There are some stories you don’t forget. Not because they were written in history books, but because they were stitched into you. Slowly. Quietly. Sometimes painfully. And somehow, they stayed. That’s what it feels like, really watching you – Super Falcons, year after year, tournament after tournament.

Because by now, you have become more than just a football team. You’ve become a mirror. A statement. A kind of quiet defiance. Not just against the players lined up across from you, but against everything that was never built for you to succeed in the first place, sometimes even your own federation.

And still, you show up.

It’s why I’m writing this now—as you step into WAFCON 2024. Not just as a show of support, but as a thank you. As a way of saying we see you. We always have. It’s part appreciation, part confession. Because the truth is, you’ve given far more than we’ve ever managed to say out loud.

Despite the neglect, despite the politics, despite the noise that always seems to surround you, you Falcons kept showing up. And not just turning up for the sake of it, but really showing up. Fully. Fiercely. With a kind of quiet conviction that didn’t ask for attention but demanded respect. 

You’ve played through storms most teams will never understand, and still, somehow, you’ve given us some of the most honest, unshakable performances Nigerian sport has ever seen. Not because everything around you made it easy, but because you refused to let it be an excuse.

Remember Atlanta ’99. It slips through the cracks when people talk about great moments in Nigerian football. It shouldn’t. That quarter-final against Brazil wasn’t just a match we lost, it was something far more important. Florence Omagbemi, Mercy Akide, Patience Avre… they weren’t just names on a team sheet. They were doing something far harder than winning. They were showing what was possible. At a time when barely anyone was watching, they were putting something down quietly, stubbornly, for others to build on. You don’t always see foundations until years later. But that’s what that team gave us. A start. It’s very obvious now.

Morocco, 2022. Everyone remembers the tension, the red cards, the sense that the game was slipping away. nine against eleven, and still you held the line, even though we lost. It was a match you should never have had to fight that hard in. You’d done enough already, proved enough already. But that day, you gave more. You emptied yourselves. And when it was over, when the final kick had gone in and the noise faded, you didn’t fall apart.

You walked off the pitch with your heads high, bodies bruised, but dignity fully intact. There was pain, of course. But there was pride too, the kind that doesn’t need words.

Of course you remember Australia last summer. How could you not? The opening draw against Canada, the reigning Olympic champions. The fearless win over the co-hosts, in their own backyard. And then that game against England — tight, tense, defiant. Probably the most organised, disciplined performance we’ve ever seen from an African team at a World Cup. 

It ended in heartbreak, sure. But even in defeat, you walked away with something more lasting. Something you can’t measure on a scoreboard. Respect. Not just from Nigerians, but from people all over the world who finally saw what we’ve known for years. You weren’t just there to compete. You were there to be counted. To be taken seriously. To be seen.

And now here we are. Again.

WAFCON 2024 begins on Saturday, July 5, and once again, there’s that feeling in the air, the quiet confidence that comes from knowing what you’re capable of. 

We’ve seen you do it before, time and time again. But this one feels different. This one is Mission X. The pursuit of a tenth title. A landmark, a statement, a legacy within a legacy. And deep down, we don’t just hope you can do it, but we believe it. Because history has taught us never to doubt you.

You’ve done it without half the investment your male counterparts get. You’ve done it with one eye on the pitch and the other on politics. You’ve done it with dignity that your federation often hasn’t matched.

But this tournament, this is yours.

Let’s not pretend there isn’t pressure. There always is. But this time it’s different. This time, Nigeria is watching with more than just hope. We’re watching with understanding. With respect. 

Falcons, you are a mosaic of culture, passion, pain, and poetry. You are ‘Nigeria’. And we will never stop being moved by what you’ve become.

In case you didn’t know, there’s a girl in Bariga who watched your highlights on her brother’s cracked phone screen and decided, right there and then, that she wasn’t going to stop playing, no matter what her uncle said, no matter how many times they told her football wasn’t for girls. And somewhere in Aba, there’s a mother who records every single one of your matches, saving them like family heirlooms, because she believes that her daughter could be the next Asisat Oshoala. You may never meet them. But they’re watching. And in you, they see what’s possible.

Dear Falcons, You mean something, always. That hasn’t changed. 

And as you step out once again, with all the noise and pressure that comes with it, just remember, you don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Not anymore. You’ve already done that, time and time again.

But if you want to prove something, if you want to remind them again why this team is feared, loved, and endured across decades, we’ll be here. Shouting your names like hymns.

And when it gets hard, look inward. That fire you carry, the one that’s driven you through the chaos, the doubt, the long nights and louder critics, that fire isn’t just yours anymore. It belongs to all of us now. You lit it. You’ve carried it. And somehow, even when everything around you tried to put it out, you kept it burning.

Fly high, Falcons. 

Soar Super Falcons.

Fly for the ones who doubted. Fly for the girls who dream. Fly for yourselves.

But most of all, fly knowing you’re already legends.

With pride, fire, and deep respect,

From a country still learning how to say thank you, but always, always proud.