked dangerous on the break, with Ismaila Sarr scoring one of the best goals of the tournament. For most of the game they played like the team that wanted it more. Then came the collapse. A lapse in concentration, a poor substitution, a tactical naivety in seeing out a game, and victory turned to dust.
That Senegal capitulation was not an isolated incident. It was a mirror. DR Congo did the same against England. For long stretches they matched one of football’s traditional powers. They defended with discipline and countered with pace. But as the clock ticked toward 90, the organization fell apart. The lead was gone, and with it, a result that would have shaken the world. Harry Kane pounced, and the aircraft that was heading towards Heathrow turned for Kinshasa.
Ivory Coast and Cape Verde told a similar story. Both teams showed flashes of brilliance, technical quality, and athleticism that can match anyone. But football matches are 90 minutes plus. And it was in those last 10-15 minutes that concentration wavered. Defensive lines dropped too deep. Midfielders stopped tracking runners. The composure that defines tournament teams simply vanished.
The most painful example was Egypt. To be leading Argentina, the world champions, in a game where Lionel Messi had missed a penalty, with just 12 minutes to go, is the stuff of dreams. The stadium was theirs. They had silenced a legion of Argentina supporters and Messi worshippers worldwide. The momentum was theirs. Twelve minutes from one of the greatest upsets in World Cup history. Then, in a blur, the lead was gone. Egypt did not lose to Argentina over 90 minutes. They lost in the final 12.
When you stack these moments together, a pattern emerges. African teams are not outclassed from kickoff. They are not tactically lost for 90 minutes. They are competitive, often superior, for the majority of the game. The failure comes at the end. And that is where we must look at coaching first.
Poor game management is a coaching problem. At the highest level, World Cup football is about managing moments. It is about knowing when to slow the game down, when to make cynical fouls, when to change shape to a 5-4-1, and which players to bring on to kill a game. We saw how England held their slim lead against Mexico in the quarterfinals with a man down and 30 minutes to go. Too often, African benches react late, or make changes that invite pressure instead of relieving it.
European and South American coaches grow up in systems where “seeing out a game” is taught from academy level. There are specialists for it. There are rehearsed patterns. African teams frequently lack that. The substitutions feel emotional rather than strategic. The tactical instructions in the last 15 minutes are vague. “Just defend, kick the ball out” is not a game plan. What happened to the attacking verve that secured the lead? Cape Verde were waiting for Argentina to score before they started attacking. That was a game they were creating openings in, but again it happened.
We also see a lack of squad depth used intelligently. Coaches sometimes stick too long with tired legs because of reputation, or they make like-for-like changes that do not alter the tempo. Against teams like Argentina and England, that is fatal. They smell blood when legs get heavy and minds get anxious. Good coaching anticipates that and kills the game before it starts.
But to blame only the coach is to tell half the story. Because even with perfect instructions, players have to execute. And here we get to the second part of the syndrome: low self-esteem, or perhaps, a lack of tournament mentality.
There is a psychological hurdle that African teams have to clear. For decades we have been told the narrative: “African teams are talented but naive. They can compete but they don’t win.” Players internalize that. When you are 1-0 up against Argentina with 12 minutes left, part of your brain whispers, “This is not supposed to happen to us.”
That doubt manifests on the pitch. Passes that were crisp in the 60th minute become rushed in the 85th. Defenders start clearing the ball to nowhere instead of keeping possession. Teams drop 20 yards deeper for no tactical reason, inviting wave after wave of pressure. It is fear. It is the fear of believing you truly belong.
Compare this to Morocco in 2022 and 2026. What made them different was not just talent. It was bold belief. They played every minute like they deserved to be there. They managed games, they suffered, they saw it out. That was coaching, yes. But it was also a squad with a mentality that refused to accept the “nearly” tag.
Low self-esteem in football is not about players lacking confidence in their skills. African players are in the biggest clubs in Europe. They know they are good. It is about collective belief. Do 11 players plus 5 substitutes truly believe they can hold Argentina, England, or France for 12 minutes? If one player doubts, the whole structure cracks.
The media and fan pressure does not help. In African countries, football is religion and politics combined. One mistake in qualifiers or a World Cup game can lead to death threats. That creates players who play not to lose, instead of playing to win. Pierre Womes home was burnt when he lost a penalty that stopped Cameroon from going to the 2006 Germany World Cup. Yakubu Aiyegbeni is not remembered for the 21 goals in 58 games he scored for Nigeria, but for his two-yard miss against South Korea in the World Cup. Maduka Okoye despite his heroics in Italian football is still judged by the goal that he conceded against Tunisia in AFCON in Cameroon in 2022. When players play with the fear of being demonised a tendency to make mistakes happen.
So which is it? Poor coaching or low self-esteem? The honest answer is both, and they feed each other. Poor coaching fails to install the mechanisms to see out games. That leads to more collapses. More collapses reinforce the belief that “we always find a way to lose.” That belief makes the next collapse even more likely.
Breaking the cycle requires work on both fronts. Federations must invest in elite, tournament-experienced coaches who understand game management at the World Cup level. Not just big names, but teachers. Coaches who will drill a team for eight weeks on how to waste time, how to keep the ball in the corner, how to take a tactical yellow, all under pressure.
At the same time, we need sports psychologists, leadership groups within squads, and a cultural shift. African teams must stop going to the World Cup to “represent well and try” and start going to win it. Until the players believe that in their bones, the last 10 minutes will always be dangerous.
Senegal cruising. DR Congo holding England. Ivory Coast and Cape Verde switching off. Egypt 12 minutes from glory. Cameroon in 90. Nigeria in 94. These are not just losses. They are lessons spanning three decades. The talent is there. The world can see it. The “Nearly Syndrome” will only end when African football decides it is tired of being nearly. That decision starts with better coaching and ends with unshakeable belief. The next World Cup cannot be another story of what could have been.