By Stephanie Shaakaa

On February 21, 2026, Abuja witnessed what I can only describe as the most lopsided political football match since inter-house days.

Venue: FCT.
Occasion: FCT Cup Final.
Teams: Coalition All Stars vs One Man United.

Coalition came flexing. Three “ace” strikers warming up like they were about to conquer Europe:
Atiku Abubakar adjusting his armband like it meant something.
Peter Obi stretching like he planned to run 90 minutes on fiscal discipline.
Rotimi Amaechi pacing like the midfield general ready to launch missiles.

The crowd held its breath.

APC? They didn’t even bother. No squad. No drama. Just one man.

Nyesom Wike.

No backup. No entry music. Just vibes. Just aggression. Just River State energy.

Whistle blows.

By the 10th minute, Wike scored.
By halftime, it was training session.
By full time, statisticians were begging for mercy.

Possession: 85 to 15.
Shots on target: 50 to 2.
Corners: 25 to 0.
Fouls: 36 from the frustrated side.
Goals: 45 to 3.

Forty-five. Forty-three more than the opposition.

And the crowd? The crowd didn’t even wait for the final whistle. They were already chanting:
“On your mandate we shall stand!”

You know it’s over when fans start singing before the ref even clears his throat.

Now here’s the thing.

If three heavyweights couldn’t figure out one small pitch in FCT, how do they plan to handle the national league?

Because outside that stadium, waiting quietly, are:

Bola Tinubu, the Jagaban, long-distance strategist.
Kashim Shettima, calm, calculating.
Hope Uzodinma, experienced in rough patches.
Abba Kabir Yusuf, holding Kano’s midfield down.
Hyacinth Alia, steady at the back.
Umo Eno, quietly strategic.
Dapo Abiodun, sharp on the wings.

This isn’t five-a-side anymore. This is the Champions League.

And FCT? If that’s just the qualifiers… God help the rest.

Discipline? Don’t even start. 36 fouls. Thirty-six! At some point, it stopped being football. Started looking like frustration therapy. Your opponent dribbles past you? You kick. That’s option two. And they chose it… happily.

Now the real comedy.

This was meant to show unity. “Look at us, working together,” they said.
Instead, it looked like three strikers all fighting for the same ball. Nobody passing. Nobody defending. Just ambition colliding mid-air like bumper cars.

Meanwhile, Wike?
He didn’t shout.
Didn’t panic.
Just kept scoring.

Politics isn’t Twitter.
It isn’t moral applause.
It isn’t crowd noise.

It’s structure.
It’s ground game.
It’s turning 15% possession into 45 goals.

So I ask… make it make sense.

Was this a fluke?
Or a preview of the main tournament?

If this is how the All Stars handle FCT, what happens when the lights of the national stadium come on?

This wasn’t just a loss. It was a masterclass. A tutorial. A tactical lecture in broad daylight.

Numbers don’t lie. FCT spoke.
And numbers don’t need press conferences to explain themselves.

After this match, nobody will underestimate a team that sends “only Wike” again.

Somebody in the stands leaned over and said it quietly, like the truth had to be whispered:

If they cannot beat ordinary Wike in small FCT… how exactly do they plan to beat the full league?

That whisper? That’s the loudest chant of all.

Stephanie Shaakaa
shaakaastephanie@yahoo.com