How an electoral defeat inside CAF turned into a political offensive against Morocco
What is unfolding between the Senegalese Football Federation and Morocco is no longer a simple sporting dispute triggered by the Africa Cup of Nations final in Rabat. It has gradually evolved into a disguised political confrontation, where football is being used as a façade for a much deeper struggle over power, influence and revenge within African and global football institutions. As CAF prepares to rule on the sanctions facing Senegal after the chaotic scenes of the final, the president of the Senegalese federation, Abdoulaye Fall, has chosen to deflect the spotlight by accusing Morocco of controlling decision-making inside the continental body.
On the surface, this looks like a defence of a national team under threat. In reality, it is a calculated attempt to transform a disciplinary case into a political conflict between two states. Senegal’s 14-minute walkout from the pitch, the violence in the stands and the behaviour of some players and staff placed Dakar under the close scrutiny of both CAF and FIFA. Instead of focusing on a legal defence, Fall opted to internationalise the crisis, portraying Rabat as the hidden hand behind every adverse decision.
The roots of this escalation lie in March 2025, when CAF’s electoral process reshaped the balance of power within FIFA. At that moment, Fouzi Lekjaa, head of the Moroccan federation, secured a powerful position in global football, while Senegal’s Augustin Senghor failed to win a seat on FIFA’s Executive Committee. For Senghor, this was not just a technical defeat, but a political and symbolic blow that he interpreted through the lens of exclusion and conspiracy.
The Cairo General Assembly confirmed a new elite: alongside CAF president Patrice Motsepe, five officials were elected to FIFA’s Executive Committee – Morocco’s Lekjaa, Mauritania’s Ahmed Ould Yahya, Egypt’s Hany Abou Rida, Djibouti’s Souleiman Waberi and Comoros’ Kanizat Ibrahim. All came from Arab-speaking countries, leaving Senghor on the outside and fuelling his narrative of an “Arab conspiracy” allegedly led by Morocco.
Senghor’s subsequent defeat in Senegal’s own federation elections, after sixteen years in power, only deepened this sense of grievance. Abdoulaye Fall, who won amid serious allegations of vote-buying, inherited both the leadership and the hostility towards Lekjaa. The Africa Cup of Nations hosted by Morocco became, for him, the perfect stage on which to wage a symbolic battle against Rabat and present himself as the man capable of standing up to Moroccan influence.
Yet the legal reality is far less dramatic. The case is being handled by CAF’s disciplinary bodies, none of whose members are Moroccan, and the process is being closely monitored by FIFA. Senegal’s political leadership has also shown no appetite for turning this into a bilateral crisis, making Fall’s rhetoric look increasingly isolated.
FIFA president Gianni Infantino, who witnessed the final firsthand, left no ambiguity in his reaction. He strongly condemned the behaviour of some Senegalese players and officials, stressing that leaving the pitch and resorting to violence are unacceptable and must be sanctioned. In this context, the attempt to politicise the affair appears as a desperate strategy to blur a disciplinary process that could have serious sporting consequences.
In the end, this is not about a lost final or a controversial match. It is about a power struggle at the summit of African football, where those who lost at the ballot box are now trying to fight their battles on the diplomatic stage. And in that manoeuvre, Morocco – which has chosen to rely on institutional legitimacy and legal process – finds itself targeted by a personal vendetta masquerading as a clash between nations.
