For Africa, Pelé’s journey in 1969 became a powerful, enduring lesson told in two acts.
- Algeria: His arrival, meant to be a moment of post-independence celebration, became the backdrop to a silent coup, a stark reminder of the fragility of nationhood and the ever-present shadow of political instability looming over the continent.
- Nigeria: Just months later, on African soil once again, Pelé and football became something transformative. In a nation fractured by a brutal civil war, his presence sparked an almost miraculous ceasefire, a rare moment of unity forged in the shared passion for the beautiful game.
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Guess The Language 🗣️
Can You Crack the Code?
Read the transcription carefully:
Tyendyihamene unene etyi onondaka mbae mbalinga otyili.
Here is your clue, language detective:
Picture the thunder of Kalandula Falls in Angola, one of Africa's largest waterfalls, surrounded by lush landscapes that eventually give way to the southern savannah. The language we seek resonates in this land of powerful waters and open plains.
Think you've deciphered it? Scroll down to the end of the newsletter to reveal the answer and learn more about this fascinating language!
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Whispers of a Coup, the Spectacle of Santos
Algeria, 1965. Imagine a country still vibrating with the thrill of hard-won independence, just a few years removed from colonial rule. National pride was on full display, streets were bustling, and life on the surface seemed vibrant, celebratory even. But if you tuned your ear to the subtle shifts in the city's rhythm, you might have caught it – a different kind of murmur beneath the surface noise. Hushed conversations in government buildings, worried glances exchanged in the streets, a sense of something unspoken hanging heavy in the air. Algeria was newly independent, yes, but the victory, you could sense, felt… fragile. And though nobody could quite name it yet, the clock, you felt, was ticking faster than anyone realized.
Just a few years prior, Algeria had finally shaken off the chains of French colonial rule in 1962, thanks to the relentless efforts of the National Liberation Front. Ahmed Ben Bella, the charismatic leader of this movement, stepped into the presidency, with Houari Boumédiène, his trusted Chief of Staff, appointed as Defence Minister. On the surface, it looked like a strong partnership, ready to lead the new nation forward.
But cracks soon began to appear. Ben Bella, it turned out, had a vision of leadership that was… well, let's just say intensely hands-on. He started micromanaging everything, from the smallest details to major policy decisions. He wanted to be in control, completely in control. He began issuing directives that ruffled feathers, like ordering the police to report directly to him, bypassing the Ministry of Interior altogether. It was a move that effectively sidelined the Interior Minister, concentrating even more power in the President's office. Whispers started circulating about his intentions to do the same with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, fueled by his increasing habit of personally attending every international meeting.
Even the National Liberation Army, the very force that had secured Algeria's independence, wasn't spared from Ben Bella's tightening grip. Rumours began to spread of his plans to curtail their influence, to diminish their role in the new Algeria. This, understandably, caused serious alarm within the military ranks.
By May 1965, the unease had reached a boiling point. A number of high-ranking government officials and military commanders discreetly approached Boumédiène. The whispers of a coup, once just faint anxieties, now became concrete proposals. Initially, these remained tentative, hushed conversations behind closed doors.
Then, on June 12th, Ben Bella dropped a bombshell. He casually announced a major government reshuffle to take place within a week, offering no specifics about who would be affected. Suddenly, everyone in power was on edge. The announcement sent shockwaves through the government, making it chillingly clear just how precarious everyone's position had become. For many, it was the tipping point. If they didn't act, they risked losing everything.
A palpable sense of urgency, almost aggression, rippled through the army. Despite the lack of a detailed plan, a growing number of commanders agreed – something had to be done. Boumédiène, the Defence Minister, emerged as the central figure. He was meticulously planning a \"bloodless coup,\" a swift, elegant takeover with minimal disruption.
Unwittingly adding to the surreal atmosphere, President Ben Bella, a passionate football fan, extended an invitation to Santos, the legendary Brazilian club team starring Pelé, to play two exhibition matches in Algeria. The first was scheduled for June 15th in Oran, and the second for June 19th in Algiers.
The Oran match was a spectacle. Around 50,000 fans packed the stadium, their cheers echoing through the city, a vibrant display of Algerian enthusiasm, both for their own team and for the chance to witness Pelé in action. The game ended in a 1-1 draw, a result that seemed almost secondary to the sheer excitement of the event.
