Forget the pitches. The real tournament is being built in concrete lots and café corners. Grab your map—the borders are being drawn now.
I’m not here for the stadiums. Not really. Oh, I’ve got my tickets, my scarf is ready. But let me let you in on the real game happening in the shadows of AFCON Morocco 2025. It’s happening in the unlikeliest of places: a dusty parking lot behind a hypermarket, the service alley next to a shawarma stand, the suddenly-cleared concrete expanse behind a neighbourhood hanout.
This is the story I’m chasing, and the tournament hasn’t even kicked off yet. I’m an explorer of Fan-Zone Archipelagos—those temporary, sovereign nations of passion that bloom on concrete every time Africa’s footballing soul holds a feast. And in Morocco, a nation of stunning medinas and grand squares, I predict the most magical, chaotic map of micro-nations we’ve ever seen.
My mission? To sketch the borders before the first whistle blows.
Right now, it’s all whispers, coded WhatsApp pins, and hopeful scouting. I’ve been walking the cities not as a tourist, but as a prospector of vibe. I see a vacant lot in Casablanca near the old port, with enough walls for projector beams. I note it in my phone: Potential ‘Little Lagos’ – strong NEPA generator hum possible. Nearby fish grills a bonus.
In Marrakech, I find a café owner, Ahmed, in Gueliz. He’s Senegalese by birth, Moroccan by trade. “They will come,” he tells me, stirring his mint tea with the focus of a general. “My cousins are telling their friends. This will be Teranga Ground. We are getting a bigger satellite dish… for the clear picture, you understand? And my wife’s thieboudienne?” He kisses his fingertips. “We will feed an army.”
This is how the map is drawn. Not by official decree, but by diaspora aunties, entrepreneurial super-fans, and the magnetic pull of a specific pot of stew. Ahmed’s café isn’t just a business; it’s an embassy-in-waiting.
The Blueprint of a Concrete Kingdom
What makes a great Fan-Zone Nation? I’ve developed a checklist:
- The Soundscape: It needs a perimeter for speaker battles. The Malian djembe crews versus the Algerian rai anthems. Sound is the first border patrol.
- The Infrastructure: Access to power (legal or… entrepreneurial) for the life-giving projector. Proximity to a reliable restroom (a true throne for any kingdom).
- The Economy: This is my favourite part. This is where a parking lot becomes a bustling metropolis. I’m already hearing of a Ghanaian electrician in Agadir ready to rent out portable phone chargers shaped like Black Stars. A Cameroonian student plans to set up a makeshift stall selling puff-puff and acting as a mobile money agent for fans needing to send celebration funds home. These zones aren’t just for cheering; they’re vibrant, temporary marketplaces.
The Diplomacy of Chaos
The beautiful tension comes at the borders. What happens when “Little Abidjan” backs onto “Eagle’s Square” (Nigeria)? I’m anticipating the delicate, hilarious diplomacy. There will be treaties: “We play our music until your match starts, then we all watch together.” There will be trade agreements: “We’ll swap a plate of jollof for two of your Casablanca beers.”
The local Moroccans will be the bemused, gracious hosts of this continent crashing into their neighbourhoods. I can already imagine Fatima, who runs a fabric shop next to a potential zone, shaking her head with a smile as she lays out extra plastic stools, sensing the coming tide. Her shop might become the unofficial embassy for lost fans or a shelter from a sudden rain shower—a moment of human connection no five-star hotel can script.
My Anticipation is Palpable
So, while the federations fret over tactics and injuries, I’m studying satellite images on Google Maps, circling lots. I’m loading my phone with translation apps and packing a power bank the size of a brick. My most important tool? An empty notebook, ready to fill with the names of these fleeting republics: The Republic of Spicy Kelewele (Ghanaian Zone), The Sultanate of Swerving Suya (Nigerian Outpost), The Democratic Republic of Drumming Until Dawn (Mali & Guinea Conclave).
The official stadiums will host the football. But the goals that will tear the roof off the world? Those will happen in the concrete cathedrals built by fans, for fans. The joy, the tears, the impromptu dances that dissolve borders—they’ll happen here, in these archipelagos of pure, unmediated passion.
AFCON is coming to Morocco. But the real, beating heart of the tournament is setting up its chairs on a patch of asphalt somewhere, firing up a generator, and tuning a satellite dish to the frequency of home. I’ll be there, map in hand, ready to become a citizen of everywhere.See you in the parking lot nations. Just follow the smell of grilling meat and the sound of a continent’s heartbeat.