Football
A Nation that Gifts Champions and Ignores Everyday Patriots -By Usman Muhammad Salihu
This is not an attack on athletes. The Super Falcons deserve their flowers. They played with courage and lifted the nation’s spirit. But so did thousands of others—soldiers who held the line in Sambisa, police officers who stood firm during riots, nurses who worked through pandemics, and teachers who shaped lives in crumbling classrooms.
The Super Falcons last weekend in Morocco made history. The nation erupted in applause. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, at a reception for the falcon stars on Monday, beamed with pride as he showered the victorious team with gifts—$100,000 for each player, $50,000 for every member of the technical crew, and three-bedroom apartments under the Renewed Hope Housing Scheme.
To crown it all, they were conferred with the Officer of the Order of the Niger (OON). It was a moment of grandeur. Deserved, yes. But disturbingly one-sided.
In the midst of the ovation, murmurs of discontent echoed from across the country. Not from those who envy the Falcons’ success, but from those who wonder why a nation so quick to celebrate one form of service remains deaf to others far more sacrificial.
For the brave officers in uniform—those who have stood between chaos and order for decades—there is no confetti, no cash, no keys to a government-built home. They serve 35 years and retire with a handshake, a certificate, and sometimes, a cheque that can barely last a month.
They are the faceless men who shield our stadiums during games, guard our airports, trail convoys under rain and sun, and die nameless in forests chasing insurgents. Some return maimed. Others never return. Their reward? Silence.
When activist Omoyele Sowore wrote on Facebook that, “the Super Falcons played for one month and earned $100,000 and a house… while police officers retire with $1,500 and no medicals,” he voiced what many dared not say aloud.
This is not an attack on athletes. The Super Falcons deserve their flowers. They played with courage and lifted the nation’s spirit. But so did thousands of others—soldiers who held the line in Sambisa, police officers who stood firm during riots, nurses who worked through pandemics, and teachers who shaped lives in crumbling classrooms.
Yet, there are no ceremonies for them. No national honours. No Presidential handshakes. No housing allocations. Just the slow erosion of their dignity. A society reveals its values by who it chooses to remember—and who it forgets.
If the loudest cheers are reserved for entertainers and athletes, while the quiet heroes are left in poverty, what future are we building? Governance is not just about optics; it is about equity. It is not the sound of the trumpet that makes a nation strong, but the quiet, everyday sacrifice of those holding it together.
Rewarding athletes makes good headlines. Rewarding protectors strengthens the soul of a nation. This isn’t a call to dim the spotlight. It is a call to broaden it. To make room for the ones with medals and the ones with scars. To recognize the stars on the field and those in the shadows who never made it into the stadium.
Until we learn to honour both, we will remain a country that applauds victory, but forgets sacrifice. A country where applause drowns justice. And no nation, no matter how loud its cheers, can truly rise by neglecting those who bled for its peace.