But even amidst this festive atmosphere, an undercurrent of tension remained, unnoticed by most of the cheering crowds. Adding to the strange, almost dreamlike quality of the moment, renowned film director Gillo Pontecorvo was simultaneously shooting ‘The Battle of Algiers’ in the city. His crew was filming live on the streets, creating a hyper-realistic backdrop of military presence and urban unrest. As Pelé and his Santos teammates left the stadium after the match, they were met with the disorienting sight of battle tanks rumbling through the streets of Oran. They likely assumed it was all part of the movie's magic, little realizing it was a chilling foreshadowing of real events about to unfold. Nobody, not even Pelé, could have guessed it was a prelude to something far bigger than a film shoot.
On June 18th, Ben Bella travelled to Algiers, taking up residence at the Villa Jolly Hotel. This seemingly routine move was the final piece of the puzzle for the coup plotters. The security detail around Ben Bella's hotel room quickly alerted the military commanders – the moment had arrived.
In the early hours of June 19th, Boumédiène gave the order. Under the cover of darkness, tanks were deployed throughout Algiers. The ongoing film production provided an almost perfect camouflage, the movement of military vehicles easily mistaken for movie props by the unsuspecting populace.
At 1:30 AM, three military commanders quietly approached the Villa Jolly. They ascended to the sixth floor, knocked on Ben Bella’s hotel room door, and when he opened it, delivered the chilling words: “On behalf of the Revolutionary Council, I have orders to arrest you on the charge of high treason.”
The arrest was swift, almost anticlimactic. The commanders, maintaining a cold professionalism, allowed Ben Bella to dress, then escorted him to a waiting car. He was driven 20km outside Algiers, to Maison-Carrée, and placed under house arrest. \"Mission accomplished,\" the commanders reported back to Boumédiène. By 3:00 AM, the coup was effectively over, achieved with a startling lack of bloodshed, and a silent changing of the guard in the heart of the capital.
The morning of June 19th dawned on a city still unaware of the night's seismic shift. But then, the radio waves crackled to life with Boumédiène's voice, calmly announcing the deposition of Ben Bella. The second exhibition match, the one Algiers had been anticipating, was abruptly cancelled. Pelé and Santos FC, their tour unexpectedly cut short, prepared to leave the country, departing as discreetly as they had arrived, leaving behind a nation now under new rule. For Algeria, Pelé’s visit meant to be a moment of joyous distraction, had instead become a silent witness to a swift and bloodless coup.
And so, Pelé left Algeria as silently as the coup had unfolded, the cancelled match a stark symbol of how quickly celebration can turn to uncertainty, how easily the beautiful game can be overshadowed by the harsh realities of power.
While Algeria was navigating the delicate dance between revolution and betrayal, another country on the western side of the continent was caught in its own storm. One far bloodier and more desperate.
Lagos, 1969: Football in the Time of War
Nigeria, 1969. The country was in the throes of a brutal civil war between the Nigerian government and the secessionist Republic of Biafra. The air was thick with the weight of death and destruction; cities lay in ruins, and millions faced starvation.
Amid the chaos, there came an unexpected glimmer of hope delivered not by diplomats or politicians but by the nimble feet of a young man from Brazil. You guessed it right, Pelé!
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Did You Know?
Quick fun fact about Nigeria's men's football team: They've had a nickname evolution! Way back, they were actually called the Red Devils – they wore red jerseys, simple as that. Post-independence, they switched to Green Eagles, after the flag and the eagle on their coat of arms. Patriotic, right? Then, BAM! 1988, they officially became the Super Eagles. And that's the name we all know. Why the name change? It just felt right. The perfect nickname upgrade! So yeah that's how the Red Devils became Super Eagles.
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To really understand what happened there, you’ve got to rewind a bit, back to the colonial era. See, when European powers were carving up Africa, they weren't exactly known for their…sensitivity to local communities. They drew borders to suit themselves, often completely ignoring the people who actually lived there.
Sometimes, this meant splitting communities across different countries, like the Maasai scattered between Kenya and Tanzania, or the Somali people in Somalia, Ethiopia, and Kenya. Other times, it meant cramming wildly different groups into a single territory. Nigeria was a prime example of this – a staggering 371 tribes were forced together within artificial borders.
Looking back, it’s almost obvious that this was a recipe for trouble. Each of these communities, with their own distinct histories and traditions, naturally yearned for self-determination, for the kind of autonomy they’d known before colonialism.
In Nigeria, three groups were particularly dominant: the Igbo in the southeast, the Hausa-Fulani in the north, and the Yoruba in the southwest. Each had their own unique culture and political system. The Hausa-Fulani and Yoruba, historically, had been monarchies. They were used to autocratic rule, where ordinary people had little say. The Igbo, on the other hand, had a tradition of democratic governance, with a long history of community involvement in decision-making.
