At first glance, the cramped quarters of Mafalala, the largest informal settlement in Mozambique’s capital, Maputo, seem to leave barely enough room to play a pass, let alone carve out a football pitch. However, as you weave through the labyrinth of madeira-e-zinco (wood and tin) houses built by workers segregated to the city’s outskirts during the colonial era, you eventually emerge onto a field overseen by a mural of the great Eusébio, the “Phenomenon of Mafalala.” For players like Eusébio to make it to the world’s greatest stage, like in his case, a World Cup final with Portugal in 1966 (Mozambique was a colony of Portugal at the time) or back-to-back European Cups with Benfica in 1961 and 1962, the journey is never a one-man effort.

In Joseph O’Neill’s Godwin, readers are thrown into the shady business of youth African football recruitment. The novel recounts the same types of dealings that propelled players like Eusébio to the game’s pinnacle. The protagonist, Mark Wolfe, a frustrated Pittsburgh-based technical writer, is enmeshed in a resolute mission by his half-brother, Geoff, a desperate British soccer agent, to locate a young West African football prodigy, whom he believes could be the next Lionel Messi.

The narrative follows Mark’s high-stakes quest—which eventually involves a ruthless French talent scout named Lefebvre—and delivers a sharp, darkly comedic critique of modern capitalism and the exploitative, neo-colonial nature of global sports recruitment.

O’Neill deftly illustrates how deeply interwoven football is with the continent’s history and beyond. In a book talk at George Washington University (GWU) that we organized alongside Young Black Professionals in International Affairs (YBPIA), O’Neill dove deeper into the book’s themes. Godwin foregrounds the often-overlooked genesis of African players forging European legacies, the transatlantic nature and exploitative structures of football recruitment in Africa, and the sport’s remarkable capacity to tell human stories worldwide.

For decades, colonial connections, migration, and European recruitment networks have carried African talent across continents. At the 2026 World Cup, 73 players of African birth or descent featured for 12 non-African national teams, yet only around six confirmed African-born players represented European national teams. They are: Marc Guéhi (born in Côte d’Ivoire and representing England, Brice Samba (Republic of Congo and France), Amadou Onana (Senegal and Belgium) Guus Til Samfya (Zambia and The Netherlands), Breel Embolo and Yvon Mvogo (Cameroon and Switzerland).

The contrast shows how African mobility is reshaping modern football not only by migration from Africa but by generations born and raised in Europe whose identities continue to bridge both continents.

It is within this complex ecosystem of aspiration and exploitation that Geoff operates. He is feckless and his sole objective is to sniff out undiscovered football talent with the help of Lefebvre, an experienced, semi-retired French scout.

For the French soccer agent Lefebvre, players like Eusébio were the earliest examples of the “Drogba Phenomenon,” in which African or Afro-descendant footballing youngsters, especially those with an immigrant profile like Marcel Desailly, born in Ghana, or Patrick Vieira, born in Senegal, became highly desirable in the global football market for their strength, skill, and technical adaptability shaped by exposure to different footballing environments.

Even today, many of the stars in the 2026 World Cup display the same characteristics: Sadio Mané’s rise from the renowned Senegalese academy Génération Foot or Amad Diallo’s Italian-Ivorian climb to Manchester United. Notably, some top players are just one generation removed from the continent—for example, Lamine Yamal’s roots in Equatorial Guinea and Morocco or Kylian Mbappé’s in Cameroon and Algeria.

Throughout Godwin, O’Neill navigates the transatlantic nature of youth football recruitment in Africa, inviting readers to trace their own historical connections to the relentless pursuit of new African talent.

Godwin also hints at a form of “footballing brain drain” in which some of Africa’s finest talents only achieve full recognition after entering European systems, akin to a primary resource reaching full potential only after undergoing refinement abroad.

At the event at GWU this past May, O’Neill underscored to students the “distinctly neocolonial dimension to this business of finding raw African talent.” As an example, he noted that metaphors used to describe African footballers – from Eusébio being dubbed A Pérola Negra (“The Black Pearl”) to agents “striking gold in Africa”– evoke a longer history of extraction on the continent that continues to be reflected in the structure of the modern football industry.

For O’Neill, the universality of football made it the most accessible medium to unravel this chaotic interplay. Speaking to students at George Washington University in Washington, DC, O’Neill admitted, “I learned English, psychology, history, geography, business, all on the football field.” Godwin’s characters also share the same curriculum generated on the pitch, yet the narrative suggests that, despite this shared classroom, its lessons can be interpreted and embodied in starkly different ways.

Lefebvre, the agent, repeatedly waffles on about his short-lived career and the recruitment dynamics behind some of African football’s greats. However, as the search for Godwin intensifies, O’Neill recounts the evocation of Treasure Island–like colonial literature, particularly through Lefebvre’s often disoriented and outsider view of certain African societies. Some of Lefebvre’s most passionate spiels on African youth football are tarnished by his retrograde notions about race, gender, geography, and culture. In one instance, Lefebvre justifies his caution while searching for Godwin’s team due to a fear of being misled by what he describes as the “African concept of truth,” where people say what is most profitable rather than following the European expectations of a promise or contract.

Lefebvre’s French identity is important as it places him as a holdover agent of the colonial era, responsible for moving resources from the périphérie to the metropole–in this case tracking down the elusive Godwin to deliver him to the European market. Lefebvre shepherds Wolfe through the hinterlands of West Africa in a Land Cruiser on a self-described “expedition” for Godwin. Lefebvre’s reductive tropes, often made through the backward lens of corruption and exploitation, such as in his description of an “African concept of truth,” echo a “colonial gaze” that still lingers over the modern-day sports industry in many African countries, where profit-driven recruiters pursue talent by any means necessary, creating a dangerous and illusory pathway for up-and-comers.

The parallels in Godwin to actual events are explicit.

Take the story of Cheikh Touré, an 18-year-old Senegalese goalkeeper lured to Ghana with the promise of a professional football trial to get to a European club. It turned out to be a fraudulent scheme. After his family was unable to pay the ransom to release him, Touré was tragically killed by the traffickers in October 2025 in Kumasi.

In 2024, several reports recount the stories of Kenyan, Nigerian, and Ghanaian footballers flown to Russia under false pretenses, to be subsequently deployed to the front lines in Ukraine.

Against this backdrop, the stories shared throughout Godwin – from Eusébio’s rise to European football glory to the Drogba Phenomenon – reveal the longer history O’Neill asks readers to confront: the enduring global pursuit of African talent with all its promise and peril. As already discovered African stars captivate World Cup audiences, attention will inevitably shift to where the next, yet unidentified, “Godwin-like” phenom will be found.