Months had passed since I last visited home. In Harare, I was always working, hustling trying to make ends meet, and I was eager to reconnect with family and old friends, and drift down the lanes of nostalgia.
The day after Christmas, I decided to stroll around my childhood neighborhood, see what had changed, maybe meet some people. The streets looked different, more quiet, slower, less alive somehow. New houses had been built with taller walls and fewer open yards. Few kids ran past me, unlike back in the day when we played all day in the streets. There were no kites in the sky like there used to be.
Shena Ground used to be the place to chill, drink or play some social football. We’d live out our fantasies on those dusty, uneven grounds, with patches of grass clinging on for dear life, cosplaying the football stars we idolised, mimicking their celebrations and signature moves.
For most, it was just fun and games, but some were genuinely talented—so talented that becoming a professional footballer wasn’t just a fantasy but destiny.
There were no scores of people that day. I just saw one individual, training. His stride was a familiar stride, the posture as well. The knuckleball gave me the confirmation I was looking for.
It was Tristan Ncube!
Tristan was one of the most gifted players among us. He was selected for Zimbabwe’s under-17 national team in 2016, a rare achievement for someone from our city, let alone our neighbourhood of Bernwin. Tristan made the dream feel legitimate.
After a few friendly matches with the Young Warriors, I never played with Tristan again. Rumours circulated that he had impressed scouts and agents, who had signed him to a European club. It was no surprise, not for those of us who had seen him play up close. Beyond his exceptional skill, Tristan had the physique to match, which is essential for survival in the world’s biggest leagues.
I hadn’t seen him for years. Now, there he was: alone on the same old Shena Ground. I contemplated joining him for some kick ups, but I hesitated, we had never been that close. He was our superior, and he made sure to let us know. Every misplaced pass or underhit pass earned a shout! I always thought he took our games way too seriously, sitting alone, sulking if his team had lost. On the field he’d bark out instructions whenever he didn’t have the football. He was demanding, and we had nicknamed him Coach.
Even though I was interested to know how his career had turned out, I decided not to join him, assuming he had ended up in the lower tiers of European football, earning just enough to sustain himself as his big dream downgraded. After all, not everyone makes it to the top.
“I just saw Tristan on the field,” I said, stepping into the kitchen, where my mother was chopping onions. The smile disappeared from her face.
“That boy has gone through a lot, my son,” she said, sadly shaking her head. She went on to tell me Tristan never made it as a footballer. He’d been signed by a fake agency that took him to Serbia and placed him at a club without a senior team. He stayed there for over six months, stranded, before a well-wishing family took him in and raised him as their own. They helped him secure an education. Today he works full-time in Serbia as a truck driver—far removed from the beautiful game.
Most heartbreaking, though, was that his parents had spent a significant amount of money to facilitate his “transfer,” believing it was a golden opportunity, buying a hoax dream. But in hindsight, one could see there was no safety net and no accountability. And when the pathway collapsed, so did the responsibility of those who made promises to Tristan’s family.
As tragic as Tristan’s story is, the cruel truth is this: he is one of the lucky ones.
In 2025, a rising Senegalese talent, Cheikh Traoré, was offered a similar deal. He was promised a journey through Ghana and Morocco before reaching Europe. But those promises were a mirage. Cheikh was held for ransom in Ghana and forced to beg his family back home in Senegal for money. In desperation, they sent whatever they could to an account number last traced in Burkina Faso. It wasn’t enough. Cheikh’s body was found on the streets of Ghana.
These are not exceptions, but outcomes of a very flawed system. In 2022, the United Nations revealed that approximately 15,000 young players are trafficked every year, lured by the hope of becoming professional footballers. And that lure is immense.
Given the economic realities of many African nations, it is almost impossible to turn down an opportunity that promises European football, wealth, and social mobility. Just one transfer can turn a teenager into a multimillionaire. That desperation pushes families into selling houses and businesses to fund a “Project Mbappé,” which, at it worst, results in financial ruin and crippling debts.
The traffickers are masters of deception. On their social media profiles, they appear polished and sophisticated, and present forged documentation. For desperate parents, it’s often impossible to distinguish these illusions from legitimate opportunities.
Much of the money extracted from families goes toward fraudulent visas, initial travel costs, and fabricated paperwork.
More disturbing still is the lack of urgency from law enforcement. While football trafficking has devastating consequences at an individual level, it generates relatively modest profits compared to other transnational crimes. As a result, international agencies prioritise crimes with higher yield operations such as illegal gambling—estimated by the UN to generate over $1.7 million annually—leaving victims of football trafficking largely ignored.
FIFA, indirectly, bears responsibility as well. The scrapping of the global agent licensing regime in 2015 removed what was once considered the gold standard for entry into the profession. Oversight was left to national federations, many of which—particularly in Africa—are plagued by corruption. Today, almost anyone with enough money can register as an “agent” operating across borders with zero accountability.
With weak regulation, limited enforcement, and global indifference, the system continues to fail young footballers who dream to become the next Didier Drogba, Yaya Touré or Samuel Eto’o. Football trafficking as such is not a deviation from the global game but a structural feature of it. The system is praised for sourcing talent as it is great to grow the game in disadvantaged regions, yet it absolves itself responsibility when that same system is manipulated.
And so the cycle perpetuates.
More Tristans will train alone on forgotten pitches. Unless meaningful action is taken, these tragedies will continue to repeat themselves relentlessly, and far from the spotlight of the beautiful game we all love.
