There is a slim chance Nigeria might still make the 2026 World Cup. Not through dominance. Not through qualification earned on the pitch. But through sanctions, politics, and FIFA’s long reach. And across the country, many are whispering the same prayer. Let it happen.
Let that sit for a moment.
A country that once strode into the World Cup with swagger now waits quietly in the corridor, hoping someone else,a smaller nation trips so we can be ushered in. Shame. A nation blessed with one of the most feared strikers in world football is reduced to tracking boardroom drama in other countries.
If FIFA wants you at the World Cup, they say, nothing will stop you. But since when did wanting replace winning?
This is not about DR Congo. This is not about FIFA. This is about us.
Nigeria should never be in this position. Not with our population. Not with our football history. Not with the sheer abundance of talent we export weekly to Europe’s biggest leagues. From Osimhen to Lookman, from Boniface to Iwobi, from defenders holding their own in elite competitions to goalkeepers tested at the highest level,Nigeria has no business calculating permutations and praying for sanctions. No.
Yet here we are.
There was a time Nigeria did not follow World Cup qualifiers with calculators and prayer points.
Qualification was not an obsession, it was an expectation. We argued about how far the team would go, not whether we would get there at all.
That quiet confidence has evaporated, replaced by nervous optimism and endless permutations. The decline did not happen overnight, which is why it hurts even more. And that is the real tragedy. From the outside, this story is even more uncomfortable.
How does it look to the footballing world when a nation of Nigeria’s stature waits for sanctions elsewhere to stay alive? How do you explain that a country exporting talent to the biggest leagues cannot consistently organise itself well enough to qualify? Reputation, once lost, is not easily recovered.
Some will argue that qualification is qualification, that once you’re at the World Cup nobody remembers how you got there. That football is football, and luck has always played a role. But deep down, even those celebrating this back door possibility know the truth.
This is not how serious football nations behave. This is how disorganised systems survive by chance, not by design. What makes the situation more baffling is how selective our seriousness has become.
At AFCON, Nigeria suddenly remembers who it is. We organise. We fight. We reach finals. But door appears, s o m e t h i n g changes. The urgency fades, the margins are mismanaged, and we s t a r t explaining instead of imposing. That is not bad luck. It is a mindset problem.
There was a time Nigeria forced its way into global tournaments. We qualified early. We played with confidence. Opponents planned around us.
Today, we plan around others failures. Somewhere along the line, excellence became optional. Victor Osimhen will most likely play in a World Cup someday. He is that good. The painful question is whether Nigeria deserves to be there with him.
Because talent alone has never been our problem. Structure is. Planning is. Seriousness is. Even home advantage is no longer sacred. There was a time visiting Nigeria felt like punishment. The noise, the heat, the pressure it broke teams before kickoff. Today, opponents arrive believing they can get something. And too often, they do. When your home becomes neutral ground, it is a sign that fear has changed sides. We have turned football administration into a revolving door.
Coaches come and go. Philosophies change with moods. Players arrive at camp unsure of what system they are playing. Bonuses become public fights. Administrators spend more time managing egos and politics than building a coherent footballing vision.
We rely on last-minute brilliance, individual heroics, and divine intervention. And when those fail, we look elsewhere for salvation. This culture is familiar. It is not limited to football. In Nigeria, we often hope something will happen.
Somebody will intervene. A miracle will occur. A connection will save the day. Football, like everything else, has simply learned to mirror the country. We do not consistently reward planning, we celebrate survival. We do not insist on systems,we admire hustle. And when things fall apart, we adjust our expectations instead of fixing the problem.
That is why the idea of FIFA forcing Nigeria into the World Cup feels both comforting and humiliating. Comforting because it rescues us from failure. Humiliating because it confirms it. What lesson does this teach the next generation? That winning is negotiable? That merit can wait while politics works? That being good is enough, even if you are never prepared? Other countries smaller, poorer, less talented qualified cleanly. They planned. They built continuity. They trusted systems. We, with all our advantages, are hoping for a technicality.
This is not an attack on the players. They are victims too. A golden generation is being wasted by confusion above their heads. Osimhen should be leading Nigeria into World Cups, not carrying the emotional burden of a nation that cannot get its act together. Great players deserve serious structures. When they don’t get them, history is unkind.
Victor Osimhen should not be romanticised as a promise of the future. He is a deadline. A mnenomic that elite careers are short and unforgiving. Generations do not wait for systems to catch up. If Nigeria wastes this era, history will not be kind, and excuses will age poorly. Perhaps the most painful truth is how familiar all this feels. In Nigeria, the back door has become a habit. A way of life. We look for exemptions, extensions, interventions.
Football is simply honest enough to expose it in full view of the world. And that is why this moment matters because it forces us to ask whether we still believe in earning our place, or whether survival has become our highest ambition. If Nigeria eventually sneaks into the World Cup through sanctions, let no one pretend it is a triumph. Let it not be wrapped in false pride. Let it be a moment of honest reckoning. Because football does not lie. It only exposes what a country chooses to ignore.
One day, children will ask how Nigeria missed or almost missed a World Cup with this level of talent. What will we tell them? That we were waiting for FIFA? If we make it through the back door, let it sting. Let it anger us enough to demand better. Because nations that rely on luck do not stay great. They drift, slowly, until even miracles stop answering their calls. If Nigeria enters the World Cup through the back door, it will not be football that failed us, but honesty.
Great nations qualify, the rest wait, hoping luck will be kind enough to confuse survival with progress. We can enter through the back door, but we should not pretend we arrived, because no country stumbles into greatness and no back door leads anywhere worth going.
The post Waiting for the back door, by Stephanie Shaakaa appeared first on Vanguard News.
