They’ve filled stadiums, smashed attendance records, and sparked social change—and yet, as Morocco hosts the Women’s Africa Cup of Nations (WAFCON), the biggest story might be what happens off the pitch. One thing is dawning across the continent with thunderous clarity: African women’s football is on the rise. But beneath the roars of packed arenas lies a stubborn, simmering fight—for pay, for contracts, and for dignity.
WAFCON 2024 kicked off in Morocco six months after the men’s tournament, with 12 national teams competing across multiple cities. The atmosphere was electric. Stadiums were packed, streets buzzed with energy, and social media lit up with pride. Two years ago, over 45,000 spectators squeezed into Rabat’s Prince Moulay Abdellah Stadium for a Morocco–Nigeria match, and over 50,000 watched the final against South Africa. That kind of turnout used to be unthinkable. It now sets the bar. But while the crowds and cameras are finally showing up, paychecks and professionalism still lag pitifully behind.
At the centre of the turmoil is the question of contracts. South Africa’s head coach, Desiree Ellis, has guided the Banyana Banyana to continental glory, yet entered this year’s tournament without a contract—seven months and counting. She’s not alone. Nigeria’s Super Falcons, one of Africa’s most decorated sides, refused to train before the tournament over unpaid qualification bonuses. The players are demanding overdue sums of up to $10,000 each. For many, it’s not the first protest. Sit-ins and boycotts have become as routine as the final whistle. Nigeria’s players staged similar actions in 2004, 2007, 2016, and even at the World Cup. The message is old, the frustration deeper, and the payments still missing.
Then there’s Zambia. Their head coach, Nora Hauptle, has formally reported her unpaid salary to FIFA. The silence from national authorities has only intensified the players’ resolve. In some camps, murmurs of a strike simmer just below the surface. Across Africa, from Accra to Lusaka, women’s national teams are playing for pride while negotiating dignity in real-time.
It’s difficult to ignore the contrast. When Senegal won the men’s AFCON in 2022, the prize was $5 million. When South Africa’s women’s team won WAFCON, they received just $500,000—a tenth of that sum. Federations routinely pour the lion’s share of their budgets into men’s teams, even as the women’s game becomes the beating heart of local football enthusiasm.
It’s not just about prize money. According to recent studies, almost a third of African female internationals receive no consistent income from their national federations. Some rely on club stipends; others on side jobs. A few survive off social media deals and small sponsorships. But none of these are substitutes for a basic salary. It’s a full-time job without a contract, and in many cases, without insurance or guarantees.
Federations point to funding constraints, arguing that sponsorship in women’s football is still emerging. But that argument is increasingly weak. Morocco has invested heavily in women’s football since 2020, developing facilities, funding a professional league, and supporting youth development. The result? A national team that qualified for the World Cup and an image that’s reshaped how young girls see the sport. Investment pays off. But most federations haven’t caught up.
The issue isn’t only financial. It’s deeply cultural and institutional. There remains a persistent reluctance to treat women’s football with the same seriousness as the men’s game. Federations schedule friendlies irregularly, change coaches with little notice, and send women’s teams to major tournaments with minimal preparation. Players fly economy while their male counterparts take chartered flights. Even team kits and travel allowances are sometimes shared—or simply not provided.
Yet, public sentiment is shifting. Fans are more engaged than ever. Women’s matches are drawing national attention. Politicians are stepping into the fray. South African President Cyril Ramaphosa publicly condemned the pay disparities, declaring “unequal pay is unjust and unfair.” But speeches aren’t contracts. And without structural follow-through, players remain at the mercy of federation discretion.
Still, despite everything, WAFCON 2024 has been a triumph of spirit. The quality of play is at an all-time high. The tournament has showcased not just talent, but courage. These athletes compete under enormous pressure—with every sprint and every goal carrying the weight of protest and hope.
Grassroots change is also bubbling. In cities like Casablanca, Lagos, and Nairobi, girls’ leagues are growing fast. Social media platforms are helping players build their own brands, bypassing traditional media and drawing global attention. Some clubs have started crowdfunding to support women’s programs. The desire is there. What’s missing is institutional backbone.
If federations matched the enthusiasm of their fans and the bravery of their players with financial commitment, African women’s football could become not just dominant, but unstoppable. The stage is set. The crowds are watching. The time for applause has passed—it’s time to pay up.
Because in the end, there’s no glory in unpaid victory. There’s only exhaustion—and eventually, exodus.
