AFCON U17: Mali vs Cameroon II

In the locker room, Coach Atangana stood at the center, eyes scanning each of us as we caught our breath.

"That was a good first half, boys," he began, voice calm but firm. "We could've done better, yes—but overall, solid. You kept your heads in the game."

He stepped forward, pointing toward the whiteboard.

"In the second half, I want more intensity. Push higher. Don't let them settle or press us like they did early on."

Then he turned to me.

"Marcel—great goal. It helped us get back into the game with less pressure. Keep making those runs, tire them out. You've got the freedom to move across the front line. Use it."

I gave a short nod, breathing deeply. I could still feel the adrenaline pulsing from that chip over the keeper.

Coach Atangana shifted his focus to the defenders.

"The backline… you did well, but we can't afford lapses like that first one. That early scare? I don't want to see it again."

He raised a hand, gesturing across the whole team now.

"Stay locked in. Your shape, your spacing—it's been better. Keep it tight. Communicate."

Then he clapped his hands once—loud, sharp.

"Now let's go out there and finish the job. You've got what it takes to crush them. I believe in that."

A wave of energy rolled through the room. One by one, we stood, rolling our shoulders, clapping each other's backs, and heading for the tunnel.

The second half was about to begin.

...

...

Directly after the second half kicked off, Mali wasted no time. One of their center backs lofted a long ball forward—diagonal, flat, and well-weighted.

I saw Sangaré already making the run behind Jean.

Shit—he's onside!

Jean had stepped too far forward and was caught off guard. Sangaré brought the ball down with a smooth touch just outside the box and pushed it forward into his stride. He was now inside the area, just to the left of the penalty arc, winding up for the shot.

He's going to shoot!

Before I could even shout, Njike came charging back like a bullet. He threw his leg across just as Sangaré struck the ball.

Thump!

The shot clattered off Njike's foot and spun away, veering wide of the post and out for a corner.

"Corner kick for Mali!" the commentator called out. "What an early opportunity for the Eagles, and what a recovery from Njike. That was a goal-saving intervention!"

"Again, we see a lapse in the Cameroonian defense right after the restart. It's lucky they haven't paid the price, but they need to wake up—quickly."

I exhaled sharply, jogging back toward the box for the corner. That was way too close. We needed to sharpen up—immediately.

…

Haidara sent in the corner for Mali, aiming low and sharp toward the near post—but Jean rose first, throwing himself at it and clearing the danger with a solid header. The ball spun out toward the right side of the box.

Njike was already there, alert. He snatched it up and pushed forward immediately.

He burst down the flank with urgency, the crowd rising with the tempo. Just before the halfway line, he spotted Ganago drifting inside and sent him a sharp pass on the move.

Ganago received the ball cleanly and drove forward along the right channel. Diakité stepped up to meet him, reading the danger.

Ganago slowed, faked left—then right—trying to shake his man. With a quick glance across the pitch, he tried to curl a cross to the opposite side of the box.

But Fofana anticipated it, positioning himself perfectly to intercept and halt the break.

"Well defended by Fofana! That could've been dangerous. Cameroon looking sharp on the break, but Mali remains disciplined at the back." said the commentator.

…

The match continued like this for a few more minutes, both teams locked in a tense back-and-forth until the 56th minute.

We earned a throw-in on the left flank of the box.

I was moving constantly, shaking off Sangaré who stayed tight on me, trying to deny me the ball. To fool him, I feinted a run toward the edge of the box, then quickly spun the other way, cutting inside from the right.

"Here!" I shouted, raising my hand.

Ngoah caught the signal and launched the ball into my path just as I turned. I controlled it cleanly inside the box, goal ahead of me but blocked by the Malian defenders.

I advanced, staying low and compact, dribbling parallel to the six-yard box. With each step, I sold feints to shoot—right leg back, hip twist, weight shift—but each time Danté and Fofana bit, raising their legs to block what never came.

I dragged them across the box, step by step, until I was near the other side. This time, I lifted my leg again, ready to strike across the goal to the far post.

But Danté wasn't waiting anymore. He slid in hard.

I barely got the shot off—no, scratch that. I didn't. His leg collided straight into mine before he reached the ball. I stumbled and hit the grass, the ball skidding away.

Fweeeee!

The whistle came sharp and immediate. The referee sprinted in and pointed straight to the spot.

Penalty! The referee points to the spot after what looked like a clumsy tackle from Danté! And now the Malian players are surrounding the referee—they're furious!

