By Sheldon Hakata
DOES juju exist? Does it work? Does it exist in sport? These are questions that defy easy answers. Yet, scattered across locker rooms, whispered among fans, and retold by retired legends, are stories that suggest the existence of a shadowy undercurrent in football — juju. The use of spiritual practices, or juju, to infl uence the outcome of matches remains one of the most controversial and clandestine aspects of the football world since time immemorial.
No team will openly admit to summoning supernatural powers to snatch crucial points or hoist a long-coveted trophy, yet the whispers persist. Players may debate its eff ectiveness, but few will deny its existence outright. In interviews with individuals who have lived through such experiences, I found myself captivated by the stories, so vivid, so extraordinary, that one could imagine a fi lm being made from them.
The term juju is often laced with pejorative overtones, implying a backward, ‘uncivilised’ practice grounded in folklore. However, if we strip away the exoticism and view it instead as a form of spiritual intercession, prayer, fasting, sacrifi ces, chants, or rituals, it takes on a more palatable and relatable dimension. Still, juju remains juju: the pursuit of supernatural advantage, often self-serving, occasionally perilous and deeply ingrained in belief. Sport is not merely about competition.
It’s about victory, glory, and at times, the irresistible lure of power and wealth. It is perhaps this heady mix of ambition and vulnerability that makes football a fertile ground for superstition. Juju, in its broadest sense, exists across the global sports spectrum, manifesting in diff erent ways, infl uenced by regional beliefs.
Consider Lionel Messi, who looks to the heavens and raises two fi ngers skywards every time he scores, a gesture of faith, perhaps even gratitude. Or look to Egyptian giants Zamalek and Al Ahly. Before their home matches, players and fans turn East in unison, off ering chants and supplications steeped in spirituality. Seen through this lens, spiritual consultation in football becomes less bizarre.
Many people in sport, just like in daily life, turn to higher powers for strength, fortune and protection. Why should football be exempt? There is a deep connection between football and faith in Africa In Africa and many other parts of the world, football is not just a game. It’s a passion, a livelihood and a national unif i er. But beneath the passion lies a murkier layer, a belief in the effi cacy of witchcraft and traditional spiritual practices.
Despite the gloss of professionalism, big-name sponsorships, and televised leagues, these traditional undercurrents remain stubbornly embedded in the sport. As modern Christian movements, especially Pentecostal denominations, gain infl uence, such practices have been forced underground. But they have not disappeared. In fact, they may be more prevalent than ever, albeit hidden from public view. Stories abound of players visiting traditional healers to boost their chances of victory. Charms are worn.
Talismans are tucked under kits. Pre-match rituals take place behind closed doors. Players seek blessings to avoid injury, boost stamina, or weaken opponents. While sceptics dismiss these acts as nonsense, believers insist they offer real influence over match outcomes. Former international footballer Collins Pikirayi offers first-hand insight into this hidden world. With over 13 years in the top-flight league, then known as the Super League, Pikirayi revealed he was not only aware of juju but had direct encounters with it. “I’ve seen it all,” he openly admits. “I was once instructed to carry medicine and drop it at the goalpost. I couldn’t do it.
I was afraid the opposing fans would notice it. That turned out to be a mistake.” During the match, Pikirayi attempted to head away a ball when he was struck by an opponent. Blood streamed from his head. A teammate, noticing he still had the juju-laced charm on him, urged him to discard it. “While still lying on the ground, I removed it. I was treated and returned to the field.
Within minutes, we scored and eventually won the game.” Despite the seeming success, Pikirayi warns young players against engaging in such practices. “Look at the players who rely on juju. Their careers are often short-lived. Something bad always happens.” Most football federation officials and coaches vehemently deny any role for witchcraft in the modern game. They point to training, tactics, fitness, and psychology as the true pillars of success. One local coach dismissed the idea altogether: “Where does juju fit in this era of modern football? The game is won with structure, strategy, motivation, and discipline. That’s it.” Still, not everyone is so quick to dismiss the spiritual realm.
Many players and coaches hail from communities where traditional beliefs run deep. For them, dismissing juju is not just ignorance it’s heresy. And so, while juju may not be visible in the pristine stadiums or televised matches, it continues to thrive behind the scenes, in whispered prayers, secret charms and unseen rituals. The famous Memory ‘Gwenzi’ Mucherahowa, a former Dynamos captain, pulled back the curtain on these practices in his autobiography Soul of Seven Million Dreams.
He describes how, during his playing days, the club routinely consulted n’angas and engaged in prematch rituals aimed at gaining spiritual favour. His revelations made headlines across Africa and even reached the BBC. His stories served as a stark reminder that while juju may not be officially sanctioned, its roots run deep in local football traditions. Even in the polished English Premier League, superstition occasionally peeks through.
One of the most dramatic examples involves former Zimbabwean goalkeeper Bruce Grobbelaar and his bizarre ritual to break Liverpool’s so-called ‘Anfield curse’. Grobbelaar played for Liverpool during its golden era. But soon after his retirement, the club went for decades without winning the Premiership title. According to him, a witchdoctor who had once blessed the Anfield posts in 1992 proclaimed that without Grobbelaar’s presence, Liverpool would never win the league title again.
The shot stopper, nicknamed ‘Jungleman’, later returned, armed with a bottle of water, which he emptied, filled with his own urine, and splashed on the goalposts in an attempt to ‘lift the curse’. The first time, in 2013-14, he was removed from the stadium before completing the ritual at both ends. That season, Liverpool fell just short of the title. Undeterred, he returned. In a subsequent visit, he managed to splash urine on both ends of the pitch, and not long after, coincidence or not, Liverpool won their first league title in 30 years during the 2019-20 season. “I fulfilled my task,” Grobbelaar said. “Call it crazy, but look at the results.” Whether it’s pouring urine on posts, chanting before matches, or wearing hidden charms, one truth persists, soccer teams seek an edge, however unconventional.
In sport, as in life, the line between faith, ritual, and superstition is often blurred. The presence of juju in African football is a cultural echo, a legacy of belief systems that predate modern sport and continue to co-exist with it. In some locker rooms, it’s prayer. In others, it’s preparation. In still others, it’s protection — spiritual or symbolic. Ultimately, the question is not whether juju works, but whether people believe it does. For believers, the outcome validates the process.
For the sceptics, it’s all smoke and mirrors. But what cannot be denied is the enduring presence of these beliefs, silent, powerful, and woven into the fabric of African football.
Juju may not lift a trophy or bend a ball into the net, but its influence — real or perceived — remains a captivating part of the beautiful game’s mystique. In football, as in life, victory often demands more than just skill. Sometimes, it demands belief, even if that belief comes wrapped in secrecy, superstition, or the whisper of the supernatural.