Once upon a time, in the heart of Lomé, young footballers watched in awe as Emmanuel Adebayor, their nation’s legend, dazzled on the field. He carried Togo’s hopes, braving long, grueling journeys across Africa, chasing a dream that often felt just out of reach.

Years later, another young talent, Bradley Barcola, stood at a crossroads. Born in France but with Togolese roots, he had the option to represent his ancestral homeland or the country where he was raised. Adebayor, reflecting on his own journey, understood Barcola’s choice.

“He’s joining a team that has already lifted the World Cup,” Adebayor mused. “Could he win an AFCON with Togo? Not now. Could he qualify for the World Cup with Togo? I don’t think so.”

Adebayor knew the reality. The allure of playing for France wasn’t just about prestige—it was about opportunity, financial security, and a smoother path in professional football. With France, Barcola would enjoy the comfort of direct flights, lucrative sponsorships, and a higher level of visibility.

“For us, just getting to Zambia meant detours through Mozambique and Libya,” Adebayor recalled. “By the time we arrived, we were already exhausted.”

There was no bitterness in his voice—only understanding. Barcola had made a pragmatic choice, one that many dual-national players face. And while Togo might have lost a talented son to France, the hope remained that one day, the conditions would change—making such decisions less about survival and more about passion.