Let's take another look… yes, yes, there's clear contact. Danté went for the ball, but Marcel was too quick! You can see the Malian defender catch his leg first—it's a penalty all day long.

And look at the Cameroonian winger showing the mark on his leg—no room for debate after that. Brilliant skill from the young man, completely sold the feint. He's earning every bit of his reputation in this tournament.

Malian players surrounded the referee in protest, arms raised, voices loud.

"That was a clean tackle!" Danté shouted, walking toward me, eyes wide. "Tell him! I touched the ball first!"

I didn't say a word. I just shook my head slowly, raised my shorts slightly, and showed the red mark on my shin from his boot.

"And what's this then? Magic?" I asked, voice calm but firm. "You didn't touch the ball. You touched me."

Danté tried to close the space between us again, tension rising, but Jean and Ganago stepped in immediately.

"What are you trying to do?" Jean snapped, placing a hand on his chest.

"Back off," Ganago added, his voice steady. "You don't want to escalate this."

The referee came between us, arms wide, blowing his whistle again with authority.

"Enough!" he said firmly, voice cutting through the noise. "Everyone back! We continue."

Then he turned to Danté, made direct eye contact, and gave him a strong verbal warning, pointing to his chest.

"One more like that, and you're in the book," the referee said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

No card. Just a clear warning.

The Malian players slowly backed off, fuming but obeying. I stood up, dusting myself off, heart pounding but mind sharp. I could feel the pressure building in the stadium.

Now we had our chance.

…

I was the one designated to take penalties for this tournament. So, with the referee's whistle still echoing in the air and the Mali players fuming behind me, I picked up the ball and placed it carefully on the spot.

I took a few steps back, standing at an angle. Hands on my hips, I glanced once at the goalkeeper, then locked my eyes on the ball. I already knew where I was going to place it.

Everyone else stood just outside the box, waiting. Watching.

The pressure was heavy. One goal to take the lead… one miss and we might lose all the momentum we'd clawed back.

Ah… that's why I hate penalties, I thought, inhaling through my nose. I'd rather score in the flow of the game. But no… I had to be the best during penalty practice.

Maybe I should've missed one on purpose during training…

No turning back now.

The referee raised his arm—

Fweee!!

I took off from the left side, kept my run smooth, and struck the ball just as I reached the spot—

BAM!!

The ball skidded hard across the ground and slammed into the bottom left corner. The Malian keeper dove the other way—beaten.

"Goal!" shouted the commentator.

"Gooooooal for Cameroon!" echoed the co-commentator, his voice rising with excitement.

"Marcel Ndonga again! He scores his second of the game and Cameroon takes the lead—2-1!"

"It was him who won the penalty, and it's him who finishes it. Clinical."

"This young man just keeps delivering. From the qualifiers to the friendly against Portugal, and now in the AFCON… Marcel is on fire!"

"And let's not forget—he's just 14! The composure, the confidence… you'd think he's already played in Europe!"

"Now Cameroon leads with just under half an hour to go. But Mali's no easy opponent. This game is far from over."

"I told you at kickoff—I never commentate 0-0s. That's three goals already. Will we see more?"

As the stadium erupted and my teammates rushed toward me, I smiled, raised my fist to the crowd, and jogged back to our half.

Two goals already… but the job wasn't finished.

...

...

The game restarted, and to my surprise, Mali didn't drop their heads. If anything, they came back stronger—more aggressive. The intensity ramped up immediately. They pressed us hard, keeping us pinned in our half, and for the next several minutes, we couldn't create anything going forward.

I kept trying to move into space, calling for the ball, but Ismaël Traoré stuck to me like glue. Wherever I drifted—inside, wide, deep—he followed.

In the 62nd minute, Mali earned a corner on the left.

Haidara stepped up and whipped the ball toward the near post.

Toukam rose well, meeting it with a strong header to clear the danger, but the ball didn't go far—it dropped just outside the box, still on the left side.

Sangaré controlled it, scanned quickly, and switched play sharply with a driven pass across the top of the box to Diakité, who waited near the right side of the arc.

Diakité took one touch and slipped a perfectly weighted ball behind our defensive line—right into the path of Haidara, who had drifted unnoticed to the edge of the box on the left, still onside after the initial corner.

Haidara controlled smoothly, hugged the touchline, and surged forward into the area.

Hongla closed him down, trying to cut him off, but Haidara threw in a subtle feint to the left, then burst inside to the right.

He was suddenly near the penalty spot—and just before Jean could step in, Haidara let fly.

Boom!