The colonial rule further deepened these divides. The British employed indirect rule in the north, working through the existing Hausa-Fulani emirs. Traditional power structures remained largely intact, and even Christian missionaries had limited influence there. In the south, however, the British ruled directly, establishing schools and actively promoting Western education to create a class of Africans who could serve the colonial administration.
By the time Nigeria gained independence in 1960, the North was significantly less developed and more illiterate compared to the South, which had benefited from greater colonial investment and exposure to Western education.
In the early years of independence, a Prime Minister from the Northern region was chosen, while the Governor-General (later President) came from the South. But beneath the surface of this power-sharing arrangement, discontent was simmering. Working conditions remained poor, and citizens grew increasingly restless, staging strikes to demand better wages.
The 1964 elections proved to be a turning point, fracturing the nation along stark ethnic lines. This election became the spark that ignited widespread violence, as credible reports of massive fraud began to circulate. Northern politicians, benefiting from the existing power structures, dominated the elections, even winning some seats unopposed. This blatant imbalance of power fueled deep resentment in the South, a sense of injustice that began to fester.
This resentment steadily escalated, and by 1966, a group of military officers, primarily Igbo, attempted a coup. They successfully assassinated the Prime Minister and the Premier, both of whom were from the North. The President, notably, was conveniently out of the country at the time, leading to widespread speculation that he had been forewarned about the impending coup and had deliberately absented himself.
The government's response was brutal and swift. Exploiting the ethnic tensions, they instigated pogroms against the Igbo population, falsely accusing them of masterminding the coup. Between June and October 1966, horrific massacres took place, claiming the lives of an estimated 30,000 people, predominantly in the North.
For the Igbo people, these mass killings were the final straw. Secession became their only perceived option. They made plans to break away from Nigeria entirely, declaring the formation of the Republic of Biafra. For the next three years, starting in 1967, this became their all-consuming focus – the fight for Biafran independence. Nigeria was plunged into a bloody civil war.
It was in the midst of this devastating conflict, in January 1969, that Pelé and Santos arrived in Nigeria. By this point, the civil war had raged for nearly two years, leaving an estimated 2 million civilians dead and 4 million displaced. Nigeria was a nation deeply scarred, a country at war with itself.
Santos was scheduled to play an exhibition match against the Nigerian National Team, the Green Eagles, in Lagos. What happened next was nothing short of extraordinary. To ensure the match could proceed without incident, the seemingly impossible occurred: Nigeria’s two warring factions, the federal government and the Biafran secessionists, reached an unprecedented agreement. A 48-hour ceasefire was declared. For two days, the guns would fall silent. The fighting would stop. All for a football match.
And it wasn't just a simple truce. The responsibility for security at the Lagos City Stadium was jointly undertaken by military officers from both sides of the conflict. Imagine this scene: soldiers who, just days before, were actively engaged in combat against each other, now standing side-by-side, weapons in hand, united in a common purpose – to protect the football fans. And within the stadium, a remarkable transformation took place. Ethnic and political divisions seemed to melt away. Everyone present, regardless of background or allegiance, was united by a single, shared objective: to lose themselves in 90 minutes of beautiful football. Strangers cheered together, celebrated together, bound by the universal language of the game. There were no clashes, no arrests, just a collective outpouring of passion for football.
The match itself lived up to the extraordinary circumstances. The game ended in a 2-2 draw, with Pelé, inevitably, scoring both goals for Santos. Each goal, regardless of which side scored, was met with enthusiastic applause from all corners of the stadium. After the final whistle, Santos prepared to depart. And in a moment that underscored the fragile, temporary nature of this peace, it is said that just as Pelé's plane lifted off the runway, the sound of gunfire erupted once more. The 48-hour ceasefire was over. The Nigerian Civil War had resumed.
Yet, for those brief, precious hours, Pelé and his unparalleled mastery of football had achieved something truly remarkable. He had, however fleetingly, united a nation torn apart by war, offering a glimpse of peace, a taste of camaraderie, during an otherwise bleak and brutal chapter of history.
This duality, the coup in Algeria and the ceasefire in Nigeria, speaks volumes about Africa's complex journey. It underscores the constant tension between progress and instability, conflict and the yearning for peace. And yet, within this tension lies the extraordinary power of football: a game that beats in the hearts of millions across the continent, capable of becoming a force for unity, hope, and a shared sense of possibility, even if just for a fleeting moment.
Answer to Guess the Language: The Nyaneka Language!
The language is Nyaneka (Olunyaneka) spoken by the Nyaneka people.
Nyaneka language has approximately 1,300,000 native speakers.
Thank you to all the Nyaneka contributors who have been actively contributing to the Nyaneka dictionary. I know you are reading :)
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