The shot was powerful, low, and fast. Djomo tried to react, dropping quickly, but the ball zipped through his gloves and slipped underneath him before he could secure it.

Straight into the net.

"Goal!" shouted the commentator.

"Gooooooooal for Mali!"

"It's 2-2 here in Niamey! What a response from the Malians—just minutes after falling behind, they strike back through Mohamed Haidara!"

"He created the space himself—what composure inside the box, and what a finish under pressure!"

"This is turning into a classic of the U17 AFCON. Four goals already, and we're still only in the 62nd minute!"

"The two teams are refusing to back down. One scores, the other answers. What a match!"

"And for the neutral fans—and us commentators—it's a treat. This is youth football at its finest. Why not a fifth or sixth goal at this rate?"

As I jogged back to our half, I clenched my fists. Damn… just when we were starting to take control again.

The score was level once more—but there was still time.

...

...

After Mali's equalizer, Cameroon woke up again, and the pace of the game reached its most intense.

The midfield battle was fierce—no side giving an inch. The crowd could feel the tension; the players could barely breathe. It wasn't just about skill anymore—it was about nerve, fatigue, and who could last longer.

Mali nearly found a breakthrough in the 74th minute. Diakité intercepted a poor pass from Jean and launched a diagonal ball into the path of Aly Mallé on the left. Mallé controlled it in stride, took on Njike, and whipped in a low cross. Boubacar Traoré dummied the ball for Maiga, who was trailing behind—but Toukam made a last-second lunge to deflect it wide.

A minute later, it was Cameroon's turn. I dropped deep into midfield to receive a pass from Hongla and spun around. As I pushed forward, I skipped past Diakité with a shoulder feint and cut inside. I sent a chipped ball to the far post, where Fokem tried a volley—but he scuffed it wide.

The Malian crowd roared as their team countered immediately. Sangaré drove forward with pace, linking up with Haidara in the middle. He laid it off to Maiga, who tried a curling effort from outside the box—just inches over the crossbar. Djomo had it covered, but still, the warning was clear: this wasn't over.

In the 83rd minute, I gave Ismaël Traoré yet another headache. I nutmegged him again by the left sideline, driving toward the byline before whipping in a sharp cross to the penalty spot. Ganago rose above Fofana but mistimed his header, the ball bouncing harmlessly into the keeper's hands.

The rhythm was relentless. Even the fans were breathless.

Then came the 87th minute.

After Ganago's left-footed effort flew just over the bar, the referee signaled a goal kick for Mali. Alou Traoré stepped up and launched a long kick toward midfield, aiming for Diakité. But the bounce was awkward, and he miscontrolled it under pressure from Ngoah. The ball slipped behind him into our half, and Kalamou was there first.

He didn't hesitate. He turned sharply and passed to Toukam, who returned it at once. Kalamou looked up, spotted me drifting inward, and zipped it into my feet.

I was in the left middle third, near the halfway line, back to goal. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of Ganago darting into the gap between Fofana and Ismaël Traoré.

Perfect timing.

Ismaël Traoré stepped toward me, and with one flick of my heel, I sent the ball spinning into the exact gap he left behind.

Ganago pounced.

He slipped through, controlled the pass on his thigh, and surged into the box from the left channel. Fofana tracked back fast, but Ganago didn't panic. He slowed, faced him up. One touch. Two.

Then—snap!

He pushed the ball diagonally across his body, giving himself half a meter. Fofana lunged—but it was too late. Ganago pulled back his right foot and unleashed a shot low and hard to the far post.

Alou Traoré dove full stretch. His fingers brushed it—but not enough.

GOAL! shouted the commentator.

Gooooooooal!!! Ganago finds the net for Cameroon!

And what an assist from Marcel Ndonga—a silky backheel pass through two defenders, and Ganago with ice in his veins finishes the move.

Cameroon takes the lead, 3–2, with just minutes to play! What a turnaround, what a show of character from the Indomitable Cubs!

And Marcel, once again, is at the heart of everything. Two goals, one assist. His legend grows with every minute.

Ganago erupted in celebration, sliding on his knees, roaring at the crowd. I sprinted to him and leapt on his back, fist raised to the sky. The others rushed in—Jean, Njike, Hongla, Djomo. We fell into a heap, laughing, shouting, releasing the pressure of 87 chaotic minutes.

"Let's go, guys!" I shouted. "Just a few minutes left—we hold this!"

"This is our first step to the championship!" Jean answered, still grinning.

We jogged back into position, hearts pounding, lungs burning, eyes locked.

This match wasn't over yet—but we were ready to put an end to it.